Saint Patrick ☘ (shamrocked_) wrote in nevermore_au, @ 2012-07-19 17:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | saint george, saint patrick |
WHO: Previously!Evil!Patrick, George
WHAT: Sadness and sad brothers and sad clowns
WHEN: Sometime after Patrick was re-souled and David was put back together
WHERE: A tiny, sad little flat Michael is renting for Patrick
WARNINGS: Discussions of Evil!Patrick's gross acts, and nearly attempted suicide.
I didn't know you were so cruel.
Patrick's life since his brother had fought through Hell to recover his soul, had been a journey in anguish. Patrick had to live with the memories of torturing and destroying several people he loved. He remembered killing Dewi with his bare hands and slicing the other saint to pieces. He had raped Agatha and broken her faith. He had done terrible things to mortals without a second thought until now. Now he could think of nothing else.
He had done his duty, helping Michael and George to reassemble David. He had tried to help them locate Saint Peter, but the Fallen had moved him before they got there. The poor man was still missing and Patrick hated to think what they were doing to him. Agatha was a lost cause. Patrick felt like a lost cause too. He was broken and ashamed. His returned and tainted soul never stopped aching.
His tiny apartment was cold, and Patrick hardly ever left it. Michael paid for it in order to keep Patrick off the streets. Patrick wouldn't have minded, but Michael wouldn't have it. As it was, Patrick sat on his sofa with a blanket over his shoulders, and he waited.
More than anything, Patrick wanted rid of his tortured soul. He wanted to call Satan or Lucifer to come take it away again. Rip the screaming thing from his chest and be done with it. But he knew that he couldn't be allowed to exist if that were to happen. He knew too much about the other saints. He would do terrible things again. This pain was his penance.
He hardly ate, and it wasn't like he could afford much even if he wanted to. He never saw anyone unless they came to him. He didn't even drink. It was too much effort. He spent every day the same way; staring at the wall and trying not to give in to the temptation to call the Fallen. Every day was the same until today.
Today the man upstairs had left his flat and he had asked Patrick to look after it. Patrick was quiet and kind and the man seemed to think in a building of untrustworthy people, Patrick was the least likely to take his things. And he was right about everything except his small, silver handgun which he kept beside his bed.
Patrick had carried the gun back to his apartment and he was staring at it as it sat in front of him. He could shoot himself and gain a some peace, at least for a little while. And when he popped back into his body, he could shoot himself again. He could keep doing it again and again until God finally got the picture and didn't send him back again. It would be better for everyone, wouldn't it?
Slowly, Patrick picked up the gun.
Things were better. Things weren't better at all. George couldn't decide which was true and which wasn't. Patrick was back, but falling apart. David was alive again, but the whole experience had changed him in ways George still didn't know how to fix.
George didn't know how to fix any of it, really.
The McDonald's bag was warm in his hand as he headed up the creaking stairs to Patrick's apartment. George's big brother instincts warred against practicality. No, Patrick shouldn't be living in a place like this, but where the fuck was he going to live otherwise? George couldn't ask the other saints to deal with this.
He walked through the unlocked front door without knocking, to find Patrick sitting on his couch, a gun in hand. Well. This was new.
"If you hated McDonalds that much, I'd have been willing to hit Burger King," George said, raising an eyebrow.
Patrick was so startled by the door opening, he very nearly pulled the trigger. He gasped and then stared at George, open-mouthed.
"George," he whispered, his tone already apologetic. "I- I didn't know you were coming."
The gun was still in Patrick's trembling hand, pointed more or less at his own chest.
"Well God, I'd hope so," George said, tossing the bag on a shelf in the corner of the room that passed for a kitchen. "You know how traumatizing it is to walk in on a recent suicide? Very fucking traumatizing, let me tell you."
He stood in front of Patrick and held out his hand for the gun. There was probably a better, more professional way of handling this, but George didn't have a clue what that way would be. He wanted very badly to be drunk.
Patrick made a face at the thought of George walking in on that, but he didn't hand over the gun. He shook his head and refused to do so. Instead, he moved the gun up to his temple.
"George, just go," Patrick begged him. "Please just go."
George tilted his head. His immediate instinct was to hit Patrick and take the gun, but he had to slow down and consider if that was really the best course of action. Hitting Patrick had become second-nature once Patrick was evil, and George's reactions hadn't quite caught up to reality.
Then again, Patrick was still holding a gun to his head.
George's fist shot out, knocking the gun from Patrick's hand.
"Patrick. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
George had moved so quickly, Patrick hadn't stood a chance. His responses were slow due to lack of proper nutrition and sleep anyway. And George had always been better at things like this. The gun fell from his hands and Patrick whimpered at the blow, curling up away from George.
He didn't even protest. It took too much energy. Instead Patrick groaned and collapsed back against the chair, staring up at George with empty eyes. "Why couldn't you just leave me?"
George kicked the gun away, watching it skitter under the table with a sense of satisfaction. Of course, once Patrick was unarmed, George's guilt at hitting his brother kicked in full-force. With a sigh, he sat down on the floor in front of Patrick.
"Are you crazy? What do you think you're doing, Patty? You think shooting yourself in the head is going to fix anything?"
"No," Patrick admitted. "But I could have had some peace for a little while." He sounded defeated, and indeed that was how he felt. He knew George was angry, but Patrick didn't even have the strength to worry about that.
"Nothing can fix this."
George rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, pressing down sharply and hoping the pain would clear his mind. How was he supposed to fix this? What was he supposed to say to make Patrick want to live?
Patrick's life was already as close to Hell as he was going to get. But George could not let his brother die. Not again.
"You aren't killing yourself," George finally settled on. "I won't let you."
"Dammit, George," Patrick hissed and then he burst into tears, his face falling into his hands. He leaned forward as he cried, as if he was trying to protect his middle. "I just want it to stop," he managed to gasp.
George's shoulders slumped, and he wrapped his arms around his brother and pulled him forward into a hug. He leaned against his brother, refusing to let him go, and murmured, "I can't let you do it, Patty. I can't lose you again."
Patrick leaned his head against George's shoulder and he let the other saint hold him, even if he didn't feel he deserved it. And he was pretty sure he probably smelled.
"You don't believe I'm lost already?" he asked quietly, his hand curling in George's shirt because he feared his brother would pull away.
"Your life has pretty much turned to shit," George admitted, still keeping a close hold on Patrick. "But at least you're here. You're you again. I can't...I don't know what I'd do if you died or lost your soul. What if killing yourself got you sent to Hell, what then?"
There was a slightly panicked edge to George's voice that he wasn't aware of. It was an effort not to squeeze down harder on Patrick, to try and make him understand that he couldn't go.
Patrick deserved Hell. And as George clung to him, Patrick nearly said so. In the end, however, he decided the man who had fought through Hell to save him didn't need to hear that.
He swallowed and kept his head on George's shoulder. "I didn't think about that," he replied honestly.
"I can't let you do it," George repeated. He reached up to stroke Patrick's hair gently, like smoothing it down would somehow fix everything. "You're coming back to the house with me, all right?"
Patrick didn't want to go back to George's house. He wanted George to leave so he could shoot himself like he wanted to. But he nodded against George's shoulder because he knew George wasn't really requesting. He was informing Patrick what he was going to do.
"George, I'm so sorry for what I did. The things I did to you. I won't ever stop being sorry."
"I know," George said. He pulled back a bit, looking up at his brother. He leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "It'll be okay, one day. Come on, pack some of your stuff."
Patrick was fairly sure it never would be okay. Absolutely never. Still, he rose shakily from the chair and he moved over to the closet where his things were. "George. I remember how much you hated me then. The look in your eyes-" Patrick didn't look at his brother as he spoke, instead focusing on packing things into his rucksack. "Do you still hate me like that for what I did?"
"No," George said, and that at least wasn't a lie. His feelings about Patrick were a complicated, volatile mess, but he couldn't hate his brother now that his soul was back. "Not unless you still want to torture me or something."
At George's words, Patrick turned white and then green. Flashes of the things he had done to George, Sebastian and David came rushing back to him. He had caused them all such pain and he had enjoyed it. He remembered taunting a desperately thirsty George with water and then pouring it straight into George's nose. The memory of how smug and pleased he had been made him feel ill and tainted. He had taken such joy in their misery.
"No," he finally managed to hiss, barely audible. "But I-" Patrick shook his head and he finished shoving things into his bag so he could face George. "I remember it made me feel proud that I could cause the great Saint George such pain. I always felt inferior to you and that...made me feel superior. And that makes me sick. Taking joy in hurting you makes me sick. But I miss taking joy in something. I- I wasn't lying when I told you that there is less separating that man and me than you want to blindly believe there is."
A part of George wanted to go to Patrick, to hug his brother and reassure him that everything was going to be okay, even if it was a lie. But George was still more than a little shattered himself, and the memory of Patrick's torture made him want to shut down.
So he just said, "Maybe it's your punishment, then. To not feel joy for a while."
Patrick clenched and unclenched his fists several times in quick succession, trying to deal with what George had said. He wanted to both lash out and break down, neither of which would be terribly helpful.
"Sometimes I feel like I would do anything to feel that way again," he said through clenched teeth.
"I understand that," George said, stepping forward and resting a hand on Patrick's shoulder. He squeezed gently before moving his hand to the scruff of Patrick's neck and squeezing down a little tighter. Violence and affection had become worryingly intertwined with each other, lately. "But if you think about selling your soul again, that's really not going to end well."
If violence and affection had become worryingly intertwined for George, it was moreso for Patrick. The moment George squeezed down on his neck, Patrick wanted him to squeeze so hard it would snap. He wanted George to hurt him more because he deserved it. Pain alleviated some of his guilt. Not much, but some.
Patrick thought about fighting back for just a moment, to make George grip him harder, but he didn't have the energy to even do that. He simply submitted to his brother's hold.
He couldn't promise he would never try to sell his soul again. He tried and he couldn't. "I know," was all he said. "I know I'm inferior and that is all I will ever be." He wasn't being passive-aggressive. It was how he truly felt.
George sighed and relaxed his grip, the urge to hurt something fading back. He rubbed the back of Patrick's neck gently.
"You were never inferior," George said, pulling his brother into a hug and resting his chin on his shoulder. "I wish I could make you believe that. Come on. Let's get out of here."
Whether or not George felt Patrick was inferior, Patrick still felt it. He allowed George to hug him and then he let George lead him out of the apartment, quickly grabbing the McDonald's bag as they went.
"Are you taking me to your house?" Patrick asked suddenly. He was terrified Sebastian would be horrified to see him.
"Yeah," George said shortly. If he needed to take Patrick somewhere to keep him safe, he would take him home. What else could he do? "It'll be okay. You can have one of the spare rooms."
He kept a hand on Patrick's shoulder as he guided him out to the car. The air was cold, biting and almost painful, and George was glad to duck into the slightly warmer interior of his car.
Patrick climbed into the car as well, his backpack and the McDonald's bag in his lap. "Okay," he agreed warily. He understood George wanted to keep an eye on him so he didn't try to kill himself again, but Patrick was worried. At least when he was alone, he could be sure no one else would be dragged into his crazy.
"I know I'm a burden. I'm sorry."
"You aren't a burden," George said. "You're family. Family takes care of each other. Even when some members of the family make terrible, terrible choices."
Damn, there was that irritation flaring again. He was going to need to keep that under tighter control if Patrick was going to be around.
Patrick swallowed and he looked out the window sadly. "It was a bad choice," Patrick admitted, because he knew it. "But I wanted oblivion. That was what they promised me. I asked to be eradicated. I should have known they wouldn't keep to the agreement, but I was too desperate to not exist to think it through. I never agreed to become that...thing I was. I just wanted to not exist."
"Well, you don't get to not exist," George snapped. "Fish don't fly, birds don't swim, and we don't get to just go away. You think you're the only one who's ever wanted to wish himself away?"
"No!" Patrick said quickly. "No, I'm just the only one who was desperate enough to try to make a deal with the devil to do so!"
George squeezed down so hard on the steering wheel that he was amazed it didn't snap. He had to bite down on his lip to keep from saying something that would probably make Patrick want to leap out of the car. Like something about Agatha.
"Maybe we should just not talk for the rest of the trip."
"Maybe we shouldn't," Patrick hissed at a whisper, his head still leaning against the window.
Perhaps he could escape from George's house and manage to get himself hit by a car. At least then there was the chance of a coma, wasn't there?
When George arrived at his house, he was feeling considerably calmer. He headed up the steps to the door, working his way through the many, many locks that he'd attached. When Patrick was safely inside, he locked the door again. He'd have done that even if Patrick wasn't there, though. Better safe than sorry.
"Sebastian! I'm home!" George called out. "I have Patrick with me because he was going to make bad choices again!"
There was no answer.
"Either he's not here or I'm sleeping on the couch tonight."
Patrick's smile was hesitant and entirely fake. He simply didn't know how else to react to what George had said.
"I hope he doesn't hate me," Patrick whispered, but it was a pretty vain hope.
"He loved you, you know," George said, shrugging off his coat. "Out of all my brothers, I think he took to you the quickest." George looked down. "I don't know if he hates you. But I want to keep you safe, Patrick. Even if it's just from yourself. If that upsets him, then I'll deal with it."
"I hate to cause trouble," he mumbled, since it seemed like a ridiculous thing to say concerning he had tortured the man he was saying it to on several occasions now. He had known exactly how to cause the most pain and he had revelled in it.
Patrick let out a whimper and then he turned puppy-dog eyes on George. "Do you have sleeping pills or...anything? Just so I can sleep?"
George sighed and headed over to the medicine cabinet. He rummaged for a moment (aspirin, painkillers, hospital-strength painkillers) before he came up with the bottle of sleeping pills. He opened it up and handed three pills to Patrick, knowing better than to give him the bottle.
"Here," he said, opening the fridge to get a bottled water for his brother as well. "Take these, they should knock you out for a while."
Patrick took the pills but he didn't take them yet. "Thank you," he whispered. "Where am I going to stay?" He just wanted to collapse.
"This way." George led Patrick up to the second floor, to the room next to his own. He opened the door to reveal a regular bedroom, except that the window had been bricked over.
"I was thinking about turning this into a safe room," George said. "I can put some curtains up over the window, if you think it'll get claustrophobic."
Patrick glanced nervously at the bricked up window and then back to George. "Safe room, hmm?" To keep people out, or to keep him in? "No, it's fine-"
George reached out and ruffled Patrick's hair. "You want to lie down? I'll be just across the hall if you need anything."
"Sure," Patrick said, ducking his head. He wondered if he even stood a chance sneaking out of the house before George or Sebastian could notice. He couldn't tonight, not if he took the sleeping pills. Though if he saved them-
"Okay. I'll try to sleep. Maybe eat this," he said, holding up the bag of fast food which had long gone cold.