Saint Patrick ☘ (shamrocked_) wrote in nevermore_au, @ 2012-07-19 16:27:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | saint george, saint patrick |
Who: Evil!Patrick, George
What: Uhm. I really love Evil!things... So here is a reunion after torture.
When: A year and some after this.
Where: Central Park
Warning: Language? Memory of torture? Simply be wary and if it gets ooky, we'll tell ya!
Patrick belonged to Lucifer and Satan. He understood that now, and he had come to peace with his place in Hell. He had been tortured and humiliated and somewhere along the line he had lost an eye and his fear. He wasn't a pretty picture at all, one eye and half and ear down. He was scarred and he never smiled. But he didn't care any more. He had no regrets. He had absolutely nothing.
It was rare he was allowed topside, but when he did, he spent his time outside, usually drinking whiskey which was not-so-hidden in a brown bag. That was where he was now, perched on a bench, surrounded by hopeful pigeons he wasn't about to give any of his whiskey to. It was chilly outside, but it was actually a nice contrast from the fires of Hell.
George felt guilty about almost everything when it came to his brother. He knew that most of it was irrational. Patrick had made his decisions, terrible as they were, but that didn't stop George from running through thousands of scenarios, what ifs, possibilities where he could have saved Patrick, could have stopped him. He talked about those with Sebastian, with Andrew and Dewi, and sometimes (when very, very drunk) with Opium. They all comforted him, in their own way, even if it was to tell him to stop being stupid.
The guilt he never talked about, though, was the guilt that came from those times when he was happy, when things felt close to normal again and George was getting through his day without pain. He'd have a sudden realization that Patrick was gone and wouldn't be back, and it made every moment of happiness he'd had since then feel like something he could be ashamed of.
Today had been a day like that. George took a walk in Central Park on his lunch break, trying to clear his head, and felt a presence that quite simply couldn't be there. He followed the impossible feeling, hands starting to shake as he got closer and saw the familiar outline of a person.
"Patrick," George said, several feet away from the park bench.
Patrick heard his name and before he even looked up, he knew who it was. He knew that voice. Would know it anywhere.
Patrick lifted his head, fixing his good eye on George while the other eye lay hidden beneath a black patch. The last time he had seen George he had starved him and kept him without water for days. He had cut George into ribbons and he had liked it.
They were in the open here. And George was stronger than Patrick was. There would be no torture here. At least not the physical kind. He wouldn't get anything out of it if he did anyway.
But he could mess with George's head. That would be hilarious.
"George!" Patrick stood up, dropping his whiskey tin shock to the ground as if in shock. Now that was commitment. He wanted that whiskey. "Oh, Georgie!" He rushed forward and then he stopped right in front of George, as if he had stopped himself mid-hug. He feigned a pained look, something like the kicked puppy expression Patrick used to wear before he sold his soul.
"I...I wanted to come to your apartment, but I didn't think you'd want to see me. Georgie...I'm so sorry."
George had stepped forward when Patrick rushed towards him, like he was going to hug his brother back. It was instinctive, something that would never really be gone from him. Patrick had been his brother for centuries, and George would always think of him that way.
It wasn't exactly something he was thankful for.
"You're back," George said, voice rough. Things felt terribly, terribly unreal, like this was a nightmare he was stuck in the middle of.
Patrick nodded, and then he managed to remember what a heartbroken look would feel like, and he performed such for George. "George," he whispered. "The...the things I did to you-"
George swallowed several times, trying to find something, anything to say. Patrick couldn't be back to normal. It wasn't possible. The last time they'd seen each other, Patrick had...
Patrick couldn't be back to normal. And if George reached out, that familiar presence felt wrong, like coming back home to discover that someone had re-arranged all the furniture and hung the pictures upside down.
"How are you back?" was all George could manage to say, though.
"I don't know!" Patrick wailed. "I was in Hell and-" Patrick faked a shudder. "The things they did to me, George... And then I was in an alley, freezing and terrified and-" Patrick lowered his eyes to the ground.
"Georgie...I remember everything. Over and over...it's all I can think about. I only wanted some peace. I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of this. Please, George. Will you just...will you please hug me?" he asked, his lip wibbling for effect.
George felt an almost physical pain, like he'd been punched in the gut. He stepped forward quickly, both arms wrapping around Patrick and pulling his brother against him. He needed it, needed this moment of just pretending that everything was all right.
But a moment was all he could give himself, and he let one hand rest on the back of Patrick's neck, squeezing down tightly. "I know you're lying."
Patrick almost smiled against George's shoulder as his brother admitted he wasn't fooled and held him, not gently, in place. Patrick wasn't afraid or hurt. But he acted as if he was both. He wasn't ready to drop the charade.
Patrick whimpered and he tried to push away from George, "George, stop! I'm not lying!"
"You are," George said, dropping his head onto Patrick's shoulder and squeezing down a little tighter to keep him from moving. "You are, Patty. I can feel it. Like it's you but not you at the same time." His fingers were tight enough to leave bruises. "Stop it."
It hurt, but Patrick had been through so much worse by now. Lucifer and Satan and all the denizens of Hell were quite creative in causing pain. Patrick would have ignored it, but instead he used it.
"George!" he cried out, letting a sob escape his lips which were being crushed into George's shoulder. "You're hurting me! Just let me talk! Please, just let me explain!"
He was going to have to come up with some bullshit quick because he still wanted to toy with the saint, but it wasn't as fun with his face smashed against him.
He wanted to see the pain on George's face.
He yanked Patrick back, fingers still tight around the back of his neck. God, it hurt to see Patrick in pain, to hear him upset. That hadn't changed. It might never change, and George felt himself shudder a little at the thought.
"Then explain," he said, voice betraying just how upset he was.
Patrick sniffed, tears still spilling down his face. He didn't try to squirm out of George's still-firm grip. Patrick swallowed roughly, playing up his sadness. "I was in Hell, George! Of course that's going to mean I feel different! Isn't it possible one of the angels found a way- Michael or Gabriel? All I know is that I feel regret now. And guilt and horror and betrayal and sadness. And I regret...so much." Patrick let his eye fall closed, as if to show he trusted George not to hurt him. In truth, he didn't care wither way.
"I know you could never forgive me. The things I did." And then Patrick decided he was going to recap, because it did fill him with a simple kind of glee. He opened his eyes and he gave George such a guilty look. "George, I tortured you. I- I cut you. I taunted you with food and water." Patrick put a hand over his stomach as if it made him ill. "Oh goodness- The things-" Patrick closed his eye again, letting fresh tears spill. "It's all I can think about."
It couldn't be true, it couldn't be true, but George felt something like hope flutter through him. It was stupid and irrational and would only hurt him, and George knew all of that even as he was feeling it.
"Fine," he said, swallowing and clearing his throat, trying to get his voice close to normal. "Fine. We'll go to Michael or Gabriel and we'll see what they have to say."
And if they said Patrick was really back, really his brother again...George knew he shouldn't think about it. Because he could feel the wrongness even as he imagined finally having Patrick back. He didn't care about the torture, he didn't care about any of it if he could just have his brother back.
Patrick knew he couldn't go to Gabriel or Michael since they would know in an instant, but he also knew that asking him to do so could be a test. "Please," Patrick said, looking relieved. "Please, bring me to see them! I've been wandering for weeks trying to build up the courage to do it myself because I don't- George, I don't deserve this. I betrayed God and my brothers and my friends. I don't deserve anything. But I need to know why I'm here. If it is just to feel this pain...that I deserve."
And he reached out a hand for George to take, just to see if he would.
George glanced at Patty, trying to force his expression into something closer to neutral. He felt like he was giving far too much away, especially considering that he didn't actually believe his brother was back to normal.
George reached out and took Patrick's hand, very calmly, and then spun them both, pressing Patrick facefirst against a tree with his arm bent behind his back.
"It's important that you understand some things," George said, voice flat and hands shaking. "Number one, I don't believe you, okay? And number two, I'm good at hurting people too. Just a little thing to keep in mind."
Patrick couldn't help it any more. He burst out laughing, even with his face smooshed into some kind of oak or something. "George!" he said, unable to quite catch his breath from the smooshing and the laughing. "You can hurt me all you want, but it's still your little brother's body you're breaking."
And George was hardly going to kill him here in Central Park.
He hoped.
"Geeeoooorrgie. Believe it or not, I didn't actually come here to hurt you."
"Your existence hurts me, Patrick," George said. He said it glibly, and meant it completely honestly.
"What the hell are you doing back here? You've been gone for a year? And where's your fucking eye?"
So he was going to stay kissing the tree then? So be it. "My eye was taken from me, thanks you to, Big Brother." Patrick rubbed his face awkwardly against the tree, which probably looked ridiculous, but he was trying to raise the eyepatch up so it no longer concealed his missing eye. Then he turned his face a little so George could get a really good look.
"I don't blame you though," he said easily. "Does it scare you, Georgie? That I am who lurked underneath that weak facade and all it took to bring me out was to remove my inhibition?"
George winced and released Patrick. The injury was far from the worst thing he'd ever seen, but seeing it on Patrick...
"It doesn't scare me," George said. "There's nothing left of my brother in you."
Maybe if he said it enough, he'd start to believe it.
Patrick turned slowly and he covered his eye up again, though not to save George from having to look at it. That wince gave him more than a little joy. It was because he liked looking like a pirate.
Which just went to prove that there was something of the old Patrick in him, somewhere.
"Georgie, you can't really believe that." Patrick smiled at him easily, looking like cheerful and happy Patty. It was just the words coming out of his mouth that didn't match up. "I am your brother. I remember every single detail of the time we spent together. The joy of reuniting in this grand city. I remember how hard you tried when you thought you could actually stop this from happening. Your rehab research and the trips to my shelter to check on me. I remember how relieved you were when I didn't abandon you for marrying your pretty, little Sebastian.
"I also remember the truth behind every single one of those memories. The honesty which kept me from saying what I really thought." And then Patrick spouted more lies. "I wasn't happy to see you, because all you ever did was remind me how I was never as good as you. England trumps Ireland, right? I don't even get to be Patron of my own goddamned country because of you. I hated you for trying to change me. And I was so relieved when you married Sebastian because it meant that you were just as fucked up as me."
George shoved Patrick back against the tree, hands fisted in the fabric of his coat.
"Shut up," he growled, shaking Patrick a little. "You're a liar." He swallowed. "Patrick loved me. As much as I loved him. You won't ruin that."
Patrick laughed again until his head cracked against the tree and he made an amusing squawking sound. "Urgh. George, I'm not lying to you. Not this time. I was there all along. And you know it. Selling my soul didn't change me into someone else. It made me more me that I've ever been. And it's all thanks to you, Georgie." The next thing he said was absolute truth, though he knew the reality was that it would have happened eventually either way.
"It was you who sent me to Lucifer and Satan in the first place, George. You saying the world wasn't ending when it felt to me like it was. So thank you for making me finally see the light. Isn't that what big brothers are for?"
George had real difficulty hurting anything that looked like someone he loved. That didn't mean he wasn't capable of it.
He punched Patrick with as much force as he could put behind it, sending his brother to the ground.
"Shut the fuck up!"
Patrick wilted like a flower when George punched him. And it was unsurprising considering the power behind the hit. Patrick's head had snapped back and slammed against the bark of the tree, making it even worse.
He held his head between his hands, and groaned before looking up at George. His voice was weaker now and he was clearly in a lot of pain. "Who are you angry at, George? Me for telling the truth, or you for doing this to me? You asked me why I came here. Heard from Agatha lately?" And then Patrick smiled, a thing trail of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. He had bitten his tongue. It didn't matter. "Everything I did to her is your fault too."
"Agatha's not even in the city," George said, mind already spinning. Because if she was, if Patrick had gotten to her before they'd even had a chance to warn her...
"Patrick, what did you do?"
Patrick looked up at his brother and he smiled widely through bleeding teeth. "Agatha got back," Patrick said easily. "She was trying to talk to God and He wasn't listening. So she and I had a little chat. And when she didn't agree with me on certain topics, I convinced her. Oh, Georgie. She tastes like strawberries."
George was familiar with wrath and the many different forms it took. Some of them were blazing and out of control, like a forest fire. Others were colder, sharper, diamond-edged, and devoid of anything soft. It was the latter kind of rage that hit George at that moment, and he stopped seeing his brother sitting on the ground and started seeing a demon. It made what followed much easier.
He picked Patrick up, shoving him back against the tree with both hands on his throat. Voice flat and unnervingly calm, George said, "You have ten seconds to tell me where she is and what was done to her, or I will kill you."
George wasn't seeing Patrick as his brother any more, that much was obvious. And Patrick was realising he might not live through this after all. But a trip to Hell would just end up with him back here eventually.
"I fucked her, Georgie. I fucked a virgin saint and God didn't stop me, and she renounced her faith within minutes. It was like artwork."
"I see," George said, registering the information very calmly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, what felt like a great distance away, something in him started screaming, but George was otherwise entirely steady.
Soldiers couldn't flinch or falter in the face of duty. They did what they had to do.
George let Patrick's feet touch the ground, one hand coming up to cup the back of his head while the other rested on his brother's chin. He felt very cold all of the sudden.
"Patrick, I want you to know that I love you," George said, still a picture of cool serenity. "And I'm sorry."
Then he wrenched his hands in opposite directions, snapping Patrick's neck instantaneously.
He dragged Patrick's body behind a bush, hoping the leaves would camouflage the corpse until someone could get here. Lighting a cigarette (he'd been smoking much more, lately), he first called into his office and explained that there'd been a family emergency and he wouldn't be back in for the rest of the day. Then he called Michael.
"Patrick's back on the surface," George said, leaning against the tree and staring out across the park. "Yes. No. His body's currently in Central Park, so I'd appreciate you sending a car over here to pick it up. I don't know if he'll come back to life in it or not, but it's worth a try to keep it locked up. Yes. I'm fine, why?"
George took another drag on the cigarette, noting with irritation that he didn't feel any warmer because of it. "You'll need to go to Agatha's as soon as possible. Patrick attacked her, and claimed that she renounced. No, I don't know for sure. No, I didn't know she was in the city either. All right, sir. See you soon."
There were variations in every story, George reflected. It was a natural part of a story being re-told over and over. In most versions of one particular story, the noble knight slays the dragon and rides away unscathed and victorious. But in darker, rarer versions, the knight had to cut out his own heart first, lock it away and keep it safe. It was dangerous to go up against a dragon with your heart intact, after all. A person was much easier to wound that way.
George wasn't in the mood to be wounded any more.