Yankee [Sam Adams] (yankeedoodle) wrote in safeasthreads, @ 2009-12-13 16:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | foxtrot, yankee |
Who: Yankee and Foxtrot.
What: Yankee isn't the most stable individual, and he's prone to making bad choices. Like shooting himself in the head.
Bravo was dead. B was fucking dead. And so was Lima...Chioma...fuck. And that was beyond fucked up. He'd wanted to fix her. Wanted to make her the girl he used to know again, but now that wasn't happening. She'd been his best friend, or closest thing to it, on the outside. Bravo had been his best friend inside. And, well, Yankee wasn't sure how to handle that. Goddamn it.
He'd never been the most stable person. Even before everything, in that time he couldn't remember, he'd been really good at making really bad decisions. And after the war, which he could remember somewhat...even if only in surreal nightmares, he'd gone from a little off to a lot screwed up. He couldn't sleep and things set him off, and the bad decisions got worse. And here was just another in a string of bad decisions.
He stole a gun. An easy thing to do for a natural conman when everyone was distracted by their grief. And he sat in his pod, drinking straight from a bottle of that shit alcohol Foxy and Shakespeare liked to make, the gun in his free hand. And he thought about it. It was a bad idea. He knew it was, but he didn't fucking care. He wanted the noise to stop. His head was full of noise, and maybe this would stop it. He tapped his foot against the floor as he took another pull of the sock liquor and then thew the bottle at the wall. God fucking damn it! Why the fuck did it have to be B? He was a decent guy. Fucked up, sure, but which of them wasn't. He put the gun up against his head, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Fuck. Probably should have made sure it was loaded.
Goddamn it. Goddamn it, Foxtrot just couldn't take this right now. She was on her way to handler's lounge to do who-knows-what with Romeo, but first, she needed to stop by her pod for a bit of liquid courage. Because she raged and screamed and broke like, three people's fingers on the way over, but fuck it, it hurt. She thought she'd gotten over this. The caring about people part. She'd fought for years to move past that bit of her life, but somehow this fucked up hell hole had brought it back. She really needed a drink.
It didn't take her long to reach the pod room. Pretty much everyone seemed to have realized that they really, really shouldn't get in her way. She pushed open the door, mumbling to herself, angry words full of hate. And then she saw him. Yankee. Yankee with a gun to his head and pulling the trigger and she swore to God, that bastard was going to regret being born in the first place.
He had bullets. He'd had bullets even when he hadn't had a gun. Where the fuck were his bullets? The tapping of his foot got more erratic, as he searched around his bed for bullets. There they were. He started loading them into the gun, feeling a freaky sort of calm. A purity of purpose. This was good. As far as bad choices went, it was a good one. He looked at the gun for a moment, then put it back to his head. He could have stuck the gun in his mouth this time...not left room for errors. In retrospect, that's what he should have done from the start. It ensured that it worked, in most cases anyway. But that just made him think of Bravo...which was probably a little weird. So, instead, he put it to his head.
He knew the girls would be pissed, but he couldn't bring himself to care. No, that wasn't true. He cared, because he didn't want Foxtrot upset. He loved her, in his own way...which wasn't much, but he figured it might be enough. But she was strong and she would be okay. Maybe. Probably. She and Romeo would look after each other. Or they'd all die and there would be a sort of poetry in that. A symmetry. They lived together. They died together. Nice and neat. Yeah. He liked that idea.
Foxtrot could feel the tears begin to sting at her eyes even before she fully understood what was happened. No, just no. First Bravo, then Yankee? Why were they doing this to her? Did people hate her than much that the second she started to care for them they up and died? A sob escaped her throat, choking, gasping and pitiful. Fucking bastards. She knew she was being petty, selfish, but at that moment she just couldn't care less. Yankee was going to die and then she'd be trapped and alone and scared, all over again.
Oh hell no. "Yankee, you goddamn asshole," she shouted, "I am going to fucking kill you myself!" That she could live with. She grabbed the first thing she could find, someone's battered old converse, and hurled it in his direction, not stopping to see whether it even hit. It didn't take her long to cross the room, and withing seconds she'd thrown herself onto him. It was kind of like a hug, really. If you hugged people by punching them in the face.
And oww! Fuck! A shoe had just his him in the fucking head! What the fuck! His arm jerked and his finger reflexively pulled the trigger and...goddamn it! Luckily, it was only a graze, but his head still hurt like fuck all. "Goddamn it woman," he shouted, bringing his hand to his head and coming away bloody. "What sort of brilliant plan was that? Throwing a goddamn shoe? I could have fucking killed myself!" He was forgetting, for a moment, that he had, in fact, been trying to kill himself. Being pissed off at Foxtrot tended to have that affect.
Of course, then she punched him in the face. "Okay, I probably deserved that," he said. And now his jaw hurt and his head hu rt in two places, from a shoe and from a bullet. "We've established I'm kind of crazy, really fucking crazy actually, and really not good for you, right?" he asked. "Like really, legitimately fucked up in the head here. I mean, I just tried to shoot myself in the head. Hell, I did shoot myself in the head...just without bullets. But we're talking intent and I did. And I'm not sorry for that." He grabbed Foxtrot by the back of the neck to hold her still, and picked up the gun again. "I should shoot you, right now," he said, trailing the gun along her hairline, "make it so he can't touch you. Keep you safe. I could do it too. So easy." His grip tightened and he just rested the gun against her jaw for a moment. "You and me. We'd be together in hell. And it would still be better than this place." Then he clicked on the safety, tossed the gun aside, and kissed her harshly.
She shivered. "Do it," she whispered, her voice low and rough, "Do it, you bastard." She wriggled, trying desperately to escape Yankee's hold and throw another punch. He was hurt, probably hurt bad, and his head was bleeding an awful lot, but for right now, all she wasn't to do was hit him until he remembered exactly why he could never go. Well, it made sense to her, anyway. "I don't fucking care. Better dead than locked up, away from this goddamn hell hole. We'd make some fucking noise in hell." It scared her, the way her voice sounded, raw and almost pleading. She had no idea what she was pleading for.
And then the gun was gone, and he was kissing her and she was kissing him back and just for a second she forgot about Bravo, about Alpha. Yankee was there, touching her, and goddamn it she wanted him so bad. She stopped struggling instantly, reaching up to touch his back, his neck, his hair. "You motherfucker," she gasped, "Don't you ever fucking do that again."
"I should," Yankee growled, hand tightening to stop her from squirming out of his hold. "I should blow your brains out right now so that he can never hurt you. So that he he can never ruin you. You're perfect and I want to keep you just like this, forever." Blood was dripping into his eyes, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered right now except her. Nobody understood him the way she did. Like she was made for him, and not in the way this place made people. This was real. More real than anything. "I should do it," he said, nodding decisively. "I should take us both out of this place. Keep you with me always. Everyone leaves, but you won't, will you? You never will."
He didn't want to stop, didn't care about breathing, just wanted to stay like this forever. He groaned against her mouth, tugging her closer and harder against him and rocking his hips up against hers. "Never again," he promised in a rough whisper, "not without you." He rested his forehead against hers for a moment and just breathed. "I love you," he said, fisting a hand in her hair and jerking her head back, speaking the words against her neck and pressing his lips against her skin. "I'll get you out of here, one way or another."
"I never will," Foxtrot echoed. She was having a hard time speaking, her mind completely occupied by thoughts of Yankee, his body, his touch. "You won't and I won't and" She took a deep, shuddering breath as he leaned into her, flooding her body with warmth. Turning slightly, she pressed her hips into his, pushing down against him as if she could somehow cover every inch of his body with hers. Her fingers danced over his back, leaving tiny scratches where her nails had dug into his skin. "I" love you, need you, "want you." When in doubt, go for the baser emotion, implying lust, nothing deeper. She swallowed hard as he kissed her neck. "I love you."
Yankee nodded, pushing her down to the floor of his pod, covering her body with his own. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, pressing them to the floor hard enough to leave bruises. But that was normal. Bruises were normal for them. His free hand slipped under her shirt, taking the knife she kept in her bra and using it to cut open her shirt. He trailed the edge of the blade along her stomach, too light to draw blood, leaving pale white lines on her skin. "You have me," he said, "completely. I'm yours. And you're mine, aren't you?" He pressed the blade harder against her collarbone, tracing along the line of the bone. "Aren't you?" he repeated.
Foxtrot shuddered as the knife grazed her skin. She hadn't been expecting that, that he would hold her hostage with her own weapon. Which wasn't to say that she didn't like it. The heat from her body rolled off her in waves, mingling with his as she lay there. "Always," she replied. "Always." And then there was nothing left to say.