bat winged man eating lion (mortale) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-05-03 21:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | castor vance, ireland rhodes |
here comes hope delivering back my soul.
WHO: Castor, Ireland & Sam Drake
WHAT: #daddyissues
WHEN: Last week
WHERE: Mars
WARNINGS: violence (and father vs. son), PTSD & associated trauma, NPC death
He woke with his ears ringing. The room was a spinning blur as Castor attempted to place himself (grated floor, metal all around, smoke, voices?) but the stab that slid up the back of his skull (like a knife cutting through butter, through brain, inside of him) was more than enough to throw him. He lay in place for some moments, taking it all in, then — "Awake yet, Mark?" The nickname had that knife shifting and his eyes clearing and that fucking voice — Castor stared up into his father's face. He saw this face in every bounty, at every turn. He saw this face when he looked out the window, or in the mirror. He saw his father everywhere, in everything, and looking into it now, he didn't know if it was real. Reality had warped itself since that day in the stairwell, his vision narrowed: find my father, then kill him. Kill him before he does more harm. Kill him. His hand automatically shot down toward his holster, only to find it empty and the very barrel of it pointed toward his eyes from above. Fear settled like cold water inside his lungs, but he saw past the gun. Only his father mattered in that very moment, all of his anger and hatred bubbling. He swallowed his breath. "Do it," he hissed, watching for the reaction. That face turned into a laugh that echoed inside of him. "Do what, shoot you? Come on, kiddo. I'm not going to shoot you. I," he was leaning in, "have so much more in store for you, and it starts with the number one. Count out loud for me." Sam flicked on the safety, tossing the gun to another pair of hands in his peripheral vision. "Or don't." Before a thought could be processed, steel toe connected with his ribs, sharp and bright across his eyes. Through the flash of pain, he attempted to shield and roll, but it came again. Two, three. Unforgiving. Heaves of effort circled from above. "You know," another, "you could've been a good cop," another, sharper, "being so fucking self-righteous, Mark. And now here we are, aren't we?" Kick. "Do you know how long I've waited for this?" Kick. "Do you know the respect that I lost because of you? Everything that I'd done, everything I'd do, because of you?" Crack — — the agony ripped itself from his mouth. "What the fuck did you know, huh? What did you know? What I did for you all, to keep food on the table and a roof over your head?" Kick. "What kind of villain did you paint me out to be, Mark?" Laughter again. "Kid, your daddy issues are out of control, they really are. All you ever had to do," kick, "was not stick your nose," kick, "into shit that wasn't any of your business." He couldn't figure out how to roll and defend and spit out blood at the same time. Too much to do, not enough strength or arms to shield himself, and he was coughing red through that grated floor, the effort forcing protest out of his ribcage. The anger was forgotten — his most immediate reality was pain, worse than any gunshot, than every gunshot combined. Castor lost count at eight, and stopped listening at ten. Harsh fingers sank into his hair, and he could do nothing but allow himself to be marionetted to his knees, head yanked back to expose tattooed throat. He heard the clamor from afar, though barely. All he could focus on was the sound of his father's voice as cruel lips came close to his ear. "And now, your crew gets to watch me break your bones one by one," came the whisper, smug. "What do you think about that?" He didn't think. He slid a hand toward his boot. He didn't think — he acted. His fingers curled around the blade tucked inside his boot, and down it came through his father's, cutting into leather and flesh and bone. "I think— you talk— too much," he rasped with what little breath was left inside of him. He twisted, and the room erupted beyond his comprehension. All he could focus on was the man stumbling at his side, in the hand tightening in his hair, yanking him again, this man who had been the driving force between everything he'd ever done: leaving Europa, joining the army, joining the agency, accepting the Killjoy promotion, defending those who deserved to be defended when the world was full of people who could only be met with a bullet. At fourteen, he'd known enough. He'd known what it took to protect his family. What it took to protect his crew, and the people he loved. Railing and ramp connected with already aching sides, but that breathless, fury-laden hatred kept him balanced. The pain that had dizzied him cleared his mind and reaffirmed his goal, his sole purpose in this: kill him. Castor couldn't dodge the knife — it came quick and vicious and sliced through him painless, and he stopped thinking. The blade fell away, and the scuffle was over before it started, his hand snaking around his father's gun as his lungs began to close, his heart creeping upward. He angled the gun with shaking arms, his aim sure. As his ribcage screamed, his goal was so clear now, so close. And everything, everything, fell out. "Do you know," his voice shattered, despite confident aim, "how long I've had to dream about Elijah dying? Do you know how many nights I replayed him screaming my name, because of you? Do you know what you did to her, how Elijah ruined her because of you?" The white-hot anger was all-consuming, and his hands shook ever more, though the gun didn't lower once. From the floor, tucked into an awkward crouch, his father laughed, the sound so grating. "Ease the hell up with the dramatics, Mark. He was a kid, barely in this world long enough." The trigger landed a bullet into a knee, the shot ringing out loud. "It was my name, not yours," and there was nothing but red, now. "You didn't care about him. You didn't care about us. You cared about you. You've only ever cared about you." Slowly, his father staggered to stand; the gun followed him, wavering slightly at the bloody smile given. "Yeah," he grunted, and the second pistol appeared from practically nowhere, pointing. "You got me there: I'm the heartless, self-centered villain in this story. Will it help you pull that trigger, thinking that? Is it easier on your conscience that way, Killjoy?" No, Castor's mind whispered. His conscience would never be clear, for all of his ambitions, his motivations. Killing a shadow was impossible when it would linger still, but it had to be done. If there was blood on his hands for it, a conscience and palms that would never be clean, he could accept that. For those he needed to keep safe, he would. And yet his hands shook, the muzzle lowering a fraction. He met blue eyes, the same as his own. "I don't care what's easier," he admitted, inexplicable exhaustion rolling over him, "as long as it's done." The next smile came. "Breaking my heart, kiddo." The gun rose, pressure on the trigger—— — a split second in which his heart froze, and darkened. Hollowed out like the barrel of the gun pointed at Cas, everything pivoted in that single moment where Ireland threw his entire weight against the threat(the rooftop, the rooftop, the rooftop — where Cas had wavered, where he had nearly died, the memory scorching as he finally had the chance to lay his hands on this man. Castor would never be free, would he? Not until Sam Drake was gone from the Sol; he would linger like a nightmare, a constant weight that would press against his lungs until Cas stopped breathing. Stopped being who he was. Ireland thought of all this before, had rationalised it in his head: this was not murder, it was necessity. An elbow thrown in. Exploding pain across his side. Violence singing — a familiar enough dance. Where Cas had reason to hesitate Ireland had none, regardless of consequence, it was about the bigger picture. And it was not the echo of the gunshot that alerted Ireland as to what had happened, but the warm blood splattered across his face — warm, wet and sticky. Eventually, Castor's legs rediscovered the ability to work. They drew him toward the two, numbness pulsing, and the drop down onto his knees was agonizing. Blinded momentarily, he reached in, palm splayed over his father's still chest. Still. Still and never to move again. No — he had to be sure. Dead shadows were never really dead until you made sure. He didn't know when that hand moved to secure the blade from the floor, where it'd been abandoned, kicked away. Didn't know just how much frustration was left caught between his fractured ribs as he brought the knife down fast: blade sinking in through the heart, twisting. It came up again, then down, sinking in below with weaker force. The hilt was released as he leaned back, exhaustion weighing him as he croaked Ireland's name, so quietly that he couldn't be certain he'd said anything at all, it didn't matter Ireland's arms came to hold him all the same. His ears were filled with the ringing bang. White noise. BUZZ over BUZZ over BUZZ. His eyesight was intact and he, unlike Castor, was not wounded. Even what he had done didn't quite sink in(he was too busy staring at the blooming mess on Sam's chest, courtesy of his son). Ireland pressed his nose against Castor's hair, it was silent comfort while the initial shock wore off. Samuel Drake was dead, and Markus Drake could finally be free. If he could allow himself to be. It took some moments for the rest of Castor's body to catch up. Slow, heaving inhales, not for a lack of breath. Sharp, stabbing sensations running up both sides, twisting around his lungs. His legs didn't move, but he could manage his arms, lifting both, one by one, to wrap around the other man's back. He could think of nothing to say. Nothing to do but to tighten his grip, lips and ragged breaths to Ireland's neck. His hold was steady, soothing as his hand found the space between Castor's shoulderblades and stayed there. He needed a medic, they needed to get back to the ship if only Ireland's legs would cooperate as well(shell-shocked, knotted, emotionally drained). His grip never wavered, whispering: "I got you, Cas. I got you." but meaning so much more than that. In response to that, arms tightened, lips shifting over his skin. The thought of pulling back was entertained, but he needed this — they needed this, arms as adhesive to force them back together. There would be a time to withdraw, eventually. This was not the time. "Are you okay?" murmured into his throat, tired and concerned where the haze had lifted some, and it was difficult to answer when Ireland was not entirely sure his yes would not be a lie. He had killed someone and would answer for it, Jude came unbidden into his thoughts: not a conflict of what he had done, not having enjoyed it either but concern for separation. After a few heartbeats, Ireland inhaled slowly, "Yeah. We need to get you back onto the ship, have a look at your injuries." I don't care shouldn't have been the first words on Castor's tongue, but they were. He couldn't help it; they were always so automatic, so ingrained in him, that need to save others before himself. That he could stop the sentiment from tumbling out was only because of the navigator in his arms — because of the crew that had made it so clear that being a captain meant that he mattered, too. He swallowed, tasting blood still and wincing on the next shallow breath. "I should've shot him. Last time." "He is—" No," —was your father, you don't deserve to carry that kill." Patricide was a grievous sin, even if warranted in this case, and Ireland didn't want to Cas to suffer that shadow. He wanted Sam Drake to be erased from every single memory, until Castor was free and — happy. The smell of blood, the movement of Cas' chest against his own had Ireland tightening his grasp slightly. "It's okay, Cas. It will be okay, it is over." Not for you. With a poorly concealed groan, his captain leaned back, noticing, as if for the first time, that speckled blood. His father's blood. Or was it? Seeing it now, he wanted to wipe it all away and destroy the clear evidence. Ireland didn't deserve this, either. Castor leaned forward instead, to rest their foreheads together. It hurt too much to reach. To breathe. To speak, but — it was necessary. "Don't take the fall for me, Ireland," he rasped. "I'm not, the truth is that I pulled the trigger, Cas, and I would do it again for you." He pressed their foreheads, brushed the tips of their noses together. I'd do anything for you. Despite everything, Ireland felt remarkably calm: he knew the consequences of what he had done and would do them again, no matter where they landed him. A ragged inhale — "Don't," he repeated, though it was as far as he could get into that. His body was screaming, mind reeling, and in the middle of it all, with his father's body still warm inches away from them, Castor didn't feel the relief yet. The weight of reality had yet to come crashing. It was over. It was done. And all he wanted to do was empty his insides. What was he supposed to do with this? What now? He twisted his hands into Ireland's shirt. "I'm glad you're all here. I'm glad— you're here." God, it hurt. "I couldn't— ask this of any of you." His mouth briefly against Castor's, swallowing down more words — he had done it, the consequences damned: everything came back to that. "We're not going to leave you. I'm not going to leave you." Ireland's fingers gently splayed across Castor's back, shifting upwards to touch his hair. "They understand." The crew, his family; Ireland didn't include himself in that bracket, Castor was so much more to him than family and crew. The effort needed to shift a hand up to Ireland's neck was marked with discomfort, but it was made all the same, and Castor was grateful that their faces were already close. "Fifteen years," the quiet words heavy, "and I don't feel anything." Castor's leather jacket, his hair, the outline of his spine — Ireland's fingers a soothing motion up and down(tinted with possessiveness, Sam was not going to take Cas away, not anymore). "Maybe it takes a while." Who was he to know? Ireland had never had such a looming shadow over his shoulders. Well, maybe his brother but that was not quite this intricate. "Maybe it won't feel like anything, and that's fine too." The breathlessness was gripping. Forcing the breaths was a touch easier with so much of the weight off his soul, though some of it remained. Castor didn't know if it would ever really leave him, the trauma as much of an imprint on him as the tattoos inked into his skin. He felt like it suited him now, as he adjusted his gaze to eye his father's body, at the blood pool settling beneath him. He swallowed. Blinked back wetness. "Let's go," he mumbled, though no move was made to withdraw, Ireland dipped to kiss him(the wetness over his lips the taste of copper). Blue eyes fixed on him, "I'll help you up." Ireland didn't even glance at the dead body, all that mattered was right here, beneath his hands. Not a word was said as the struggle to stand was presented, Castor relying partly on the navigator's sturdiness to keep him balanced. It wasn't that it hurt more here, but now the thought of his crew settled back in mind, and his heart caught. He pressed his hand to Ireland's chest, solid, eyes straying below. They weren't out of this mess yet; this was just one problem dealt with. The navigator had faith though, whatever else there was to deal with — it would be overcome. Cas had his life back, didn't he? No more shadows. No more looking over his shoulder. Perhaps now he would be able to sleep. |