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Entry tags:
not sparkly
But for the amount of effort it took, I'm damn well archiving it somewhere. You'd think after having three kids, I'd learn the danger of offering open gifts, but apparently I'm slow to learn. I told one of my oldest friends that I'd write any pairing for her birthday. She picked Rupert Giles/Alex Krycek. This is my best shot.
Unimaginable, non-chronological shorts.
Reason
I prefer to think that this is what actually happened in that flat in London, and that Giles just likes to keep his private life private.
Not mine.
They took the stairs at a dead run, three flights up, and with every step, Alex grew more and more certain that this was going to be another bad one. He let Giles take the lead while he flicked the Glock's laser sight on and double-checked the throwing knife in his boot.
The door to the flat stood wide open and Alex swore under his breath as Giles rushed through, never slowing down. True, they hadn't found anything but mutilated bodies so far, but Alex's luck never held for long, and he'd long ago stopped expecting that he could wake up and not have someone want to kill him.
"Oh, dear god! Robson, are you here? Robson!"
Giles was already across the flat, searching for his colleague as Alex paused at the door. Yet another girl sprawled awkwardly in her own blood. He crossed to her side to check for what he knew he wouldn't find. The skin of her neck was warm and soft--and still--against his fingers.
"You too? Dear god, I thought you--"
"Gather them. It's started."
Alex looked up in surprise at the second voice, even one little more than a whisper, and was just in time to see a black-robed thing move with inhuman speed across the room, ax drawn back to strike at Giles' unprotected back.
"It's all right. I understand. I'll take care of it--"
Killing didn't mean much to Alex. He did it and did it well, but it brought him no remorse or joy or thrills. It was just something that he did. This time though, he took a grim pleasure in the automatic reflex that brought the Glock up and fired precisely. Two to the body, one to the head and the thing, the Bringer, Giles had called it, flew forward bonelessly, propelled by the bullets' momentum.
Giles had dropped flat at the first cough of the silenced Glock, but he glared at Alex as he crawled out from under the Bringer's body and turned back to the man on the floor. Belatedly, Alex thought that he could have warned Giles as he fired. He supposed it was just more evidence of how long he'd been alone.
He flipped the body of the Bringer over with the toe of his boot and stared down at the mutilated features. He'd been shown pictures, but Alex liked to see things for himself, draw his own conclusions. Not alien, but not necessarily human either. One more freak to add to his personal collection.
The man on the floor--Robson?--lapsed into unconsciousness as the first, faint sirens sounded. Giles stood slowly, taking his glasses off and rubbing tiredly at the bridge of his nose. Alex wondered briefly who Robson had been to him. Before he could decide if he wanted to ask, Giles pushed past him to cross to the desk tucked under the street-facing window. Swiftly, he swept papers and books up into his arms, not bothering to look at them. Alex shrugged the backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it, passing it over to Giles.
Giles filled the backpack, and handed it back, nodding once toward the door. Alex looked carefully out the window. The sirens grew steadily louder but still no sign of the police. Or anyone else. Now was the time to slide out as quietly as possible, before the discovery of yet another unexplained knifing. They could make an anonymous call for medical help once they got to the car. He turned back, expecting to see Giles waiting for him at the door, instead found him crouched over the girl.
Alex knew death. Giles knew it, too, Alex understood that quite well. But unlike Alex, no matter how often Giles had seen it, he still stopped to close sightless eyes and murmur words, however brief, of benediction.
In the darkest of nights, when Alex allowed himself to think of such things, he knew that was the reason he stayed.
Unimaginable, non-chronological shorts.
Reason
I prefer to think that this is what actually happened in that flat in London, and that Giles just likes to keep his private life private.
Not mine.
They took the stairs at a dead run, three flights up, and with every step, Alex grew more and more certain that this was going to be another bad one. He let Giles take the lead while he flicked the Glock's laser sight on and double-checked the throwing knife in his boot.
The door to the flat stood wide open and Alex swore under his breath as Giles rushed through, never slowing down. True, they hadn't found anything but mutilated bodies so far, but Alex's luck never held for long, and he'd long ago stopped expecting that he could wake up and not have someone want to kill him.
"Oh, dear god! Robson, are you here? Robson!"
Giles was already across the flat, searching for his colleague as Alex paused at the door. Yet another girl sprawled awkwardly in her own blood. He crossed to her side to check for what he knew he wouldn't find. The skin of her neck was warm and soft--and still--against his fingers.
"You too? Dear god, I thought you--"
"Gather them. It's started."
Alex looked up in surprise at the second voice, even one little more than a whisper, and was just in time to see a black-robed thing move with inhuman speed across the room, ax drawn back to strike at Giles' unprotected back.
"It's all right. I understand. I'll take care of it--"
Killing didn't mean much to Alex. He did it and did it well, but it brought him no remorse or joy or thrills. It was just something that he did. This time though, he took a grim pleasure in the automatic reflex that brought the Glock up and fired precisely. Two to the body, one to the head and the thing, the Bringer, Giles had called it, flew forward bonelessly, propelled by the bullets' momentum.
Giles had dropped flat at the first cough of the silenced Glock, but he glared at Alex as he crawled out from under the Bringer's body and turned back to the man on the floor. Belatedly, Alex thought that he could have warned Giles as he fired. He supposed it was just more evidence of how long he'd been alone.
He flipped the body of the Bringer over with the toe of his boot and stared down at the mutilated features. He'd been shown pictures, but Alex liked to see things for himself, draw his own conclusions. Not alien, but not necessarily human either. One more freak to add to his personal collection.
The man on the floor--Robson?--lapsed into unconsciousness as the first, faint sirens sounded. Giles stood slowly, taking his glasses off and rubbing tiredly at the bridge of his nose. Alex wondered briefly who Robson had been to him. Before he could decide if he wanted to ask, Giles pushed past him to cross to the desk tucked under the street-facing window. Swiftly, he swept papers and books up into his arms, not bothering to look at them. Alex shrugged the backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it, passing it over to Giles.
Giles filled the backpack, and handed it back, nodding once toward the door. Alex looked carefully out the window. The sirens grew steadily louder but still no sign of the police. Or anyone else. Now was the time to slide out as quietly as possible, before the discovery of yet another unexplained knifing. They could make an anonymous call for medical help once they got to the car. He turned back, expecting to see Giles waiting for him at the door, instead found him crouched over the girl.
Alex knew death. Giles knew it, too, Alex understood that quite well. But unlike Alex, no matter how often Giles had seen it, he still stopped to close sightless eyes and murmur words, however brief, of benediction.
In the darkest of nights, when Alex allowed himself to think of such things, he knew that was the reason he stayed.