forthedog | I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

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I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

The truth is that he barely sleeps anymore. And he knows Neil knows it. He pretends, he tries to keep up the show if not the reality - but it's all crumbling.

Another truth is that a significant part of him is embarrassed that when it really comes down to it, it's taking him less than a month to completely lose his mind.

He's played through scenarios. It's what he does when he's not sleeping - he simulates things in his brain. Giving Neil the slip and vanishing into the city - no good, he'd follow. Forcing Neil to leave him somehow - again, no good; he never would. And now either of those plans wouldn't work anyway. His dark self would find Neil. Come for him. Hurt him. Worse. He'll come anyway, but if he's with Neil there might be a fighting chance.

A fighting chance. Isn't that a fucking joke.

Maybe. Maybe if they can just hold on another day. Another two. Another week.

They're curled in one of the shadowy back rooms of the church, a place that provides at least a little privacy and quiet, even if not really any more safety. Neil is breathing against his neck and hogging most of their threadbare blanket. Mike is on his back, staring at the ceiling, the wavering light of a single candle. Shapes in the dimness, moving. A shadowplay.

Son of man, he thinks - maybe he's whispering the words, exhausted beyond being sure. You cannot say or guess, for you know only a heap of broken images where the sun beats and the dead tree gives no shelter.

There's more, a lot more, but it all dies away when he hears a footstep outside the closed door.

There are other people in the church. Somehow he already knows this isn't one of them.

"Neil," he breathes. His knife, his gun. Suddenly he's not sure where either is.

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I'm asleep, and then I'm not.

My eyes snap open, heart lodged in the back of my throat, all before it dawns on me why. Mike's voice in my ear, quietly panicked, and someone standing just outside.

Sitting up as quietly as I can, I reach for my gun, where I put it just within reach. The gash on my face throbs in time with my heartbeat, the skin around it a little too warm, but I'll worry about that later.

He almost laughs when Neil reaches for his gun - even though his own thoughts had gone there first. Like it'll do any good. Like it could have ever stopped this.

I could do you and then myself, he thinks - thinks but doesn't have the guts to say aloud. If he could speak at all. We still have time.

But he's coming.

In a way he's almost glad. At least now the running and the sick fear and the feeling of slowly being drained of the last of his sanity will end.

Footsteps stop outside the door. For a moment there's nothing, then a quick, almost careful knocking. "Housekeeping."

I almost laugh.

It's just so fucking stupid. We're gonna fuckin' die, and that fucker's making a joke of it. He's just fuckin' toying with us, and I'm so fucking tired, it's almost a relief that he's found us.

Just get it over with, already.

"This is fuckin' bullshit," I hiss, the words awkward out of my recently sliced lips. I look at Mike, and I can't explain it, but I'm angry. Fucking DO SOMETHING!

"Yeah," he mutters heavily - he agrees but there's nothing to fucking do. Nowhere to run and no way to fight back. "It is."

The doorknob is turning. They hadn't locked it - no point, really. And then it swings open, whisper-quiet, and he's standing there, cloaked in shadow. Knife at his side again, turning in his fingers.

"You know I'm done waiting," he says quietly - and Mike is mildly surprised to hear no smile in his voice now. He sounds flat. Dead. Steps inside, swinging the door shut behind him. "The whore's right. This is getting really fucking old."

"The whore? Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?" I ask, and I'm not even really afraid. Too stupid to be afraid. Whatever.

It doesn't matter if I'm fucking afraid or not. He's gonna kill us both anyway. No amount of begging for our lives is gonna matter.

"Like I give a shit about your feelings. It's what you are." He strides forward and grabs Neil - not by the arm but by the hair, dragging him up.

Mike's on his feet at the same instant, pushing forward. As if it matters. Because he's looking down the blade of a knife, about an inch from his good eye.

"No. Stay. We need to talk."

Letting out a growling cry of pain, I let him drag me to my feet, because what other choice do I have?

A strangled laugh catches in the back of my throat and I say to him, teeth bared, "Just get the fuck on with it."

"Let him go." He doesn't blink. Doesn't show fear, because now there isn't any. He's all out of fear. "You can take me. You can do whatever the fuck you want to me. Just let him go."

He expects the thing to laugh, and he does - but with amusement only of the thinnest kind. No glee anymore. His dark self shakes his head, mouth twisted with disgust. "I don't fucking want you. I have spent a week trying to get through to you. This is what you are. The longer you run away from that, the worse it's gonna get. Don't you get it? I'm trying to help you, Mike. I'm on your side."

A quick spin and he flicks the knife around in his hand, holding it out handle-first. Mike stares dumbly at it.

That banked-down spark in him is starting to catch fire.

"So I'm giving you a choice. Call it a last-ditch attempt to clue you in. You can watch me kill him. And you know exactly how I'll do it. Or." He gestures with the knife. "You can kill him, and make it quick."

There's a moment where everything melts together. Time, memory, everything. Bodies in the jungle, blood-spattered tile, anguished faces, burning buildings, screaming ghosts, Neil bleeding in the dark, Sam's cries of pain, Tom twisting underneath him - his own face.

His own face.

The spark bursts into a fire, which burns hot.

"You're right," he breathes, as he slowly takes the knife.

I watch the knife pass hands with cold detachment. I'm only half listening, anyway. Instead, my eyes are on Mike's face. After years, more years than maybe either of us know, we can't read each other's minds, but when his hand closes around the hilt of that knife, I'm not afraid.

There's not a part of me that thinks this is gonna go the way that bastard wearing Mike's face wants it to go. And if I am about to die by his hand? He will make it quick, and I'm pretty sure he'll follow pretty soon after.

As he turns the knife in his hand he meets his own eyes - black pits, hints of infernal fire sparking there - and he can see surprise there as well. This wasn't expected. Wasn't wanted - of course. The sick fucker would want to have his fun, regardless. And now he's being denied.

More than he knows.

His gaze swings down to Neil's - from pitch black to deep blue - and the fire in him feels like sunlight.

"I love you," he whispers, and the monster is opening his mouth, realization reddening his eyes, when Mike lunges forward and slashes the blade across his face - his own face - twin to the cut across Neil's. The thing lets out a short scream of surprise and rage and pain, releases Neil and stumbles back.

Blood is pattering softly onto the floor. When Mike pushes forward again and jams the knife in between the thing's ribs, he realizes that he's smiling.

I stumble back, nearly pitching over onto my ass, stepping backward until my shoulder hits a wall. Leaning back against it, I struggle to try and catch my breath, watching him plunge the knife into that thing's chest and knowing, somehow, that it's over.

I don't realize until I'm crouched there on the floor that my legs have given out, my head tipped over to rest against the wall.

He - it, it - lets out a choking sound, blood bubbling up between its lips and joining the blood already pouring down its face, and he knows he could stop it there. It's dying. It's over.

It's not.

He twists the knife. Hard. Then again, harder. It cries out again and stumbles, almost falls, but he keeps it on its feet with the knife that's slowly shredding its lung. It doesn't fall until he's ready to let it.

With his other hand he grips it by the hair, drags its head back - and he's still smiling, because this feels good. It feels right. In one smooth motion he pulls the knife out again and kicks the thing's legs out from under it, sending it down onto its stomach and following it a second later. It's trying to crawl away but he straddles its hips, drags its head up by the hair again.

He glances up at Neil, mostly taking inventory: that he's all right, or at least as all right as anyone can be in a situation like this one. But then his attention is all on the body shivering under him and the way light feels like it's beaming out through his skin. Like being fucking high. Like fucking.

"You were right," he murmurs again, into the thing's ear, and slashes its throat open, letting its head hit the floor with a loud thud.

He waits a moment, breathing hard, then pushes himself up and moves slowly over to Neil, dropping into a crouch next to him. He's covered in blood, soaked and spattered with it, and that feels right too.

At length he holds out a red-smeared hand. "I'm really fucking bored. You wanna go home?"

I watch the thing start to crawl away, and there's a part of me that wants it to. Just to crawl away, disappear, and not come back. But Mike's not gonna let that happen. He drops down on top of it, straddling its back, and I meet his eyes. He looks more alive than he has in weeks.

There's blood on me that's not mine. Mike's, in a way, but not. Another oddity on top of too fucking many to count. Watching him murder himself right in front of me should be more horrific than it is. Mostly, I just know I'm done with this place. I'm ready to go.

Barking out a harsh laugh, I say, "Bored." I slip my hand into his. "You're really fuckin' scary, sometimes. You know that?"

He shrugs, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, and glances back at the body - which is fading. Slowly disappearing completely. He feels weak, shaky. Starving. Exhausted. But lighter than he's felt...

Than he's felt since he came to Darrow.

"What, aren't you?" Somehow, somewhere in all the blood, everything has changed. He can feel it. All the darkness has bleed out of the world. "C'mon. Think we'd probably better get to a fucking hospital."

I don't know that bored is the word I'd use, but i don't say as much. Instead, I take his hand, pushing unsteadily to my feet and glancing blearily around the room.

There's sunlight streaming through the windows and the only trace of dust is on the two of us. It's a Sunday school classroom, coloring book pages of bible stories pinned up on a bulletin board just to my right.

I cough out a laugh and say, "Let's get the fuck outta here."

The church is empty but for a few people praying or waiting to give confession, and they look up when the two of them step into the sanctuary. Mike hasn't given what they must look like a whole lot of thought in the last two weeks, but he is now - both of them scruffy for lack of shaving, both of them grimy for want of showers and ash coating their skin, and him covered in blood, and Neil's face still just about cut in half.

"Can you walk on your own?" he asks softly. He's ready to wave people off if necessary - but somehow he doesn't think any of the people staring at them is going to want to come near.

"You tryin' to get rid of me?" I tease softly, but I'm relatively steady on my feet, my eyes sliding from one curious face to the other, and offering a sneer for their trouble.

What the fuck are you lookin' at, assholes?

"Seemed like it was important to you, before." He smiles faintly, slides an arm around Neil's waist anyway and pulls him closer. Even if Neil doesn't need the support... they both do, maybe.

"I feel better," he says after a moment or two, the door closer. One person is moving quickly ahead of them - maybe trying to get away with a little dignity. The door opens and the light is almost blinding, but he's not sure he's ever seen something so beautiful.

"I was pissed at you, before," I remind him, leaning my weight against him, grateful for the support for reasons that have little to do with how fucking exhausted I am.

"We're probably not gonna fuckin' die right now, man. You better fuckin' feel better," I say with a dry cough of laughter, even though I know it's more than that. It's not like I missed out on the significance of what just happened.

Light. For a moment he just stands on the steps, Neil against him, his head tipped back and his eyes mostly closed. He'd almost forgotten how it felt. The beautiful red of the brightness against his eyelids.

"Probably," he echoes softly. He opens his eyes again, focuses on the city in front of them. People, traffic, spatters of fall color, mostly clear sky and sunshine.

Cabs. They'll need one.

"It's funny," he murmurs as he starts them slowly down the steps.

"Hilarious," I say with a snort of laughter, my head dropping over onto his shoulder, warmth leeching into my aching limbs, and suddenly I'm so tired I'm half convinced I could fall asleep standing right here.

Cutting him a look and snorting out a laugh, I say, "You look like you just fuckin' murdered somebody. We'll be lucky if we don't get a ride in a fuckin' police cruiser."

"I did fucking murder somebody." He shoots Neil a look that's as speculative as it is amused. Sure, someone might start asking some awkward questions. But it's not as if they'd be able to prove anything.

It's his own blood, after all.

"I meant," he says as he edges closer to the curb, hand up for a cab - and if they actually manage to hail one of those he really will be impressed - "it's funny how maybe what I really needed to get my head outta my ass was... to be a tiny bit more of a psychopath. Go fucking figure."

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I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

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