tikific | FIC: Ablutions

Title: Ablutions
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I dunno. Dark and angsty. Like my workplace!
Warnings: Slash, violence, swearing
Notes: This one takes place somewhere near the end of the second season.

I did my taxes, and then somehow had this urge to do something that wasn't in my frickin' AU. So, here ya go.

He awoke from troubling dreams.

His dreams were dark of late.

They had gotten into the building. They were somewhere nearby.

He grabbed on a robe and set off running.

This is what you did. This is what had to be done.

He ended up in a dark corridor. Why wasn't Security.... He had nearly tripped over the body. Bodies. Security. Not much left.

There were three of them. Human shaped, just now.

But he knew that's not what they were.

He pulled a saber from its mount the wall. Taking a knife to a gun fight? Only you can't use a gun if somebody just took off your hand with a fucking sword.

And then he took its head. He needed to work quickly, so it didn't have time to morph into its real, nastier shape.

He scrambled for its gun, the freshly severed hand still clutching the butt. He saw the little tag of flesh at the wrist where the skin hadn't cut but torn. He fired into what he hoped was the head of the second one. It reeled. Something splattered on the wall behind. Brains? He hoped so.

The third one had time. Too much time. It had hung back to change. He knew it thought to terrify. He wished he could show it his dreams.

It wasn't a fist that slammed into the side of his head, knocking off his glasses. It was a desecrated imitation of a fist. A joke. A grim joke. Dazed, he spotted the gun and leapt to it. He despaired as it fired an empty clip.

He grimaced and jammed the barrel into an eye.

And there was the sword. The hilt was cool in his hand. He assumed the area with the eye was the head. You had to get the head off. A clean slice.

He stood catching his breath. The dead things reeked. Like a swamp of rotten egg perspiration.

Behind him.

The second one. That hadn't been the head he shot off. That wasn't its brains splattered on the stone walls. It was coming after him again, oozing sticky blood from the stump of the gnarled part he'd shot off. Very much alive.

It you could call what that thing was alive.

He ran, not as fast as he could, trying to lure it. The roof. There was light. He saw the light at the top of the steps.

The floor rose up to slam him.

It had caught the edge of his robe, and he was down, sword a good six inches from his grasp, hand held down fast by the robe. He heard it move, smelled it nearing. He rolled on his back and kicked with two legs as it tried to tackle him, and then he twisted, extracting his arms from the garment, and diving for the blade.

Just there. Yes. Some kind of main artery. The blood exploded all over him, warm. He kicked one last time, and the dying creature was falling.

And there he was, sword in hand, wearing only blood.

He was trying to breathe.

"Dude."

He couldn’t see very well, not without his eyeglasses. But it could only be one voice.

He turned around. Still trying to breathe. The redhead inclined his head.

Charles approached him, struggling to breathe.

Pickles lit a joint. He offered Charles a hit. Charles waved him off.

Pickles stood in front of him to block his way. Charles could see the red tint, just beginning, little spots of fire, in the eyes.

And he could feel the power.

He obediently accepted the joint. He closed his eyes and took a drag, and let whatever it was work on his central nervous system.

He felt the hand on the back of his neck. It was cool.

"We'll get you cleaned up. Before da others see you," Pickles said, puffing the joint, handing it back.

He let himself be led downstairs. His bare feet made absolutely no sound on the cold stone stairs. No sound at all. Did he even exist any more?

He was in the shower in Pickles’ room, the water cascading down full and hot.

The soap was a puddle of scum in the dish. Pickles had a new bar in his hands, ripping off the waxy wrapper, tossing it carelessly over a shoulder. He was a rock star. He would never have to worry. He would always have somebody to clean up his messes.

Pickles held him under the water. Charles tilted his head down, and watched the reddish foam wash down, to another part of the universe. It would all wash away. What had been in the joint? He didn’t know.

“Arms, dude,” came the whisper.

He held his arms out to his sides. He let Pickles work. He needed to let this happen. This had to happen.

“Come on.” And the water was off, and he was wrapped in a towel, and laid down in bed, fresh and new.

“You keep doin’ this, dude…. You’re gonna…. You know you’re gonna…” And then Pickles trailed off. And Charles was drifting to somewhere safe and warm.

Pickles quietly closed the door of his room. He looked around a bit, following the path. There wouldn't be much to clean up the next day.

He saw the eyeglasses on the floor. He picked them up. He rubbed a smudge off with the bottom of his shirt, and carefully folded them up.

His feet took him back up to the roof. He peered over the edge, lighting another joint. No, not much to clean up. Not much at all. He stood for a while, smoking. He felt for the chain around his neck. He tugged on it. He brought it out, but didn't open it. He rubbed his thumb over it. He crushed it in his hand.

"Feck," he whispered.

He replaced the necklace under his shirt, angrily tossing the joint over the side where it would fall alongside the misshapen body. He walked back down the steps, full of power, but powerless, eyes red as hellfire.