Nov. 1st, 2010

microwavelength: (Default)
((Ficlet on Luke's first kill.  Takes place in a verse where his mother sent him to live in New York with his father because she couldn't put up with him anymore.  The Gabriel in question refers to an AU Gabriel Gray who has healing but is not Sylar.))

Home run!  Luke Campbell's knocked it out of the park!
 
I'm usually not for baseball euphemisms.  They mean too many things to people: sexual exploits, doing well at one's job, hitting a hard to attain goal, making progress on a task.  I think my mind is going back to them because that's what is on TV right now.  Yankees.  Recaps of their latest win.  Never knew Dad was a fan. I turn my eyes towards the screen, the angle I'm viewing it at makes the picture look skewed.  Fuzzy.   Sort of like my thoughts right now.
 
If burning Gabriel's hand and arm had been like reaching second base, then killing someone is hitting a home run with all of the bases loaded.  Grand slam, they call it.  I just hit a grand slam.
 
It's the first thing that's entered my mind in almost ten minutes, judging by the blinking red light on the DVD player.  The time's never been set, so was pretending that it was exactly twelve midnight the last time our power flickered.  Right now, it is certain that it's 6:43.  In the evening.  In reality, it's just a little bit before dawn.  I've been sitting here for almost two hours now.  Just sitting.
 
There's a hand on the floor nearby, visible from behind the couch.  Palm up.  The fingers, if you can still call them that, are curled inward in a tight ball.  I pull my knees up to my chest and this smokey room turns into another from long, long ago.
 
"Hey, Luke!  Want a lollipop?"  His blue eyes are nothing like mine, bright and filled with a liquor haze where I have dark, sullen ones.  He's holding out his hand, palm up and fingers closed over it, offering me what might be inside.  "Come on over here, boy!  Close your eyes and stick out your hand." He's trying to bite back a laugh as I pause. "Guess you don't want this afterall."
 
There's nothing in his hand, I know it even I stand up and walk over.  I'm pigeon toed, my sneakers too big for me.  I trip over my own feet a lot, even when I'm trying to be slow and step around empty beer cans.  I close my eyes when I near him.  I hold out my arm, bare from the elbow down.  It's not candy I'm given.  Once again, he's decided that I make a far better ashtray than the one I made him for Father's Day in kindergarten.  I gasp, jerking back my arm.  I don't even bother to ask for the lollipop this time.  I know better.
 
I should know better now too.  The room from six years ago has turned back into the room I've spent the last few weeks in.  I never learn.  Never.  Instead, I crawl towards the hand on the floor and slowly pry apart cooked, brownish pink fingers.  There's no lollipop inside this time either, though it wasn't as if he promised me one.  I don't think lollipops have ever existed, if you want the honest truth.
 
My first time should be filled with joy.  I should be elated right now, pumped with adrenaline, my heart pounding in my chest.  Instead, I feel cold.  There's no guilt in my heart, no loss.  I simply feel empty.  My old man never did love me even half as much as I loved him.  He never gave me a fucking thing that wasn't wrapped up in pain.  Even now, there's no sense of accomplishment in my moment. 
 
There's nothing at all.
microwavelength: (Default)
((Ficlet in the New York verse where Luke gets a job.  Mention of his "friends" at the time in New York.  Also contains NSFW things))

 


I'm actually pretty fucking surprised that I got hired on the spot for a job that a monkey could do.  Maybe I am a monkey.  It seems fitting.  The frazzled store manager is the sort of older man that probably has a few skeletons in his overstuffed closet when it comes to kids like me with our altar boy looks.  I keep on smiling just the same, dissecting his sickness as he rummages around in a dented metal cabinet for an apron and a shirt to fit me.  I let him hold them up to my chest.  He's pretending to fit it to my shoulders and my waist even if the label clearly shows the garment’s size.  It's gross, but hey, I can boil his fucking brains if he touches me anywhere else.  "We prefer khakis," he's saying in his rumbled voice, nodding to himself as he drapes the dark green uniform shirt over my arm.  "But jeans will work as well.  We'll have you doing stock, you look like a strong enough...boy."

I hate the way he pauses, but the dimples in my cheeks are becoming permanent with the way I grin at him.  Sick.  Fuck.  "Works for me," I say, trying to make my exit.  I've already signed the forms, had my social security card scanned, peed in a little cup at a clinic a few blocks away.  It's a horse and pony show, and I've done drug tests so often now that I really can pee on command.  My aggression is not drug related, though.  No matter how many times my therapists and school have had me tested.

Working at the grocery store is not my life long ambition but it does mean money in my pocket and free things I can either swipe or take from the bin in the back of the storage room my new boss says gets filled with the almost expired goods we take off of the shelves.  It's a nice set up.  Close to home.  And it will keep me from hunting the remainder of the rats in my apartment building to extinction.  A kid can only fry so many fucking rats before he wants something else.

Something human.

I work my first shift that very afternoon.  I have enough energy to spare.  With a few candy bars from the back room bin tucked into my apron, I could probably have worked two shifts without needing a break.  That evening, alone now that my dad's gone off to service the trash trucks this city is in short supply of, I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom.  I can't stand the grime.  My dad lives like a pig and it pisses me off.  Gabriel's apartment is so neat and tidy.  I hate sleeping on the fucking couch too.  I've decided, before I even take off my apron, to clean out the tiny storage room by the front door.  I have a sleeping bag, and there's just enough space inside for me to lay down in there.

Cleaning up the apartment takes less time than I would have thought.  The boxes in the storage room are mostly filled with old newspaper and nothing else of value so I toss them out onto the fire escape to kick into some alley behind the building later.  I clean the walls.  I vacuum the rugs.  I wipe down the television, the table, the stove.  I even reorganize the refrigerator so that I can dump chunky milk down the drain and glare at an empty, crusty bottle of mustard.  What the fuck was my dad doing?  There's more beer than anything else.  Drinking his fucking bread is going to kill him.  As much as I want to dump that shit out too, I decide to simply let him be.  He'll come after me if he things I stole his alcohol.  I'd rather not have to kill my Dad if I can help it.

It's late now.  Dark.  There are sounds above me from a couple that fight and fuck as if the two go hand in hand.  Maybe for some people they do.  My mind's on Kitty.  On her hair to be specific.  I image the smell of the long tendrils going up in smoke.  I imagine the look on her face as I cause her neck to blister.  Her eyelashes to dissolve.  Her--  It's over too fast, and I've only just taken hold of myself with an aggressive hand.  I don't use lotion.  I like a little pain.  Friction.  My release here is not so much about pleasure.  I could give a rat's ass about that.  Sighing, I roll over onto my side.  The sting of the open zipper of my jeans pressing into my thigh is good.

I shift my focus to Liz, but I've already determined her hair's not right.  And I don't want to burn her away into nothing.  Buying me some lunch and letting me use her phone aside, she's from where I'm from.  Newark natives unite…or some fucking bullshit like that.  Mom and Dad are off limits to my fantasies as well.

And that leaves Gabriel.

Gabriel can heal himself when I cook his white skin to a deep pink and brown.  In my mind, as I pump myself and grit my teeth, I imagine my fingers running up his spine.  I leave scars as I pass and by the time I get to the last vertebrae of his neck, he's healed.  It doesn't take too long with that imagery to find my release.  I open my eyes and gaze at the mess in my hand.  It disgusts me, as does the sweat my body is covered in.

There's no afterglow after my atypical teenage jerk off.  There's only shame.  So, I simply wipe off my hand on my shirt and go to sleep.

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