[fic] The Nature of the Beast
for bf_nightingale: what was supposed to be "strange johan/runge not-quite-UST", but turned out to be more about runge's obsessive detective ways than anything else.
The Nature of the Beast
In the end it is always about justice. But he would be lying if he said that he did not enjoy the hunt, as well; and Heinrich Runge is too precise a man to lie.
i. genesis
It is not that Runge believes places retain the imprint of what they see. He knows it, from simple observation. Or, at least, he knew it until he entered the room which once housed Johan Liebert. Runge has never known a quarry so insubstantial, and it frustrates him as much as it intrigues -- he is chasing a name from a child's picture book, a name that echoes around Europe without a source to be found.
But here in the Red Rose Mansion, old paradigms reassert themselves: the house is heavy with its past, memories whispering in every floorboard's creak, and Runge knows there is no criminal which cannot be caught. He breaks down the wall, breaks the boards across the windows, lets the light in on a house that has slept with its secret for years. The woman from the sketchbook gazes out at the room, more sad than serene.
He was given a photograph; he remembers the face in it. That piece of data, at least, he did not need to move his fingers to record.
ii. psalms
If Runge were the sort of man to dream (he does not think that he is, but acknowledges that the possibility exists) then this would be a dream he has had:
He stares at his hands, which are not moving. He says: "I am Johan. I am Johan Liebert. I do not exist, and yet..."
And while there are no mirrors in this dream, because Runge is not a theatrical man, he will look up and see Johan staring back at him, close enough for Runge to detect a faint fragrance. Face powder, perhaps, or faded cologne. (A sign that he is human. Demons would not leave a scent.)
Johan smiles. It is not a grin; Runge can tell the difference. Johan smiles, beatific and cruel, and says, "I'm afraid you're wrong, Inspector. You could never be Johan Liebert."
Because this is a dream -- among other reasons -- Runge does not think to move away, and Johan is too close for Runge to do anything but meet his gaze. Johan's eyes are cold and amused and, though Runge notices this only absently, a clear and terrible blue. All methods have their limitations. Becoming the criminal is not always the same as understanding him. With some surprise Runge notes the slow rise of fear within himself, the deeper stirrings of an unnameable hunger as he thinks So this is Johan--
And wakes up. Assuming, of course, that Runge is the sort of man who dreams.
iii. lamentations
Blood in his mouth and a gun in his hand and eager fingers around his throat -- Runge reaches into the unpleasant sliminess of Roberto's wound, digs in with his fingers, hard, and all he can think is that he can't die here, not yet, not without meeting the monster behind this all. A gun in his hand, the gun jammed between Roberto's teeth, but the face he sees in his head is not Roberto's, not at all. Calculations? Oh, he's made his own. But Johan will be the final proof, the end to this equation.
iv. revelation
When Runge finally meets Johan it is in a police helicopter, both of them on stretchers and only one of them conscious. Not the meeting that Runge had hoped for, but better than the alternatives.
"Will he live?" Runge asks. Or perhaps Johan is already dead, in a sense. The young man in the stretcher is helplessly mortal, having oxygen pumped into his lungs; just a body after all, flesh and blood as any other. Runge feels almost disappointed. There is something exhuasting about the anticlimax of the unmoving body next to him, the banal way that the police officers make vague grim noises and speak of a brain surgeon.
(Yet if he were to wake-- if Runge could look into those eyes and understand--)
"There's one here," Runge says. "Go and get him.''
-end-
The Nature of the Beast
In the end it is always about justice. But he would be lying if he said that he did not enjoy the hunt, as well; and Heinrich Runge is too precise a man to lie.
i. genesis
It is not that Runge believes places retain the imprint of what they see. He knows it, from simple observation. Or, at least, he knew it until he entered the room which once housed Johan Liebert. Runge has never known a quarry so insubstantial, and it frustrates him as much as it intrigues -- he is chasing a name from a child's picture book, a name that echoes around Europe without a source to be found.
But here in the Red Rose Mansion, old paradigms reassert themselves: the house is heavy with its past, memories whispering in every floorboard's creak, and Runge knows there is no criminal which cannot be caught. He breaks down the wall, breaks the boards across the windows, lets the light in on a house that has slept with its secret for years. The woman from the sketchbook gazes out at the room, more sad than serene.
He was given a photograph; he remembers the face in it. That piece of data, at least, he did not need to move his fingers to record.
ii. psalms
If Runge were the sort of man to dream (he does not think that he is, but acknowledges that the possibility exists) then this would be a dream he has had:
He stares at his hands, which are not moving. He says: "I am Johan. I am Johan Liebert. I do not exist, and yet..."
And while there are no mirrors in this dream, because Runge is not a theatrical man, he will look up and see Johan staring back at him, close enough for Runge to detect a faint fragrance. Face powder, perhaps, or faded cologne. (A sign that he is human. Demons would not leave a scent.)
Johan smiles. It is not a grin; Runge can tell the difference. Johan smiles, beatific and cruel, and says, "I'm afraid you're wrong, Inspector. You could never be Johan Liebert."
Because this is a dream -- among other reasons -- Runge does not think to move away, and Johan is too close for Runge to do anything but meet his gaze. Johan's eyes are cold and amused and, though Runge notices this only absently, a clear and terrible blue. All methods have their limitations. Becoming the criminal is not always the same as understanding him. With some surprise Runge notes the slow rise of fear within himself, the deeper stirrings of an unnameable hunger as he thinks So this is Johan--
And wakes up. Assuming, of course, that Runge is the sort of man who dreams.
iii. lamentations
Blood in his mouth and a gun in his hand and eager fingers around his throat -- Runge reaches into the unpleasant sliminess of Roberto's wound, digs in with his fingers, hard, and all he can think is that he can't die here, not yet, not without meeting the monster behind this all. A gun in his hand, the gun jammed between Roberto's teeth, but the face he sees in his head is not Roberto's, not at all. Calculations? Oh, he's made his own. But Johan will be the final proof, the end to this equation.
iv. revelation
When Runge finally meets Johan it is in a police helicopter, both of them on stretchers and only one of them conscious. Not the meeting that Runge had hoped for, but better than the alternatives.
"Will he live?" Runge asks. Or perhaps Johan is already dead, in a sense. The young man in the stretcher is helplessly mortal, having oxygen pumped into his lungs; just a body after all, flesh and blood as any other. Runge feels almost disappointed. There is something exhuasting about the anticlimax of the unmoving body next to him, the banal way that the police officers make vague grim noises and speak of a brain surgeon.
(Yet if he were to wake-- if Runge could look into those eyes and understand--)
"There's one here," Runge says. "Go and get him.''
-end-