Hammer
Hammer
sydneyalexis
Summary: Originally posted to qaf_challenges's 'what if' challenge. I chose to answer my own plot bunny - what would have happened if Justin had actually pulled the trigger. Minor character death.
A/Ns: Made a few minor changes to this one since its last posting. Shout out to shadownyc for the beta and tigbit for calling me on my red light/green light writing.
Rapid pulse beating in his ears, eyes narrowed at his prey, he held the handle steady and glared at the boy who had tried to take everything from him.
He didn't hear Cody egging him on nor the train whizz past. He didn't hear the car engine revving to life up the street nor the dog barking on the corner lot.
Time seemed to slow.
Hobbs' face blurred until all that was left was the hammering of his heart, a frantic scream, and the whirl of a baseball bat.
Justin squeezed shut his eyes shut and pulled back on the trigger.
A heartbeat, maybe two passed. Sound returned to him as the gunshot -- so much louder than it seemed before -- echoed off into the distance.
Something warm spattered across his face, and he had but a moment to label it as blood before the body before him pitched forward onto the pavement with a dull thud.
A tugging on his sleeve caught his attention and Justin turned, gun leveling at the unknown entity. Cody's eyes went wide, hands flying up in a sign of surrender.
A second passed and then another, Justin lowered the gun and shook his head, to ease off the stupor he'd found himself in.
"Come on, man," Cody hissed, "we've got to get out of here."
...
They ran up the street and climbed into Cody's rusted and bondoed car. With a sputter, the engine turned over and Cody, still panting from excitement, eased the car out into the street.
The two drove for a mile and some change in the silence, Cody grinning like a fool and Justin shivering at both Cody's reaction and what he'd done.
Finally, at a stop light, Cody turned in his seat, pulled a rag from the back seat, and tossed it at Justin.
"Wipe off the prints."
Shaking hands took up the cloth and complied.
...
The bridge was off by itself, tucked into a darkened neighborhood. The type of place with whores on every street corner and all-night grocery stores with backroom businesses. No one asked questions and no one ever saw anything.
A splash of water and the reflective metal of the gun disappeared forever.
...
Justin keyed himself into the loft, walked past Brian without a word, shucked off all his clothes, turned the shower on full blast, and sank to the base, fighting the bile that rose in his throat.
Flecks of oxidized blood lifted from his skin, mixed with the water, and swirled down the drain.
He was in too much shock to cry, but, even if he wasn't, there weren't tears enough for what he'd become.
A murderer.
...
The shadows lengthened. Time -- far too much time -- passed. Growing concerned, Brian stubbed out his cigarette and silently made his way to the bathroom.
Justin was still there, at the base of the shower, staring off into space. Slowly, oh so slowly, Brian's gaze went from his partner to the pile of blood splattered clothing haphazardly strewn on the floor.
He released a ragged breath as the implications of what must have happened seeped in.
Dragging a hand through his hair, Brian gathered up the clothing, walked into the basement's incinerator, and burned every article of clothing from the khaki pants to that vile pink shirt.
...
When Justin finally climbed out of the shower and crawled into bed, Brian was waiting. Their fucking was fast, desperate. In the stillness that followed, Justin realized that his clothes hadn't been where he'd left them.
He knew better than to question it.
...
Justin frantically searched the paper the next morning for any mention of what had happened.
It wasn't on the front page in some screaming headline as he'd expected but buried on page six beneath an ad for a gardening center. He fought back a hysterical laugh at the idea that, even on paper, Hobbs was pushing up flowers.
A warm hand closed on the nape of his neck, making him jump in surprise. Brian's other hand reached out and plucked the paper from Justin's.
Closing his eyes tightly, Justin lowered his head, totally unwilling to meet Brian's stare.
The rustle of paper, a sharp intake of breath, and then an uneasy silence filled the loft the space broken only by ragged breathing.
Heart hammering in his ears, Justin waited -- for judgment, for condemnation, to be turned away.
Slowly, the hand still on the nape of his neck tighten for a fraction of a second before it skimmed across his skin to his cheek. The movement made Justin open his eyes and meet Brian's.
"You were here all night," Brian said in a soft voice that brokered no argument. Buried just beneath it was the true message -- I can't lose you. Not to him. Not again.
Closing his eyes, Justin released a shaky breath and nodded.
...
Horvath came that afternoon. Face twisted into a grim expression, he questioned them both as part of standard protocol. They both offered the same story; they'd eaten in, fucked, and went to bed. Brian blithely offered to go into a detailed description of positions.
To his credit, Carl didn't bat an eye.
Maybe Deb was good for him after all.
...
The third morning after it happened, Hobbs' murder made the front page, but not for that crime itself. This time, it was a rehashing of the events after prom, but, unlike last time, Hobbs was actually vilified.
Deb loudly proclaimed that it was 'about fucking time people realized what he did to Sunshine.'
From his booth in the corner, Justin sat up noticeably paled.
Hobbs might have taken his last bit of innocence, but he had taken Hobbs' life. While Justin had been able to go to physical therapy and remake a life for himself, Hobbs had ceased to exist the moment that the bullet left the barrel.
That night, when Justin slept, he dreamt of the parking garage, but, this time, it was him swinging the bat.
sydneyalexis
Summary: Originally posted to qaf_challenges's 'what if' challenge. I chose to answer my own plot bunny - what would have happened if Justin had actually pulled the trigger. Minor character death.
A/Ns: Made a few minor changes to this one since its last posting. Shout out to shadownyc for the beta and tigbit for calling me on my red light/green light writing.
Rapid pulse beating in his ears, eyes narrowed at his prey, he held the handle steady and glared at the boy who had tried to take everything from him.
He didn't hear Cody egging him on nor the train whizz past. He didn't hear the car engine revving to life up the street nor the dog barking on the corner lot.
Time seemed to slow.
Hobbs' face blurred until all that was left was the hammering of his heart, a frantic scream, and the whirl of a baseball bat.
Justin squeezed shut his eyes shut and pulled back on the trigger.
A heartbeat, maybe two passed. Sound returned to him as the gunshot -- so much louder than it seemed before -- echoed off into the distance.
Something warm spattered across his face, and he had but a moment to label it as blood before the body before him pitched forward onto the pavement with a dull thud.
A tugging on his sleeve caught his attention and Justin turned, gun leveling at the unknown entity. Cody's eyes went wide, hands flying up in a sign of surrender.
A second passed and then another, Justin lowered the gun and shook his head, to ease off the stupor he'd found himself in.
"Come on, man," Cody hissed, "we've got to get out of here."
...
They ran up the street and climbed into Cody's rusted and bondoed car. With a sputter, the engine turned over and Cody, still panting from excitement, eased the car out into the street.
The two drove for a mile and some change in the silence, Cody grinning like a fool and Justin shivering at both Cody's reaction and what he'd done.
Finally, at a stop light, Cody turned in his seat, pulled a rag from the back seat, and tossed it at Justin.
"Wipe off the prints."
Shaking hands took up the cloth and complied.
...
The bridge was off by itself, tucked into a darkened neighborhood. The type of place with whores on every street corner and all-night grocery stores with backroom businesses. No one asked questions and no one ever saw anything.
A splash of water and the reflective metal of the gun disappeared forever.
...
Justin keyed himself into the loft, walked past Brian without a word, shucked off all his clothes, turned the shower on full blast, and sank to the base, fighting the bile that rose in his throat.
Flecks of oxidized blood lifted from his skin, mixed with the water, and swirled down the drain.
He was in too much shock to cry, but, even if he wasn't, there weren't tears enough for what he'd become.
A murderer.
...
The shadows lengthened. Time -- far too much time -- passed. Growing concerned, Brian stubbed out his cigarette and silently made his way to the bathroom.
Justin was still there, at the base of the shower, staring off into space. Slowly, oh so slowly, Brian's gaze went from his partner to the pile of blood splattered clothing haphazardly strewn on the floor.
He released a ragged breath as the implications of what must have happened seeped in.
Dragging a hand through his hair, Brian gathered up the clothing, walked into the basement's incinerator, and burned every article of clothing from the khaki pants to that vile pink shirt.
...
When Justin finally climbed out of the shower and crawled into bed, Brian was waiting. Their fucking was fast, desperate. In the stillness that followed, Justin realized that his clothes hadn't been where he'd left them.
He knew better than to question it.
...
Justin frantically searched the paper the next morning for any mention of what had happened.
It wasn't on the front page in some screaming headline as he'd expected but buried on page six beneath an ad for a gardening center. He fought back a hysterical laugh at the idea that, even on paper, Hobbs was pushing up flowers.
A warm hand closed on the nape of his neck, making him jump in surprise. Brian's other hand reached out and plucked the paper from Justin's.
Closing his eyes tightly, Justin lowered his head, totally unwilling to meet Brian's stare.
The rustle of paper, a sharp intake of breath, and then an uneasy silence filled the loft the space broken only by ragged breathing.
Heart hammering in his ears, Justin waited -- for judgment, for condemnation, to be turned away.
Slowly, the hand still on the nape of his neck tighten for a fraction of a second before it skimmed across his skin to his cheek. The movement made Justin open his eyes and meet Brian's.
"You were here all night," Brian said in a soft voice that brokered no argument. Buried just beneath it was the true message -- I can't lose you. Not to him. Not again.
Closing his eyes, Justin released a shaky breath and nodded.
...
Horvath came that afternoon. Face twisted into a grim expression, he questioned them both as part of standard protocol. They both offered the same story; they'd eaten in, fucked, and went to bed. Brian blithely offered to go into a detailed description of positions.
To his credit, Carl didn't bat an eye.
Maybe Deb was good for him after all.
...
The third morning after it happened, Hobbs' murder made the front page, but not for that crime itself. This time, it was a rehashing of the events after prom, but, unlike last time, Hobbs was actually vilified.
Deb loudly proclaimed that it was 'about fucking time people realized what he did to Sunshine.'
From his booth in the corner, Justin sat up noticeably paled.
Hobbs might have taken his last bit of innocence, but he had taken Hobbs' life. While Justin had been able to go to physical therapy and remake a life for himself, Hobbs had ceased to exist the moment that the bullet left the barrel.
That night, when Justin slept, he dreamt of the parking garage, but, this time, it was him swinging the bat.