[fic] orphan black | Like an Act of War
Title | Like an Act of War
Fandom | Orphan Black
Characters/Pairings | Paul, Sarah, Mark, Helena (Paul/Sarah)
Word Count | 800
Rating | MA (blood and violence)
Author’s Note | Spoilers (kind of) for Certain Agonies of the Battlefield. My desperate attempt at fix-it-fic for the ONE canon pairing I have dared ship in YEARS… *sobs*
He turns his back on Sarah and walks away.
One foot
in front of
the other
like the good little tin soldier he’d never quite managed to become.
She calls to him once, twice…
Paul, she says. Paul.
(He’s learned that it’s easier when he’s not
looking at her
touching her
tasting her on his tongue.)
She sounds nothing like
Beth.
Paul, she says. Paul.
There’s a chill settling
solid
inside the splits in his skin.
Icebergs forming with every thump and thud of his heart as the never-ending heat this hellhole seems built upon rapidly cools.
Spills out and over his fingertips.
Leaves a trail of blood-black-red cookie crumbs in the sand as his feet keep up their rhythm.
(One foot
in front of
oh…
He’s already covered that part.)
He can’t hear her anymore…
We all fall down…
The plan he’d been hastily piecing together since the moment his own knife disappeared deep inside him had been refreshingly straightforward. This much he remembers with a startling kind of clarity…
Unfortunately,
he can’t seem to remember
the plan itself.
He thinks,
absurdly,
that maybe plans are made and kept in spleens.
Or livers.
And his are leaking details like rain
falls from
clouds.
He pauses for a beat, lets his hand fall forward so that he might read the blood pooled,
pooling,
in his palm.
(Paul, he thinks he sees spelled out there. Paul.)
Ah, yes…
He remembers now.
There are
(guns
biological weapons
super soldiers
armored vehicles
IEDs)
grenades.
And though this is not
about him.
And though this has never been
about him.
He thinks he might like a little poetry to end.
He knows he’ll have to time the punch line
just
just
just right.
Too soon and he’ll bring hell down on her head before she’s had time to
run.
Too late and well…
Too late and it’ll all be too late.
Miller is still sprawled to the side of the tunnel up ahead. One eye open, one eye closed.
Both eyes dead.
See you soon soldier, he thinks, slow blinks,
sinks.
(The gruff huff of Rudy’s laugher echoes
echoes
echoes…
Paul, she says. Paul.)
Heavy footfalls rouse him then, which makes no sense.
It’s supposed to be over. Bullets disappeared into his chest and running…
Screaming…
Collapsing…
Gone.
No sense.
No sense.
His hands touch his face and his fingertips are numb and his lips are numb but his teeth are chattering and his eyelids lift and he sees his knees, folded neatly in the dirt.
There are heavy footfalls, they rouse him then.
(Again)
From behind, he hears them coming fast
methodical
deliberate
frantic.
From in front they’re slower,
uneven
shuffling
shuffling
shuffling.
His blood is roaring inside his skull and he thinks this means he must have some left.
Okay then.
Mark appears. He’s leaning heavily on his cane, like he’s been running, and there’s a gun hanging loosely between his thumb and forefinger.
Why are you running, Mark?, he wants to ask.
Are you going to shoot me, Mark?, he wants to know.
I think I killed your brother, Mark, he wants to say.
Words form. He doesn’t hear them spoken aloud.
But Miller is a camouflaged corpse at Mark’s feet and so he guesses it’s all redundant now anyway.
I’m so
(tired
cold
thirsty
lonely
scared)
sorry.
Paul, she says. Paul.
The fast, methodical, deliberate, frantic barrels into him from behind.
His chin hits his chest. The agony that pulses through his torso, a degree of
intense
he can’t begin to fathom.
Her hands are on his shoulders and his arms and his face and his chest.
Her hands are pushing through his hair and bouncing over his lips and dipping low, familiar, pressing against the pulse point on his neck.
Never stop touching me, Sarah, he wants to tell her. Please, please
please…
But he’s hauled upright then. (And his world slides to
yellow
and orange
and the most faded pale blue he’s ever seen.)
His right foot is still trying, he notes. Keeping up some semblance of
functionality.
He’s not sure where his left has gone…
They follow blood-black-red cookie crumbs all the way back to the gate in the stone wall. The bolt he vaguely remembers having locked, little more than bent scrap-metal now, forgotten in the dust alongside the remnants of his own desperate declaration.
(Sarah, he wants to say. Sarah.)
They lower him backwards then, and down,
and down
and down.
Mark and Sarah and Helena and he doesn’t know when that happened or how that happened but Helena’s hands are under his head, and her eyes are looking at his eyes looking at her eyes as the three of them work together to
hold him
carry him
sustain him
save him.
*
Fandom | Orphan Black
Characters/Pairings | Paul, Sarah, Mark, Helena (Paul/Sarah)
Word Count | 800
Rating | MA (blood and violence)
Author’s Note | Spoilers (kind of) for Certain Agonies of the Battlefield. My desperate attempt at fix-it-fic for the ONE canon pairing I have dared ship in YEARS… *sobs*
He turns his back on Sarah and walks away.
One foot
in front of
the other
like the good little tin soldier he’d never quite managed to become.
She calls to him once, twice…
Paul, she says. Paul.
(He’s learned that it’s easier when he’s not
looking at her
touching her
tasting her on his tongue.)
She sounds nothing like
Beth.
Paul, she says. Paul.
There’s a chill settling
solid
inside the splits in his skin.
Icebergs forming with every thump and thud of his heart as the never-ending heat this hellhole seems built upon rapidly cools.
Spills out and over his fingertips.
Leaves a trail of blood-black-red cookie crumbs in the sand as his feet keep up their rhythm.
(One foot
in front of
oh…
He’s already covered that part.)
He can’t hear her anymore…
We all fall down…
The plan he’d been hastily piecing together since the moment his own knife disappeared deep inside him had been refreshingly straightforward. This much he remembers with a startling kind of clarity…
Unfortunately,
he can’t seem to remember
the plan itself.
He thinks,
absurdly,
that maybe plans are made and kept in spleens.
Or livers.
And his are leaking details like rain
falls from
clouds.
He pauses for a beat, lets his hand fall forward so that he might read the blood pooled,
pooling,
in his palm.
(Paul, he thinks he sees spelled out there. Paul.)
Ah, yes…
He remembers now.
There are
(guns
biological weapons
super soldiers
armored vehicles
IEDs)
grenades.
And though this is not
about him.
And though this has never been
about him.
He thinks he might like a little poetry to end.
He knows he’ll have to time the punch line
just
just
just right.
Too soon and he’ll bring hell down on her head before she’s had time to
run.
Too late and well…
Too late and it’ll all be too late.
Miller is still sprawled to the side of the tunnel up ahead. One eye open, one eye closed.
Both eyes dead.
See you soon soldier, he thinks, slow blinks,
sinks.
(The gruff huff of Rudy’s laugher echoes
echoes
echoes…
Paul, she says. Paul.)
Heavy footfalls rouse him then, which makes no sense.
It’s supposed to be over. Bullets disappeared into his chest and running…
Screaming…
Collapsing…
Gone.
No sense.
No sense.
His hands touch his face and his fingertips are numb and his lips are numb but his teeth are chattering and his eyelids lift and he sees his knees, folded neatly in the dirt.
There are heavy footfalls, they rouse him then.
(Again)
From behind, he hears them coming fast
methodical
deliberate
frantic.
From in front they’re slower,
uneven
shuffling
shuffling
shuffling.
His blood is roaring inside his skull and he thinks this means he must have some left.
Okay then.
Mark appears. He’s leaning heavily on his cane, like he’s been running, and there’s a gun hanging loosely between his thumb and forefinger.
Why are you running, Mark?, he wants to ask.
Are you going to shoot me, Mark?, he wants to know.
I think I killed your brother, Mark, he wants to say.
Words form. He doesn’t hear them spoken aloud.
But Miller is a camouflaged corpse at Mark’s feet and so he guesses it’s all redundant now anyway.
I’m so
(tired
cold
thirsty
lonely
scared)
sorry.
Paul, she says. Paul.
The fast, methodical, deliberate, frantic barrels into him from behind.
His chin hits his chest. The agony that pulses through his torso, a degree of
intense
he can’t begin to fathom.
Her hands are on his shoulders and his arms and his face and his chest.
Her hands are pushing through his hair and bouncing over his lips and dipping low, familiar, pressing against the pulse point on his neck.
Never stop touching me, Sarah, he wants to tell her. Please, please
please…
But he’s hauled upright then. (And his world slides to
yellow
and orange
and the most faded pale blue he’s ever seen.)
His right foot is still trying, he notes. Keeping up some semblance of
functionality.
He’s not sure where his left has gone…
They follow blood-black-red cookie crumbs all the way back to the gate in the stone wall. The bolt he vaguely remembers having locked, little more than bent scrap-metal now, forgotten in the dust alongside the remnants of his own desperate declaration.
(Sarah, he wants to say. Sarah.)
They lower him backwards then, and down,
and down
and down.
Mark and Sarah and Helena and he doesn’t know when that happened or how that happened but Helena’s hands are under his head, and her eyes are looking at his eyes looking at her eyes as the three of them work together to
hold him
carry him
sustain him
save him.
*