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mmexlibris) wrote2010-10-07 01:17 pm
mmexlibris) wrote2010-10-07 01:17 pm
[meme fic] Alex/Gene : Helpless
From yesterday's DE.
Prompt from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fightingthecage :
† Alex/Gene: Fury.
He makes it seem so effortless, the way he snatches them up by the collar and smashes his forehead into the bridge of their nose. He hefts them by nape and belt and flings them against the side of the Quattro like they weigh nothing. He uses his fists to smash and smash and smash until their faces look like hamburger, and his knuckles are cut to ribbons.
And even as she cringes at the brutality, she envies him that unrefined rage, that brilliant savagery.
She dreams, twisting and turning, tangled in her sheets, and she can't lash out at that bullet, slowly spiralling through the air towards her. She can't throw punches at the never ending loop of film, that same fireball blossoming slowly, unfurling towards the sky. She can't even see the enemy, the force that took her away from her daughter, much less grab it by the lapels and slam it up against the lockers, or push it face first down into the bog.
She only has her mind. Her memories, her rational powers of analysis, her reason. She only has her heart and her will to carry her through this ordeal. And every time she watches him sweep across the chequerboard floor, every time she watches him settle into his usual table, every time he looks at her...
Her fury falters, diminished. She feels the ashes of her memories sift through her fingertips, scattered to the winds.
Whose birthday was it today?
Prompt from
fightingthecage : † Alex/Gene: Fury.
He makes it seem so effortless, the way he snatches them up by the collar and smashes his forehead into the bridge of their nose. He hefts them by nape and belt and flings them against the side of the Quattro like they weigh nothing. He uses his fists to smash and smash and smash until their faces look like hamburger, and his knuckles are cut to ribbons.
And even as she cringes at the brutality, she envies him that unrefined rage, that brilliant savagery.
She dreams, twisting and turning, tangled in her sheets, and she can't lash out at that bullet, slowly spiralling through the air towards her. She can't throw punches at the never ending loop of film, that same fireball blossoming slowly, unfurling towards the sky. She can't even see the enemy, the force that took her away from her daughter, much less grab it by the lapels and slam it up against the lockers, or push it face first down into the bog.
She only has her mind. Her memories, her rational powers of analysis, her reason. She only has her heart and her will to carry her through this ordeal. And every time she watches him sweep across the chequerboard floor, every time she watches him settle into his usual table, every time he looks at her...
Her fury falters, diminished. She feels the ashes of her memories sift through her fingertips, scattered to the winds.
Whose birthday was it today?