Sweet Nothing
by vega
RATING: PG-13 for a rather dark theme.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. And I rather doubt if the Cliché Mill would come up with something twisted as this.
CATEGORY: Emma. Jesse. Darkfic (You've been warned!). What could come to pass.
SUMMARY: Through the glass darkly. "You're not Emma," he says. "But I am," she smiles.
STATUE: Complete.
NOTE: I'm officially certifiable, writing a quintessential darkfic on a beautiful Friday night instead of going out. Dedicated to my sweet Jessica, and Villanelle, who deserves many thanks, although I doubt if any of them wants to be blamed for this.
***
She kisses his bruised lips, playful and tantalizing.
As expected, he flinches slightly, turning away just to avoid her touch. "You're not Emma," he says softly, his voice not trembling like it should be, but softly, and with all the finality. She can read his pain behind it, tangible and real and sweet. Sweet.
His pain is sweeter than any pleasure she's felt in a long time. She smiles.
Filled with childish levity, she pulls away from his lap and stands up. She walks around the suffocating gray room as if she's taking a walk in a park with evergreen and willow trees. "But I am," she grins, her steps dancing flip-flops. "You know that, Jesse. Don't forget, I can read minds."
He says nothing, his eyes on a particular spot on the wall beyond her shoulders. Ah, so today's the silence treatment day. She wonders how long he can last this time.
She grabs a chair from the corner and drags it so she can sit in front of him. She watches his blue eyes that do not see hers, his long, frail eyelashes, the all-so-breakable hold he's imposed on himself that she is eager to break. She tilts her head, her arm propped on the back of the chair shoulder. His eyes are still on the particular spot on the wall. She waits.
His hair is getting a little too long, she notes. It doesn't meet her favorite image of Jesse, so that's got to go. The stubble, too, should be taken care of soon. She wants to kiss his lips again, to get a reaction out of him, but she thinks she may like it too much. She should really reserve it for the next time. Things are always better used sparingly. She's a smart girl to know that much.
His mind is whirling and whirling, yet he's still dead-determined to ignore her. His beautiful eyes are frozen, and she wants to go and paint over the spot on the wall he's staring at, just to see him losing his focus, just for fun. Maybe she should save that for the next time. He'll be hurt. She'll be delighted.
She notices, slowly, his jaw clenching tightly and his shoulders turning stiff. The staring-fest is slowly having a toll on him, especially when he must be tired and hurting beyond words. It's about time.
She turns around, intentionally breaking his willed concentration and forcing confusion and fear into his mind. She grabs her jacket strewn on the floor and takes out a few specks of bright red from the pocket.
"Strawberries?" she offers with her best generous expression. "I know you like them."
His expression breaks, just a little, but not because of the fruit. He's remembering the Emma-Before, as he's termed in his mind, when she used to be sweet and generous and loved, used to wear the exact same smile. When his blank expression comes back again, he's trying so hard to push away the image. He can't.
She smiles again. "Oh, don't be such a spoilsport, Jesse. You need keep up you strength if you want to attempt that poorly planned escapade again. Although, the last one was pretty close--you almost made out to the front gate. A good thing I expected nothing less from you."
He is getting fairly good at it, and would have made it if she didn't sense him in time. He actually broke through the energy barriers surrounding the room this time, getting almost fried on the way but never stopping to breathe again. It's admirable, she admits, but still has posed a bit of a dilemma for the guards. Hence the metal bends now binding his raw wrists that stop him from phasing or massing. He doesn't get to leave the chair he's sitting on unless he really starts to behave. Which she doesn't think will happen any time soon, this being Jesse and all.
"If you want my advice," she begins after clearly reading that he wants nothing such from her at this point, biting through one of the plumper strawberries, "next time, don't try to get Adam, too. He slows you down too much. You might have a shot by yourself. And, oh, do give it a rest for a couple of weeks. Gabriel's all cranky, and you don't want him cranky. Just look at what he's done to you. Poor Jesse."
She reaches for his cheek. Against his pale skin, the purple and blue bruises don't look flattering, but they do make him look ever more vulnerable, and somehow, tantalizing.
His eyes meet hers briefly, and he turns away. She can almost feel his sharp pain that goes through him as her hand touches his cheek. She loves this moment.
And it's easier to read him like this. "Oh, you can't possibly think that again," she frets, "I'm not your precious Shalimar. Gabriel needs to go a long way before he can control my mind. He might've become stronger after coming back from his last alleged death, but, as you know, men get stupider as they get stronger, the inverse ratio in its truest form. And there's nothing like an insane psychopath for predictability."
So it's more like an imposed partnership for the sake of convenience than anything else. And as far as a conversation partner goes, Gabriel Ashlocke and his egotistical parade is a failing grade. She likes her near one-way conversation with Jesse much better.
And this is definitely more fun than Adam and his self-centered guilt, Brennan and his idiotic rage. With Adam, it's all about, 'Oh, I'm sorry I've let this to happen to you, it's my fault' blah, blah, blah. He sincerely believes it's all his doing. Jesus, you'd think the sun rises and sets all because of him. With Brennan, it's all about 'How can you do this to us, Emma?' rage that is getting ever so over-the-top. The logical leap for him is that while he's so certain she is not his Emma that she once was, he's still on about 'How can *you* do this to *us*' crap. They're all terribly boring, terribly predictable. They're such a bore that she has to find her fun elsewhere.
Which is one of the reasons she can't help becoming so chatty around Jesse.
"Oh, Adam's all right, by the way. Gabriel didn't get too cranky on him. He's actually the one who designed your shackle thing."
The last bit of information, as expected, turns his blue eyes to hers. She likes the feel of his eyes on her. It's tingly sensation, and it's better than most of the sensations she feels through anyone else lately. Fear and hatred can be so predictably boring sometimes.
One more bite into the strawberry, and she's ready to answer his unasked questions. "He wasn't going to make it for us, but it was either that, or you dead. And obviously Adam didn't want you dead. Kinda touching, when you think that he was ready to get you and me killed instead of Brennan and Shal before."
"That's not true," the words slips from his lips before he can stop himself.
Oh, the naivety. She's rather jealous of his willful blindness when it comes to human darkness. She wants him to see it, force the chockfull of truth into his resisting mind that's so rigidly set on believing Adam and all the goodness that they represent. She wants his mind to be stained, as darkly as hers has become.
On the other hand, it is his this side that she finds so tempting, what makes her keep him alive.
He looks so disappointed that he's fallen for this again, and she smiles. "Of course it is, Jesse. Adam made his choice pretty clear. He couldn't let his adoring two kids die so he let the other two killed. Disappointing, isn't it? You and I both thought we were his favorites. But we really were dispensable puppets."
"You can't hold that against him, you know that." When he does decide to speak to her, his voice is soft as if explaining, as if it is impossible for him to rash at her, as if no matter what he tells himself, the Emma-Before and the Emma-Now are one and the same for him. And that is indeed very interesting. "Ashlocke forced him. What other choices did he have?"
She reaches for another strawberry. The last one was a bit on the sour side. "Well, for one, he could always have killed himself instead of condemning us to death. Or two, at least *try* to kill Gabriel before giving us up so fast."
He bites his lower lip so hard that she imagines blood bleeding out from it. "That would've been suicide."
"Which obviously Adam wasn't ready for, although he was forcing the same thing to you and me. A bit unfair, isn't it? I was terribly disillusioned, but of course that doesn't excuse my 'behavior', according to Brennan."
Another trap, and there he is, his eyes on hers, his lips parting, asking a question that he does not want to ask. He has to know about his friends. Of course he does.
So she gives him a few drops of water in the time of drought, "Well, sometimes we do let him get off from the control. He was kinda miffed about that, actually. He'd rather be under control all the time, so he won't be responsible for all the things he's doing for us." That is how people are like. They don't want to be responsible for their actions, whatever they might be. The dissonance doesn't matter to them, the dissonance of what they think and what they say. It doesn't matter as long as they don't have to feel responsible. She finds them disgusting. She finds everyone in the world disgusting. Too much so that she is eager to see it to its ruins.
It used to be different. The world used to be worth saving just because of the people she cared about. She used to love Shal and the sunshine she bestowed upon the team. She used to adore Brennan, whose energy so easily swept her in with its casualness. With Adam, it was all about respect and admiration, and it turned out he didn't deserve to receive any of them. She no longer wastes her hatred on them. It's impossible to hate people you absolutely don't care about.
Which is why she does not fail to visit Jesse. She can safely hate him, because he never asked anything from her, and still believes that she can come back, after all this, that she can be saved again.
She can read Jesse's relief that Brennan is still alive, at the same time wondering, rather despairingly, whatever they're doing using their powers.
"And Shal?" he asks, despite himself letting escape his ever-present hope.
Like taking a candy from a child, she feels the want to crush it every time. "Do you honestly think Gabriel would let her get away from his control for a second? Shal is his trophy. You saw her the last time."
Shal raging against Jesse, under Gabriel's control and golden-eyed mad that Jesse would even dare to try escaping the compound. Jesse looked so utterly destroyed that it could've broken her heart if she had any left.
He looks just about the same right now. She consoles him, "Aw, don't be so sad. Everyone has the seed of evil in them, just ready to blossom. That includes our dear Brennan and Shal. Gabriel and I, well, we're just bringing out from them, is all."
He's looking paler than before, which she likes. His hands are slightly trembling, but it's the effect of the bind. When she invades his mind, he's unwittingly asking it again.
Why is he still alive?
The question is easy to answer.
Because she needs one set of eyes that still recognize her for what she is.
"Jesse, what's the fun conquering the world without an audience to appreciate it?"
He shuts his eyes briefly. "Is that what you and Ashlocke think you're doing?"
She shrugs. "Gabriel thinks he's conquering. I'd like to think I'm destroying."
He is having hard time breathing. "Because of us."
She stands up, suddenly happy that he's finally getting it. "Well, I'm glad you remember now. Bren and Shal never noticed, but you and Adam saw what I was capable of. I've been tinkering with your minds long before the fallout, so you sort of forgot, but."
His eyes are open again. His blue eyes straight into hers, and they do not waver. This is a little surprising.
"Emma," he says, using her name for the first time since the captivity began. "You didn't have to. No matter how strong your powers were becoming, you were still our friend."
He really means what he's saying. Of course he does. He really is terribly sweet. She can laugh. She can scream. She can definitely scream.
"Then why didn't you stop me?" she asks, her voice low, and she can feel burning rage rushing through her veins.
"What?" he blinks in confusion.
"You guys were supposed to stop me. You couldn't even do that. You guys failed. Failed me."
"I'm sorry." Another pain, another pain he feels for her. It's sweet, temptingly sweet, and she feels better again. Anger disappears, and she smiles.
"Don't be sorry. Anyhow, it's a little too late, isn't it?"
He looks away for a second. He whispers, "Yes, it is."
Something's off, she feels instantly. The aura about him has changed, and--
In a second, he's off from the chair, one of the metal bends broken along with his bloody wrist, and he phases out from the other half in a rapid speed one can't imagine he is capable of from the pain he's feeling.
The next moment he's onto her, one hand around her neck. His legs are collapsing, bringing her down with him.
"Call them off," he breathes, his hand tightening around her neck, "Get them off from your control. I know you can."
She reaches her hand up to cup his face, amused. "Jesse, oh, Jesse. If I say no, will you be killing me today?"
His startled blue eyes are staring down at her, painfully breathing hard.
"Go ahead, then," she urges him, half-smiling. "Go ahead and kill me. Shouldn't be so hard. Think of all the people I killed. Just a little pressure into your hand, and I'm finished."
His hand is still.
"Go ahead, Jesse. Quick, the guards might have heard you already."
His hand is still immobile. She watches while realization dawns on his face. He can't kill her. It is not about want, or need, or what must be done. He can't. She knows it better than anyone in the world.
He smells of sweat and blood. She thinks she sees pristine tears welling up in his eyes. She wonders what they taste like.
Slowly, his hand falls and he crumbles.
She sits up, a few feet across him. "Well," she announces, brushing off the dust on her skirt, "if that wasn't a gigantic waste of time."
"Emma," he calls out softly again, still crumbled into pieces, his eyes far away. "Will you perform without the audience?"
For the first time in a long time, she's confused. She doesn't understand. She stares back at his broken profile, no answer ready.
"I don't think so either." He smiles, almost sadly, almost triumphantly.
She realizes then what he's about to do. His hand reaches toward his chest, his heart, and she's suddenly struck by fear that she hasn't felt for herself. She hits him with the psionic blast, just fast enough to stop him. He collapses again.
The guards rush into the cell, a little belatedly in her opinion, and she stands up angrily. She should've known he would try something like this. Of course he would. A little unpredictability is something she loves about Jesse, but she doesn't like this at all. At all.
"Sorry, ma'am. We weren't sure if you wanted to be interrupted," one of the guards apologizes, while the others get to Jesse, and she's bored by the frozen fright they radiate. She wants to keep up with her anger.
"Fix this," she orders. They move accordingly.
She paces the room while she listens to the sounds of human flesh meeting blunt objects, the sickening cracks of bones breaking.
"You failed me again, Jesse. You were supposed to kill *me*. You couldn't even get that straight."
The guards keep at it, and she paces again.
"If you go, they *all* go, do you hear me, Jesse? I'll kill Shal and Adam. I'll kill them all."
There is no hint of his comprehension. His mind is like a bucket with a hundred different paints mixed in. She snaps her fingers and calls off the guards.
Just the two of them left, the silence sweeps into the grayness.
He's crumbled at the corner, his body still in the fetal position.
She walks across the room, to him. She sinks down at his side. She wants to see his eyes, but they are tightly shut. He looks terrible.
She likes the anger she feels, the fear she has felt at almost losing him, and the pain. The pain above all. She almost confuses it with his, but it is hers. Her own pain.
It makes her feel alive.
"Don't leave," she whispers to his hair that is sticky with sweat. His skin is hot, burning up with fever. "I'll be terribly disappointed without you."
She can see it. He wants to die, he wants to die instead of seeing her like this, seeing all of his friends suffer. Yet he can't. He can't leave them.
He can't leave her, either. Not like this.
Something bubbles in her heart. She might even be happy.
"Jesse, Jesse, you're so sweet. You always were." And it's as if she can't have enough of him, this tantalizing sweetness.
She kisses his bruised lips, hurts him. She can taste salty tears, of his sweet pain.
"Emma?" he murmurs, his eyes fluttering open.
"Yes," she smiles, finally, "it's me."
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