Written for my-friend-the-frog as a sequel to The Pact. Chapter one as a little belated birthday gift, with even worse to come!
CONTAINS MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, NON-CON OF SEVERAL KINDS, GORE, VIOLENCE AND HURT WITHOUT COMFORT. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
It’s getting worse with every passing day, and you hate it. You hate it. There’s an itch under your skin and you scratch until you bleed but it’s never enough.
When you first brought Jane back, all bloody and broken and cradled in your arms but alive, you were so elated that nothing else seemed to matter, just her and the smiles from John and Jade when they welcomed you both home. They were too happy to ask questions, to stop and think, and for a while you thought everything would be fine, that you’d won and Dirk Strider could go fuck himself on a crucifix now that you had no more need for his help.
Optimism is such a fleeting respite in your line of work.
It was about a week, before you caught John looking at you differently. He thought you were distracted and he was staring, eyes narrowed and mouth pulled in a tight frown. I was just thinking, he’d answered dismissively when you asked, and you’d laughed it off with weak smile, but you knew.
That night Dirk appeared on the stool beside you with your favourite drink in his hand, and you took it, and downed it, and basked in self loathing when he scratched your back across the wall of the alley outside and left dark bites and bruises across your shoulders. You told the others you’d been in a bit of a scuffle, when you limped home the next day. They wanted to tend to your wounds but you saw them off with a smile and an excuse, ignoring the way heat coiled in your stomach when you watched your fingers trace the shape of his teeth in the mirror.
It was just another moment of weakness, that was all. You could cope with this. You were a strong man! He couldn’t get the better of you.