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Description
Letting the Cables Sleep

You in the dark/You in the pain/You on the run

He pulled himself out of a dreamless sleep, alert and reaching for his Beretta. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing intermittent within the heavy rain and thunder. The only thing he could see were the shadows around him as the lightning swept through his room, the drapes pulled wide to let him see the storm rage across the desert.

There was a certain aesthetic quality to it, an entire wall of windows. Each one bulletproof, spanning from ceiling to floor. A truly magnificent panorama broken only by the plants and arroyos, now violent and uncontrolled. Wild.

And then the pounding again. He slid out of his bed and wrapped a gray robe around himself, tying it loosely to cover his nudity, and opened the bedroom door. Staring down the hall he saw nothing and relaxed his arm, letting the gun lay at his side, brushing his thigh through the soft cotton.

And again.

It dawned on him that it wasn’t someone in his home, that it was someone at the door, and as he made his way there glanced at the clock above the mantel in the living room.

Three a.m.

The door was locked twice against outside intrusion and as he threw the bolt back he glanced through the peephole. Only darkness and shadows, barely visible through the sheet of rain that pelted the outside of the door.

He thumbed the lock on the back of the knob and pulled, opening the door and the storm broke over him, drenching him to the flesh. He didn’t even feel it as he saw the small shadow standing there, a suitcase next to her feet, and pain on her face.

Living a hell/Living your ghost/Living your end

“Edward,” she said softly. Her eyes were burnt holes in her face, a pale face that was covered in bruises. Bruises and blood.

He kicked her suitcase back, into the foyer, and she swayed. His arms went around her and she leaned on him, almost falling over with exhaustion.

“What happened? Who did this to you?” he asked as he pulled her more firmly against him. Before she could answer he scooped her up and carried her into the house, sitting her on the couch and leaving only long enough to close and secure the door.

When he returned she was curled into the corner of the couch. Curling into herself, hiding, or trying to.

“Anita,” he said softly as he knelt in front of her. She lifted her face and her eyes met his. He swore softly as he pushed the heavy fall of hair from her face as gently as he could. “What happened?” he asked again.

Her face was a symphony of bruises. Some small and so dark as black, some much larger, outlines of hands. There was blood at the corner of her mouth and several cuts that could have been from fingernails along a cheek. The worst was a deep gash above her eyes, still dripping blood from the lowest end at her right temple.

She shook her head. There would be no talking tonight.

Never seem to get in the place that I belong

He watched her as she slept, leaning against the doorway of the guest room. She looked so small and fragile. He knew better than most that she was not fragile. But her appearance belied that impression, especially now.

He’d seen her injured before, but nothing as simple as this ever stayed overlong. Simple. He bit his lip, trying not to laugh at the irony of that word. Simple would not send Anita running. Especially not to him.

This simple was something she either needed help with… or protection from. Which, he didn’t know. But he was guessing protection.

Her refusal to talk had spoken volumes. Especially when he’d helped her clean up. She couldn’t do it herself, could barely get her arms up far enough to knock the door when she got there.

One was almost definitely broken. The other had been dislocated at the shoulder. She hadn’t made a sound as he splinted one and wrenched the other back into place with a sheet and a strong tug.

Her back and sides were covered in bruises. Most of them boot-shaped. He knew from experience. Her chest and abdomen were barely touched. She would have curled into a ball, protecting those areas from the heavy foot that had beaten her.

Instinctive.

Had she been thinking by the time she’d done that she would have still fought back. She would have looked at the attempt to protect herself as cowardly and probably been killed had she not. A few hard kicks would have done irreparable internal damage.

Her legs. Bruised. But not broken. More evidence that she had been severely beaten. But no explanation, no accusation.

She had not spoken since she had said his name.

Don't wanna lose the time/Lose the time to come

He slept in the jeans he had pulled on to help her, she was not comfortable with casual nudity. His sleep was not dreamless this time, but full of detail about her. Small things that he had missed in his waking moments.

The blood on her, yes, so much. But the blood on the clothes he had thrown in the garbage. Covering her jeans. No panties or bra. Jeans and a large shirt. A jacket with a hood. But the jeans covered in blood.

There had been no wounds on her legs, open or otherwise.

He tossed, even sleeping unwilling to think of what that meant.

Whatever you say it's alright/Whatever you do it's all good/Whatever you say it's alright

He slept through her waking. A statement all in its own. He trusted her enough to sleep when she did not. When he woke he padded to the kitchen wearing nothing but the jeans. He never paused to put on a shirt, something he would have done had he expected the fear in her eyes.

He said nothing as he poured coffee from the pot she had already made and sat across from her at the table. There were no flowers this time. It had been a year since she had last seen him and there were no flowers.

“Are you staying?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

He didn’t press.

“They’ll look for me.” Her voice was hoarse. His had been after every time he’d been tortured. From screaming.

He sat his cup on the table carefully to hide the shaking he felt run through his hand. From anger. From fear.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

She looked at him, the fear fading. She did not smile. She did not speak again though her mouth opened as if she would.

He silenced the angry voices in his head and looked at her with ice in his eyes. “I’ll keep you safe, Anita. It’s all right. I promise.”

Silence is not the way/We need to talk about it/If heaven is on the way/If heaven is on the way

Days passed until she had been there a week. He had not left the house but for three trips. One to the pharmacy. One to the grocery store. And one to the police station.

He could not file charges on assumptions and hunches. He could not file charges even if he knew who had done it. She had to, and she would not. She would not leave the house and always watched in terror as he opened the door on returning.

He turned down a profitable hit and three bounties to stay with her. He did not regret it.

So he stayed and worked quietly on his computer as she slid by the edges of his senses, silent and sad.

And still she did not speak.

The bruises healed, the cuts closed. And then the screaming began.

You in the sea/On a decline/Breaking the waves

Screaming. Full of pain and despair and terror. Reverberating through him as he scrambled from the bed, racing to her room, to stop whoever was hurting her. To keep his promise and protect her.

But there was no one there but Anita, writhing and twisting and tangling herself within the sheet. And screaming. Screaming, sobbing, begging them to stop, please stop, don’t do this to me, please.

He almost threw himself on top of her to keep her from hurting herself, but he stopped perilous seconds from doing it. That would only frighten her more, make her panic worse than she already was.

“Anita, wake up. Anita!” he said, grabbing her hands and not holding them tight, no, not that. It would feel like being held down. He threaded his fingers through hers, letting her hold onto him, letting her have a small control.

She jerked forward, eyes dark and wide. “Please!” she gasped and then collapsed forward into him, onto his chest, crying. Crying, for the first time, since she had arrived. Pulling her hands free and wrapping them around him, tight and fierce, just as her body was racked with the pain and fear she had been holding, hiding.

Carefully, very carefully, he slid his arms around her and held her, stroking her hair, letting her cry, heedless of the slickness on his bare skin. The sheet, once wrapped so violently around her, was now tangled at her waist.

And Anita held to him.

Watching the lights go down/Letting the cables sleep

She slept. As the sun came up and the soft glow filled the room, she slept. Head pillowed against him, arms still clutching, but quiet and at peace. Safe.

Much safer now.

He knew without a doubt what had happened, who had hurt her, how they had managed it. Who had hurt her so badly that even with the healing she was still scarred.

And he would take care of it, just as he took care of her. For her, he would risk everything. Because nothing was guaranteed, not even his life, when going against them.

As she slept, he planned. He planned and waited. Waited for her to wake, to talk, to lay her demons to peace, as much as she could. He would lay the others for her.

Whatever you say it's alright/Whatever you do it's all good/Whatever you say it's alright

Another night, another storm, another kill. He waited for them to appear, musing on what he’d learned since that fateful night more than a month ago. Anita had finally broken her silence.

Her monsters had banned against her. They were less than pleased with her morals and self-righteous actions. They had forced her to face up to them, to see how her actions had made them cross their own lines.

And then they had made her pay.

Somehow breaking the binding that held them and then… punishing her. Trying to break her, to kill her maybe, but without doubt break her. Trying, trying. But not doing it.

She had escaped and run. As far and fast as she could, to the only place she could think of. To the only place that she could feel safe, the only person who could keep her safe.

Him.

And with the bindings broken and her eyes clear, he could do what he’d been telling her to do all along. Kill them.

They moved from the entrance to the Circus of the Damned, unaware of the danger. But the scent of gun oil and metal only carried so far, and he was over a mile away, watching and waiting from a perfect sniping position. He only waited now for them to get far enough away from the building that he could do the job properly.

He wasn’t worried about either of them living through this. His rifle had a magazine of twenty rounds, each and everyone filled with a substance whose capabilities were similar to napalm.

White phosphorus.

Once it hit them it would burn. Burn until there was nothing left if he aimed well enough. Even if he didn’t, a glancing shot would eat the entire head. Neither of them could survive that.

But he didn’t intend to miss. He intended to put a round in each of their heads to start the process, and then send the other eighteen rounds into all of their major organs.

He let his breath out as he sighted along the barrel. His finger slid down from the guard onto the trigger, squeezing slowly. The first shot would be tricky, but after that he would ride the edge.

He smiled as he fired.

Silence is not the way/We need to talk about it/If heaven is on the way

She was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for him, when he woke. He’d arrived late and she had been asleep. Her bedroom door had been open and she was laying there looking as if she had tried valiantly to stay awake and wait for him.

He hadn’t bothered her, only stumbled into his own bed and pulled the blanket over his head. He hadn’t even taken the time to remove more than his shoes.

So when he woke he headed straight for the shower and then for coffee, pulling an old pair of jeans on and running his fingers through his wet hair, stopping for nothing but the manila envelope he had brought back.

Anita was sitting at the table, a full mug in front of her, one leg pulled under and the other foot in her chair. She was watching him as though she knew what he’d been doing while he was gone.

She couldn’t have, he’d made his flight arrangements so that she would think he’d flown to Denver. His flight to St. Louis hadn’t even flown out of Denver, but from another airport over ninety miles away.

He sat down in the chair next to her and slid the coffee so it was in front of him. A deep breath and then he drank more than half of it before he sat the mug back down. She was watching him, dark eyes as wide as the ocean.

“Well?” she asked, waiting as patiently as she could.

He said nothing, on took another sip and slid the envelope to her. She took it, her fingers brushing the back of his hand, and held it for a moment. Then opened it.

She flipped through the photographs slowly and methodically, her face blank and empty, nothing given away except for the tears which slid slowly down her cheeks, falling to land on her, unbidden and not noticed.

Silent, she slid them back into the envelope and stood. As she walked past him she laid a hand on his shoulder and bent down to his ear, whispering, “Thank you,” and pressing a kiss to his check.

He heard the door to her room close and sat there finishing the coffee before retreating back to his bed. As he passed her room he stopped and listened. She was crying.

But no longer the frantic and terrified sobs from before.

We'll wrap the world around it/If heaven is on the way

She stayed.

The weeks turned from one month to two, then three, then nearly a year. She never went back to St. Louis, instead arranging for her house to stay with her friends and only her weapons and clothes sent, all silently agreed upon, never really spoken of.

He began taking jobs and bounties again; she started her own animating business, Blake Enterprises. It flourished. She would get offers from as far as Vermont and if she took them, he traveled with her, never being asked, never asking her to ask.

Life was quiet, peaceful, the nightmares dwindling after his trip to St. Louis. Sometimes they would come and on those nights he would go to her or she to him, and the darkest hours before morning were spent in silence as they held to one another.

Time passed and more and more often they would lay, in one bed or another, not talking, not daring do anything but breathe. Not doing anything at all but be.

Until one night they woke and found themselves facing each other, faces almost touching. So close, so very close.

He did not move.

She did.

If heaven is on the way

Lips pressed, hungry and soft, seeking admittance.

I'm a stranger in this town

Hands sliding down, skin on skin, eyes wide with desire, riding the waves of passion, silent but for moans and whispered pleas.

I'm a stranger in this town

Head thrown back, throat exposed, gentle kisses and soft slow thrusts.

I'm a stranger in this town

Legs wrapped around, an arm threaded behind, and hands… Hands and fingers intertwined, grasping and holding, finding calm within the embrace.

If heaven is on the way

A soft cry, teeth scraping skin, the warmth of a kiss.

If heaven is on the way

In the silence of the aftermath, soft breathing, softer kisses.

I'm a stranger in this town

Holding as morning came.

I'm a stranger in this town

Description
Letting the Cables Sleep

You in the dark/You in the pain/You on the run

He pulled himself out of a dreamless sleep, alert and reaching for his Beretta. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing intermittent within the heavy rain and thunder. The only thing he could see were the shadows around him as the lightning swept through his room, the drapes pulled wide to let him see the storm rage across the desert.

There was a certain aesthetic quality to it, an entire wall of windows. Each one bulletproof, spanning from ceiling to floor. A truly magnificent panorama broken only by the plants and arroyos, now violent and uncontrolled. Wild.

And then the pounding again. He slid out of his bed and wrapped a gray robe around himself, tying it loosely to cover his nudity, and opened the bedroom door. Staring down the hall he saw nothing and relaxed his arm, letting the gun lay at his side, brushing his thigh through the soft cotton.

And again.

It dawned on him that it wasn’t someone in his home, that it was someone at the door, and as he made his way there glanced at the clock above the mantel in the living room.

Three a.m.

The door was locked twice against outside intrusion and as he threw the bolt back he glanced through the peephole. Only darkness and shadows, barely visible through the sheet of rain that pelted the outside of the door.

He thumbed the lock on the back of the knob and pulled, opening the door and the storm broke over him, drenching him to the flesh. He didn’t even feel it as he saw the small shadow standing there, a suitcase next to her feet, and pain on her face.

Living a hell/Living your ghost/Living your end

“Edward,” she said softly. Her eyes were burnt holes in her face, a pale face that was covered in bruises. Bruises and blood.

He kicked her suitcase back, into the foyer, and she swayed. His arms went around her and she leaned on him, almost falling over with exhaustion.

“What happened? Who did this to you?” he asked as he pulled her more firmly against him. Before she could answer he scooped her up and carried her into the house, sitting her on the couch and leaving only long enough to close and secure the door.

When he returned she was curled into the corner of the couch. Curling into herself, hiding, or trying to.

“Anita,” he said softly as he knelt in front of her. She lifted her face and her eyes met his. He swore softly as he pushed the heavy fall of hair from her face as gently as he could. “What happened?” he asked again.

Her face was a symphony of bruises. Some small and so dark as black, some much larger, outlines of hands. There was blood at the corner of her mouth and several cuts that could have been from fingernails along a cheek. The worst was a deep gash above her eyes, still dripping blood from the lowest end at her right temple.

She shook her head. There would be no talking tonight.

Never seem to get in the place that I belong

He watched her as she slept, leaning against the doorway of the guest room. She looked so small and fragile. He knew better than most that she was not fragile. But her appearance belied that impression, especially now.

He’d seen her injured before, but nothing as simple as this ever stayed overlong. Simple. He bit his lip, trying not to laugh at the irony of that word. Simple would not send Anita running. Especially not to him.

This simple was something she either needed help with… or protection from. Which, he didn’t know. But he was guessing protection.

Her refusal to talk had spoken volumes. Especially when he’d helped her clean up. She couldn’t do it herself, could barely get her arms up far enough to knock the door when she got there.

One was almost definitely broken. The other had been dislocated at the shoulder. She hadn’t made a sound as he splinted one and wrenched the other back into place with a sheet and a strong tug.

Her back and sides were covered in bruises. Most of them boot-shaped. He knew from experience. Her chest and abdomen were barely touched. She would have curled into a ball, protecting those areas from the heavy foot that had beaten her.

Instinctive.

Had she been thinking by the time she’d done that she would have still fought back. She would have looked at the attempt to protect herself as cowardly and probably been killed had she not. A few hard kicks would have done irreparable internal damage.

Her legs. Bruised. But not broken. More evidence that she had been severely beaten. But no explanation, no accusation.

She had not spoken since she had said his name.

Don't wanna lose the time/Lose the time to come

He slept in the jeans he had pulled on to help her, she was not comfortable with casual nudity. His sleep was not dreamless this time, but full of detail about her. Small things that he had missed in his waking moments.

The blood on her, yes, so much. But the blood on the clothes he had thrown in the garbage. Covering her jeans. No panties or bra. Jeans and a large shirt. A jacket with a hood. But the jeans covered in blood.

There had been no wounds on her legs, open or otherwise.

He tossed, even sleeping unwilling to think of what that meant.

Whatever you say it's alright/Whatever you do it's all good/Whatever you say it's alright

He slept through her waking. A statement all in its own. He trusted her enough to sleep when she did not. When he woke he padded to the kitchen wearing nothing but the jeans. He never paused to put on a shirt, something he would have done had he expected the fear in her eyes.

He said nothing as he poured coffee from the pot she had already made and sat across from her at the table. There were no flowers this time. It had been a year since she had last seen him and there were no flowers.

“Are you staying?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

He didn’t press.

“They’ll look for me.” Her voice was hoarse. His had been after every time he’d been tortured. From screaming.

He sat his cup on the table carefully to hide the shaking he felt run through his hand. From anger. From fear.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

She looked at him, the fear fading. She did not smile. She did not speak again though her mouth opened as if she would.

He silenced the angry voices in his head and looked at her with ice in his eyes. “I’ll keep you safe, Anita. It’s all right. I promise.”

Silence is not the way/We need to talk about it/If heaven is on the way/If heaven is on the way

Days passed until she had been there a week. He had not left the house but for three trips. One to the pharmacy. One to the grocery store. And one to the police station.

He could not file charges on assumptions and hunches. He could not file charges even if he knew who had done it. She had to, and she would not. She would not leave the house and always watched in terror as he opened the door on returning.

He turned down a profitable hit and three bounties to stay with her. He did not regret it.

So he stayed and worked quietly on his computer as she slid by the edges of his senses, silent and sad.

And still she did not speak.

The bruises healed, the cuts closed. And then the screaming began.

You in the sea/On a decline/Breaking the waves

Screaming. Full of pain and despair and terror. Reverberating through him as he scrambled from the bed, racing to her room, to stop whoever was hurting her. To keep his promise and protect her.

But there was no one there but Anita, writhing and twisting and tangling herself within the sheet. And screaming. Screaming, sobbing, begging them to stop, please stop, don’t do this to me, please.

He almost threw himself on top of her to keep her from hurting herself, but he stopped perilous seconds from doing it. That would only frighten her more, make her panic worse than she already was.

“Anita, wake up. Anita!” he said, grabbing her hands and not holding them tight, no, not that. It would feel like being held down. He threaded his fingers through hers, letting her hold onto him, letting her have a small control.

She jerked forward, eyes dark and wide. “Please!” she gasped and then collapsed forward into him, onto his chest, crying. Crying, for the first time, since she had arrived. Pulling her hands free and wrapping them around him, tight and fierce, just as her body was racked with the pain and fear she had been holding, hiding.

Carefully, very carefully, he slid his arms around her and held her, stroking her hair, letting her cry, heedless of the slickness on his bare skin. The sheet, once wrapped so violently around her, was now tangled at her waist.

And Anita held to him.

Watching the lights go down/Letting the cables sleep

She slept. As the sun came up and the soft glow filled the room, she slept. Head pillowed against him, arms still clutching, but quiet and at peace. Safe.

Much safer now.

He knew without a doubt what had happened, who had hurt her, how they had managed it. Who had hurt her so badly that even with the healing she was still scarred.

And he would take care of it, just as he took care of her. For her, he would risk everything. Because nothing was guaranteed, not even his life, when going against them.

As she slept, he planned. He planned and waited. Waited for her to wake, to talk, to lay her demons to peace, as much as she could. He would lay the others for her.

Whatever you say it's alright/Whatever you do it's all good/Whatever you say it's alright

Another night, another storm, another kill. He waited for them to appear, musing on what he’d learned since that fateful night more than a month ago. Anita had finally broken her silence.

Her monsters had banned against her. They were less than pleased with her morals and self-righteous actions. They had forced her to face up to them, to see how her actions had made them cross their own lines.

And then they had made her pay.

Somehow breaking the binding that held them and then… punishing her. Trying to break her, to kill her maybe, but without doubt break her. Trying, trying. But not doing it.

She had escaped and run. As far and fast as she could, to the only place she could think of. To the only place that she could feel safe, the only person who could keep her safe.

Him.

And with the bindings broken and her eyes clear, he could do what he’d been telling her to do all along. Kill them.

They moved from the entrance to the Circus of the Damned, unaware of the danger. But the scent of gun oil and metal only carried so far, and he was over a mile away, watching and waiting from a perfect sniping position. He only waited now for them to get far enough away from the building that he could do the job properly.

He wasn’t worried about either of them living through this. His rifle had a magazine of twenty rounds, each and everyone filled with a substance whose capabilities were similar to napalm.

White phosphorus.

Once it hit them it would burn. Burn until there was nothing left if he aimed well enough. Even if he didn’t, a glancing shot would eat the entire head. Neither of them could survive that.

But he didn’t intend to miss. He intended to put a round in each of their heads to start the process, and then send the other eighteen rounds into all of their major organs.

He let his breath out as he sighted along the barrel. His finger slid down from the guard onto the trigger, squeezing slowly. The first shot would be tricky, but after that he would ride the edge.

He smiled as he fired.

Silence is not the way/We need to talk about it/If heaven is on the way

She was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for him, when he woke. He’d arrived late and she had been asleep. Her bedroom door had been open and she was laying there looking as if she had tried valiantly to stay awake and wait for him.

He hadn’t bothered her, only stumbled into his own bed and pulled the blanket over his head. He hadn’t even taken the time to remove more than his shoes.

So when he woke he headed straight for the shower and then for coffee, pulling an old pair of jeans on and running his fingers through his wet hair, stopping for nothing but the manila envelope he had brought back.

Anita was sitting at the table, a full mug in front of her, one leg pulled under and the other foot in her chair. She was watching him as though she knew what he’d been doing while he was gone.

She couldn’t have, he’d made his flight arrangements so that she would think he’d flown to Denver. His flight to St. Louis hadn’t even flown out of Denver, but from another airport over ninety miles away.

He sat down in the chair next to her and slid the coffee so it was in front of him. A deep breath and then he drank more than half of it before he sat the mug back down. She was watching him, dark eyes as wide as the ocean.

“Well?” she asked, waiting as patiently as she could.

He said nothing, on took another sip and slid the envelope to her. She took it, her fingers brushing the back of his hand, and held it for a moment. Then opened it.

She flipped through the photographs slowly and methodically, her face blank and empty, nothing given away except for the tears which slid slowly down her cheeks, falling to land on her, unbidden and not noticed.

Silent, she slid them back into the envelope and stood. As she walked past him she laid a hand on his shoulder and bent down to his ear, whispering, “Thank you,” and pressing a kiss to his check.

He heard the door to her room close and sat there finishing the coffee before retreating back to his bed. As he passed her room he stopped and listened. She was crying.

But no longer the frantic and terrified sobs from before.

We'll wrap the world around it/If heaven is on the way

She stayed.

The weeks turned from one month to two, then three, then nearly a year. She never went back to St. Louis, instead arranging for her house to stay with her friends and only her weapons and clothes sent, all silently agreed upon, never really spoken of.

He began taking jobs and bounties again; she started her own animating business, Blake Enterprises. It flourished. She would get offers from as far as Vermont and if she took them, he traveled with her, never being asked, never asking her to ask.

Life was quiet, peaceful, the nightmares dwindling after his trip to St. Louis. Sometimes they would come and on those nights he would go to her or she to him, and the darkest hours before morning were spent in silence as they held to one another.

Time passed and more and more often they would lay, in one bed or another, not talking, not daring do anything but breathe. Not doing anything at all but be.

Until one night they woke and found themselves facing each other, faces almost touching. So close, so very close.

He did not move.

She did.

If heaven is on the way

Lips pressed, hungry and soft, seeking admittance.

I'm a stranger in this town

Hands sliding down, skin on skin, eyes wide with desire, riding the waves of passion, silent but for moans and whispered pleas.

I'm a stranger in this town

Head thrown back, throat exposed, gentle kisses and soft slow thrusts.

I'm a stranger in this town

Legs wrapped around, an arm threaded behind, and hands… Hands and fingers intertwined, grasping and holding, finding calm within the embrace.

If heaven is on the way

A soft cry, teeth scraping skin, the warmth of a kiss.

If heaven is on the way

In the silence of the aftermath, soft breathing, softer kisses.

I'm a stranger in this town

Holding as morning came.

I'm a stranger in this town