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The Finale

Warnings: Swearing, violence and major James angst-fest >D.

Unlike many other eighteen year old boys, James had developed a burdening sense of responsibility through the years saddled around his shoulders. The last thing he wanted was to be thought of as a kid.
A prominent, undefeatable James trait was stubbornness. Chinks in the armor weren't a luxury he was allowed. At least, they weren't a luxury he would allow himself to possess. His stubbornness created this void between himself and this current situation, these real feelings. James’s defiance and great desire to follow in his guardian’s footsteps was the fuel that impulse him every day to defy gravity.

He had turned eighteen in July. Sheer weeks ago, he still knew how to hold a grin, crack a joke or two and laugh. Now he wasn’t so sure of the world, hiding beneath the car he worked on as an excuse to blow off steam, his sore hand dropping the wrench as he pulled at his shaggy hair, tangled with sweat and grime. His lips blew up at his moist forehead, feeling the ache in his back from lying on a skateboard for hours on end and slide out gracelessly from under the Impala’s frame. The thin, damp fabric of his t-shirt over his psyche made noticeable the fact that the brown-haired boy’s body had developed, being planes of big and sculpted muscle. More than just fit: he was ripped. The smooth V of his torso, flat waist and brawny arms were his most attractive asset. His face still had it's boyish openness but there was a masculine steadiness to his serious eyes now and the set of his jaw that it made him more attractive. Despite his body, he was an inexperienced boy who still needed to learn many things about life and it‘s raw, bitter loopholes.

The porch door slammed shut, and Pan surfaced from within the quiet Mercer household and sat down on the steps, on looking the scene in the driveway where James had mauled the Imapala to pieces by taking the car apart. Which was really just a reason to distract himself. He also has lost his boyish pretense because of his unsmiling face and his muscular arms folded awkwardly in front of his chest. They had went from boys to men in less than a hundred hours. “It’s been a week, and you’re still working on that?”

James merely grunted in return,

There was no more Lou Nadeau anymore- no gentleness, no sunlight as far as he’s concerned, and he wondered as he inhales the dry wind, if he’ll ever see her again, and his mouth twitches at the hope. No. He didn’t feel like smiling anymore. He’s let go of his high school contacts, except for Ry Heide, one of the only real damn friends he’s ever had, and the only one who showed at the funeral. Most he knew were leaving for college or other continents; and he was a school dropout with no future except a career in crime.

“I just wanted to make sure you‘re okay. I‘m not alright. But neither are you.” He was always so painfully open.

James would rather stab himself than admitting his brother was right.

About me and ..Dad. I’m sorry that the last time I was with him, I tried to pick a fight. I’m sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him. I mean, for all I know, he died thinkin’ that I hate him. So, you’re right. What I’m doin’ right now -- it is too little. It’s too late. I miss him. And I feel guilty as hell. And I’m not all right. Not at all. I should have died. That was the desperation inside his own head, and he bit back his tongue and flung out a retort instead.

“I swear, the next person who asks me if I’m okay, I’m gonna to start throwing punches.” His deep voice swelled into a bubbling crescendo of resentment, turning his back.

“He wouldn‘t want you to be this way.” Pan entailed quietly, turning to go back into the old house.

After Pan left, James didn’t say anything. He calmly picked up a tire iron from the ground, smacking it in the palm of his hand, feeling the emotion rush to his head like a volcano.

A second passed, and then he broke. He turned to the car and smashed the window, and cutting shaves of glass exploded around his arm. It obviously wasn’t enough. He charged to the front of the Impala and swung the tire iron, crashing it down hard on the hood. He did it again and again, and each blow got more forceful, more aggressive, eventually creating a large crater-like dent. Storming to the back, he smashed the trunk seventeen times, growling with each impact, indenting the fine metal and then dropped the tire iron to the ground with a harsh clatter. Entirely breathless, he stared at nothing, his expression stone-cold.

Xxx

The week before:

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win. When they do, Blood is thicker than water, and outshines the purpose of virtue. Through flesh and phantom, armor and apparition, we struck the core of chaos buried beneath.

Through stealth and sacrifice, bloodshed and burning, we leave answers and stillness behind.

It's not really about brotherhood, our diverse cultural bonds, the blood, the food, the guns, killing for kicks, or playing cards. It's about cash; the art of making it and the art of hiding it. We market in gambling, violence, extortion, prostitution, blackmail, identity theft, drugs, fraud and murder for hire. We’re as organized as wolves, and the city is the sheep, vulnerable to our elements and bite.

Whether your grave will be red is our perchance and you only have one chance.. will you take it?

It was cold outside; the pavement shivered, the sidewalks cracked, and floorboards contracted. The heat from the cars and lungs escaped like a smoke, twirling and dancing up the chilly air, but the cold did not affect him. Few things did, nowadays.

It was a warehouse those days, 10 years ago. The headquarters were a colossal warehouse, resurrected from a 1920’s museum, and had been through punishing renovations through the years. Situated conveniently near the city’s harbor and flanking the North end of the train tracks, it faced suburbia, which rested peacefully on the other sunny side. Water guarded the stern of the headquarters, while

and overrode the police, by whom were always a step behind the Red Graves.

Sven had recently been promoted. An immigrant from Germany, Only 26 years old, he was the leader, fucking el captain of the esteemed Red Graves, a feat almost impossible to achieve at such a young age when most were in their mid-thirties at best. Oh, a great many had objectified, verbalizing their anger to an outsider taking the reins from Tobias Castle, but the man was made of a terrifying awesome, later proving his worth to those now below him on the food chain.

Xander, having been with the Red Graves for nine years, was the assassin extraordinaire around these parts and refused second-in-command for his own personal reasons ever since eight years ago, so Trey Kingsley was the under boss these days. Harley Fox, made of mean muscle, was the bodyguard. Romeo Evans and Joshua Jensen were top soldiers, capable of undertaking the devil himself. Nathaniel Holmes, pyro and explosions expertise and quite the shrewd drug dealer. Ajax was their medical specialist. And the rest of those petty members were foot soldiers, including some nineteen year old fuckwits by the name of Charlie Olsen and Ty, who were pretty much dim but doggedly loyal.

And then there was Koran August, the newest addition to the higher ranks.. the freshman, however old or young he was,.. was uncertain because he kept his personal history behind closed doors, behind his veil of black hair and glistening obsidian-like eyes. Sven had the dirt on him but kept his lips sealed.

Sven was slightly reminiscent of a Hollywood vampire, but in reality he shouldered albinism, which could have made him a social leper if it wasn‘t for his all guns and blood attitude, and his desire for more power. He ought to have been channeling the soul of Macbeth or some war god in his pale temple because of his steadfast ambition that ripped his conscience apart inch by inch, until there was nothing left. His skin feared the sun, so by day he lay low and by night was when he worked. He didn’t possess a trademark skill but many; he was able-bodied, swift on his feet and ambidextrous with weapons. Men feared him and became humble to his regime, while women did anything to please his handsome, wan façade. Even his lips were pale, drinking from the glass full of red wine he held, fingers grasped around it’s swell. He ran his tongue along his upper teeth, draining the last ruby swigs thirstily.

“So. Xander.” Sven began distantly since his white-nearly-blue eyes were nailed on a folder stuffed full of documents. “When I asked you to retrieve the Beretta, I meant to hand it over to me. I did not mean, pass it along as a fucking family heirloom.”

Xander kept his fraught lips pressed together wisely, because to argue would be childish. He knew it was suspicious when he‘d gotten the hospital phone call about Pan‘s eye because seventeen year olds knew better than to play with kitchen knives, and so he knew James must had found the 3rd floor closet full of weaponry somehow. Contrary to popular belief, James wasn’t an idiot, but neither was he moral.

“And I’ve heard your son, James has gotten himself into trouble. Took the gun to school, was it?”

“And you know who that gun belongs to. That pistol is vorth god knows vat.” Sven waved his hand dismissively. There was to be only one top mafia in this city, the Red Graves, and Sven surely wasn’t going to let the West London, or the Bloodhounds for that matter, walk all over them and take over the place. A malicious glint overrode his pearly gaze and he snorted.

Those spindly fingers laced together and Sven rested his chin in the jagged rows of his knuckles. “Once they have the gun, it won’t be enough and they still won’t stop. They’ll come after your three other boys, your precious daughter.. and that little niece of yours.”

Koran made a guttural noise in his throat, and both men blinked, Sven glaring at him, touched by annoyance, but Koran remained silent, his electric-black trench coat and hair fusing into the unpleasantly cold shadows.

Some eight years ago Xander never would have imagined himself doing this – any of this – but eight years was a long time, and one life-altering moment enough to change it all; the bleeding circumstances stretched the brevity of that one instant into eternity, life shattering like glass before his blue and brown hued eyes, and forever etched in a languid, lazy, unexpected night (third of May) that imprinted itself upon his brain like a double exposure. It was a memory of a lifeline going flat at the push of a button, holding him hostage and helpless in nightmares that ricocheted around his soul,

The old days, long gone, were sewn to certain, poignant memories, stored for safer keeping like a box of most precious secrets: a spilled beer, the first honest smile, getting down on his knee, a phone call telling him it was starting, infant blue eyes and a small hand closing around his finger, a night of startled red, and following years of lacunal grey.

Holding onto those recollections with both hands and teeth because memory was winged, elusive; wanting to remember the moments just as they were, with weight and flavour and smell, not viewed through rose-tinted glasses as passage of time knows so often to alter one’s perception of favourable past. After all, they were perfect just the way they were. It was his family that brought temperance to Gavin’s life, balanced it out by pointing on the fulcrum of everything that truly mattered, and only after they were taken from him, did his wife’s words suddenly make perfect sense. It was all so painstakingly clear, so how could he let go, replace their faces with another, and another, until there were no more lips to remember, no more names to be lost. He just couldn’t.

“I’d do anything.” Xander said helplessly. “I’ll make a deal with them.”

Sven smirked.

“Shut up.“ Xander rasped harshly. “I do need to make sure this isn’t another one of your lies. I haven’t exactly been able to trust you in the past, Sven.”

“I’m offended. You have my word. Your family will be safe. James won’t harmed ..however, since we are offering him protection, he’ll owe me in return, his loyalty.”

Xander withdrew a tight breath. “What’s the catch, Sven?”

xxxxx

“James. Open the door.”

“I’ve never asked anything of you like this before. But you know what did, and it sure as hell wasn‘t smart.” Xander was being honest to a harsh tee, grating away whatever was left of James’s innocence. His childhood was now stripped of it’s remains. “What were you thinking anyways? Trying to get yourself fucking killed?”

Between bringing weapons to school, getting expelled and getting into bar fights, Xander couldn’t decide what made him more frustrated about the boy.
During the past few weeks,

“That gun. I know you still have it.”

Xander sighed

“I know, I’m not your real fath-“

“Then stop pretending to be!”

Xander was silent for a long moment, the bedsprings creaking as he got off the bed, closing the door

“What are you doing?” James demanded,

“I think I should go with you.” James said, testing the waters and being the rebellious one, he fought for every inch.

Xander was ice; James was all fire. They didn’t equal each other out, either, making a comfortable room temperature; they created something else all together. Either way, it burnt. Like hell. Anger suffused James’s chest, creeping up into his cheeks until they flushed. It wasn’t hard to fake anger. It was the only emotion that he could get a handle on.

Granted only months ago, he was three inches shorter. Now at eighteen, he looked like a damn scary man, one who was clinging to control by a hair.

Or he would have looked scary if he wasn’t yelling at a man who was damn terrifying.

Xxxx

Go to the West London HQ.

Xander hooked his beloved Smith & Wesson to his belt and retrieved the Beretta’s weapon’s case, doubt fluttering through him. He never wanted his son to feel the bone-shaking remorse that one felt after killing another human being, but tonight it may be inevitable.

Xander stewed, keeping his anger locked up tight. James knew his father was furious.

He walked outside, stowing the gun in the trunk before getting into the Impala. James slid in beside him, tightly contained, but thrumming with unused energy. Silently they drove to the warehouse district downtown East where West London was holed up, and Xander parked the car where it couldn’t be seen.

Xander was pretty sure that James was getting ready to bust a cap in someone’s ass or ventilate them or whatever lingo the kids were using these days. Xander didn’t really blame him. He was pretty close to toeing the line to murder himself. He just needed to figure out who needed killing so he could pack either silver bullets or consecrated rounds.

There was only one thing that Xander took more seriously than his job, and that was his family. That was the reason they were who they were. Someone, something had fucked with their family and someday it was going to pay. John was going to make certain it stayed that way even if it killed him.

Although he was livid to know his son was being used as bait, Xander was relieved it wasn’t one of his other three children, but that didn‘t necessarily reassure him. He knew that while Pan could never hurt another human being so easily, he would know how to handle himself. His son would have fought his attackers, but when faced with a kill-or-be-killed situation, Pan would choose to safeguard the sanctity of human life over his own safety. His boy was good and pure like that, feeling remorse even for those who didn’t deserve it, looking for the good in everything.

His oldest son would never kill just for the sake of it, but he would annihilate anything that threatened what was close to him. Deep inside, where he hid is heart, James would feel the pain of killing, but he would shove it down and move forward. At night when the shadows were the darkest, the guilt would eat at him, but he would survive it, because that was what James did. James did what others couldn’t, sparing them the agony of it, and taking it upon himself to do the dirty work.

“Well, they seem pretty fucking surprised to see us.” James panted for breath as he and Xander sprinted along a hallway. “I sa

Xxxxx

He dipped his chin, allowing his too long brown hair to fall in front of his eyes, hooding them. His eyes were his best and worst trait. James curled his busted lip into a mockery of a smile, flashing even teeth stained pink with blood. The kid, no, young man was dangerous. “Who’s next?”

A mob of trench coats, pistols, polished boots and brand tattoos. Unpleasant laughter chorused amongst the men,

“I think he’s serious.”

His fist could feel bones crunching under skin as he punched, again, and again, losing track of the faces .

---

For a millisecond there wasn’t anything but pain. Normally his brain was able to filter out physical pain and allow him to function despite it, but this was an all-encompassing, brain-searing, intestine-wrenching pain, and at the first shock of it there was no thought, there was only agony. But when a groan forced its way through his gritted teeth and he caught his breath in a gasp, his brain cleared enough to remember what was happening.

For an instant James almost wished that the thought-crushing pain would return, because hearing the screams of agony made him want to scratch out his eardrums. Physical pain was a breeze. He was the warrior-son, raised to fight through pain, to master it. To enjoy it even, in a perverse, manly sort of way.

Another wave of pain, almost welcome now but just as excruciating, slammed his head back against the rotting wood wall, and over the pounding of his own heartbeat he heard himself moan, cry out for his father.

Pain like fire slashed at him, like knives of flame and acid tearing apart his insides, wrenching from him another near-scream. Blood like a river, gushing from his chest, from his mouth, spilling onto the floor with audible splashes. More blood than a man should ever lose. He gave a small sob, then a choking gurgle as the blood in his throat stopped his breath for a moment, hot and tasting of iron, like fear sometimes tastes. Another gurgle, then the hot blood rolled down his chin, painting his skin with warrior stripes.

Another spasm of pain wracked him, and choked again on the blood in his mouth. He felt a grimace crease his mouth, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. His vision began to surge, clearing around the crooks of his eyes and he saw a black-haired figure slumped on the floor, his chest He was alive.

“an. C’mon, get up.” James insisted weakly while grabbing his shirt to haul him up, murmuring a thank god under his breath as Pan stirred to his relief. The kid was breathless, his lungs screaming for air. “Who-”

Pan groaned, rousing from his coma and looked groggy and dazed. “I don’t know.. They had a bag over my head. Where‘s dad?”

“Where’s your inhaler?” James demanded, ignoring the question while Pan choked on his air, but both went very still, raising their heads as gunshots rang above them floors above.

Xxxx

Nearly, and hunting for breath, he ducked low, spying the entrance to the main floor.

He moved into the room, his body low to the ground, his weapon raised defensively.

“That’s far enough, Mercer.” A terribly familiar voice burned.

A red beam appeared out of nowhere, pegging Xander in the center of the chest. He followed the line of sight back to its origins, but could see nothing but a dark mass of piled debris. Xander stood in defeat, knowing that there was no reason for stealth now. “I should have known it was you.”

Sven Winter was standing calmly in the midst of blood and gore,

“Toss the gun.”

Xander did as he was told, throwing the gun to the side.

“What else you got?”

“Why don’t you come and find out?” Xander didn‘t leer like James would have done. His face was a mask of seriousness. He was playing his cards close to the vest. If the man drawing down on him was dumb enough to come close enough to search him, then that would be his mistake. However, if he didn’t search him, then he would never know what kind of weapons Xander was really carrying.

John could hear the metallic slide of the bolt being drawn back on a rifle, and he almost smiled.

“They’re all dead. Throw out all your weapons or I kill your son.”

If someone was watching Xander closely they may have seen him tense, but it wasn’t likely. With casual disregard for the man who was issuing orders from the shadows Xander began to toss his weapons to the side. The benefit of being heavily armed is that when you do disarm, the sheer numbers of weapons that are dropped convince the assailant that you have discarded everything. After tossing aside three handguns, one shotgun, and a bevy of bladed weapons, one would think that there weren’t any more hiding places for a weapon to be found. They would be wrong.

“Where’s my son, Sven?”

Xander voice was thick with disdain, and he could imagine the consternation on the face of the man who was hiding. He had just upped the stakes by acknowledging Sven was behind it all along, framing the West Londoners when they‘d done nothing at all. He wondered if Sven would check or call.

“He’s around, but you bring up a good point. Where’s that other boy of yours?”

Call it is.

“He’s around.” Xander checked and waited for Sven to raise the stakes. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Look, Xander. I know you are pretty fucking pissed off right now and you have every right to be, but once you hear what I have to say I think you’ll understand.”

“Understand you stealing my boy? That’s gonna take some doing, Sven.”

“Now, Xander.” Sven tried to match Xander’s tone, but he sounded more cajoling than anything. “I know you’re concerned. You’re a good man. You care for those boys, and that’s admirable. You can’t be faulted for not having all the facts.”

Xander wanted to shift his weight to bring his right leg forward, but he restrained himself. He had a .38 in an ankle holster, and he wanted nothing more than to drop and pull the gun so he could shoot the fucker in front of him through the head. Even in the dark, he knew he could make the shot. He didn’t have to see the guy to know where he was. His laser sight and voice told Xander all he needed to know. What he needed was a distraction so he could get the drop on him.

“And what facts would those be?”

“You still have the gun hidden.” Sven breathed. “I knew you weren’t going to give it up so easily for the sake of leverage.”

“Really?

Sven tried a different tact. “I know about your wife. How she died.”

It was a good thing that Xander had a lifetime and a half to practice restraint. If he had been a less disciplined man he might have attacked the guy right then and there. The anger that suffused every cell in his body burned like acid, and he could feel his fingers tremble with it. He inhaled deeply though his nose, calming his senses, and making damn sure that his voice was under control before he spoke.

“I would tread lightly if I were you.” The words echoed in the room, similar to a wolf growling from the cover of its den. His teeth bared slightly.

“I know I’m stirring bad memories, but keep in mind that I have the gun. Don’t be foolish now.” Sven admonished.

“You’re talking about things that you have no business talking about.” Unable to control himself, Xander shifted his leg forward, preparing himself to attack.

“Now, normally I would agree with you, Xander. A man’s family is his business, but you see, it’s the way the gun that makes it all our business.”

That has to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Xander needed to get to the root of Sven’s ramblings before he went off the deep end. It had been his experience that the best way to get a fanatic to talk was to challenge his beliefs.

“Your boy isn’t really yours. Adopted, was he?”

Something sank deep in Xander’s belly. It writhed around inside him until he thought he was going to be sick. His fingers curled into fists at their own accord, and suddenly the air became heavy and stagnant, making it hard for him to breathe.

John was still for a long while, absorbing the man’s words, forming a response in his mind. He needed to get out from under the barrel of the rifle that was being pointed at him and next to his son. And there was only one way to do that.

“I’m gonna need to see some proof, Sven. I need to see my---I need to see Pan.”

Xander thought he sounded pretty convincing. He didn’t think the revulsion that he felt in his gut showed in his tone, but maybe he was wrong. Tom didn’t say anything from the shadows, and Xander’s keen hearing picked up what sounded like the soft chimes of a cell phone key pad being dialed.

“I’m real sorry to hear that, Xander. I thought we would be able to work something out. I really did, but I should have known that it would be hard to convince you.”

“Take me.”

“Vhat?” Sven nearly spat out the word, his jaw nearly wrenched off it’s biological wiring, and sure enough, his mouth twisted into an amused smile. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, you bastard.” Xander said quietly.

“Why, Xander, you’re a sentimentalist. If only your sons knew how much their daddy loved them.”

Xander‘s next words were rushed, and that was a mistake. “Just first, let me see my bo-”

Sven‘s grin faded, and his face went dark, and a snarl curled his upper lip. “You don’t get that right. Goodbye Xander, I guess it was a fair trade after all.” He pulled the trigger without flinching, gunshot ringing out three terrible times.

Xander Mercer was not a man who believed in death by degrees.

He didn't give pieces of himself up to the battle. Parts were stolen—almost the entirety of his future taken in a single flame-spawned night—but they were not offered, not conceded.

He survived scars, skirmishes, and near-death, but he refused to die for lesser things—not when victory and revenge still waited to become his. He still had reserved vengeance for Rose’s killer, and had let go of her long ago, but still, this was now, and that was then.

Making his bargain in the close, dark air of that warehouse basement, he was surprised to find that in trading his life for James‘, he was dying for that everything after all.

He welcomed the three harsh bullets open arms.

---

James’s jaw was clenched so tightly to keep from gasping that he thought for sure that he was going to chip a molar. He was too late. The whole scene burned into James’ eyes, details sharp and indelible: the cloudiness in Xander’s eyes, the greying pallor of his skin, the utter stillness despite the uncomfortable angle of his legs. The tang of blood infiltrated his nostrils, so disgusting, it made his stomach roil. Then Pan was on his knees, vomiting so hard because the asthma was so tight in his chest, stomach aching nearly as much as his torso as he sobbed.

“Shut up.” Sven growled icily, his hand grasping Pan’s upper-arm in a vice-grip and hauled him roughly to his feet with single bicep power. As though disgusted by tears, Sven glanced away from his wet face, the swish of his coat, walking over the blood-stained floorboards “He’s dead and there’s nothing you can do. You want revenge? West London is massacred.”

“Scheiße. What a mess.” Sven raked his fingernails through his cropped hair “Evans, Jensen.. help clear his body. Nathaniel, wipe the fingerprints.”

“You two come with us now.” Sven glanced at James “Christ, can’t you two take orders? Ajax,

James’s head was on fire, and the last thing he remembered, was blackness clouding his eyes, the dark knocking him out like chloroform.

-------------------

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Dad’s dead because of me.”

“You don’t know that.”

Yes, I do.

Pan and James are watching as they burn their father’s dead body on a pyre. Pan is sobbing as he looks on. James, however, is stoic. He stares, unmoving, at the body.

Pan: Before…before he…[He stops, unable to get the words out.] Did he say anything to you? About anything?

James: [after a pause] No. Nothin’. [They both go silent. As James stared at the body, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

At the Redgraves---

This, in general, was a realization the eldest Mercer really wished he hadn't come to, because now on top of the unbearable sadness and self-blame and gried that had piled up so severely over the past few weeks, most of all in the last few days, there was now anger as well. Anger at himself for not being able to keep it under his belt, anger at Pan for making him realize he had weaknesses at all, angry at his father for being dead. Which was stupid, really. How could he be mad at Xander for being dead? Any reasonably person probably would have thought him insane, and at the moment.

Xander have left him the beloved Impala in his will, the volume on the stereo cranked up as loud as he could turn it without risking a speaker blowout, the windows down blowing the most refreshing air he had ever felt, something hard metal that he could drown everything out with ended, and Thank You by Led Zepplin had come on. James didn’t like music. Hell, James didn't get emotional. Period. Speed and raging metal had a way of taking away some pain.

Pain. He reflected on the gaping hole in his chest that was his heart, wondered how he could stand it much longer, curious as to if a heart could actually break in two. He’d already suffered his first and only heartache by he was pretty sure was the only girl he’d ever loved.

Not letting Pan tell him he wasn't okay, snapping at his younger brother every time he brought up anything remotely emotional had enabled him to let anger take the place of feeling.

Splashing cold water on his face, he looked into his reflection and saw the lines on his face from clenching his jaw, the pulsing in his temple. He ran a hand through his hair, breathing as deeply through his nose as he could. He had to hold himself back from punching the mirror that allowed that face to stare back at him.

He didn't understand why he let emotions take the best of him, but he had. And if his family saw him like this, it would all be over. James wouldn't be able to be the strong one any longer, he wouldn't be able to shoulder both their burdens the way he felt he needed to. He wouldn’t be the protector. He would be the weak one, the one who needed help, and that, maybe even more than any of the other factors, pushed him to the edge the most. But before he could numb himself over, hotness was creeping over his face, wetness prickling at the corners of his eyes.

In his need to quench all emotion, he had emotionally rushed into the motel room, not even bothering to see if Sam was in there, to steel himself over before he did anything. Because of that, he shook his head, and quickly slammed the bathroom door shut. If Sam was out there, oh God. He didn't even know. He slid down to the cool bathroom floor and waited. If Sam was there, he would know soon enough. Then...he didn't know. He didn't know much of anything at the present time. It was second by second, holding onto a single thread, just anticipating the break but fighting it with all his life.

Lou. He didn't care. He wasn't... entirely heartless, though. He did what he did and that was just who he was. Woman to woman. Nicole was just another woman.

The silence was loud. James begged the silence to break, but vowed he wouldn't be the one to break it.

Description
The Finale

Warnings: Swearing, violence and major James angst-fest >D.

Unlike many other eighteen year old boys, James had developed a burdening sense of responsibility through the years saddled around his shoulders. The last thing he wanted was to be thought of as a kid.
A prominent, undefeatable James trait was stubbornness. Chinks in the armor weren't a luxury he was allowed. At least, they weren't a luxury he would allow himself to possess. His stubbornness created this void between himself and this current situation, these real feelings. James’s defiance and great desire to follow in his guardian’s footsteps was the fuel that impulse him every day to defy gravity.

He had turned eighteen in July. Sheer weeks ago, he still knew how to hold a grin, crack a joke or two and laugh. Now he wasn’t so sure of the world, hiding beneath the car he worked on as an excuse to blow off steam, his sore hand dropping the wrench as he pulled at his shaggy hair, tangled with sweat and grime. His lips blew up at his moist forehead, feeling the ache in his back from lying on a skateboard for hours on end and slide out gracelessly from under the Impala’s frame. The thin, damp fabric of his t-shirt over his psyche made noticeable the fact that the brown-haired boy’s body had developed, being planes of big and sculpted muscle. More than just fit: he was ripped. The smooth V of his torso, flat waist and brawny arms were his most attractive asset. His face still had it's boyish openness but there was a masculine steadiness to his serious eyes now and the set of his jaw that it made him more attractive. Despite his body, he was an inexperienced boy who still needed to learn many things about life and it‘s raw, bitter loopholes.

The porch door slammed shut, and Pan surfaced from within the quiet Mercer household and sat down on the steps, on looking the scene in the driveway where James had mauled the Imapala to pieces by taking the car apart. Which was really just a reason to distract himself. He also has lost his boyish pretense because of his unsmiling face and his muscular arms folded awkwardly in front of his chest. They had went from boys to men in less than a hundred hours. “It’s been a week, and you’re still working on that?”

James merely grunted in return,

There was no more Lou Nadeau anymore- no gentleness, no sunlight as far as he’s concerned, and he wondered as he inhales the dry wind, if he’ll ever see her again, and his mouth twitches at the hope. No. He didn’t feel like smiling anymore. He’s let go of his high school contacts, except for Ry Heide, one of the only real damn friends he’s ever had, and the only one who showed at the funeral. Most he knew were leaving for college or other continents; and he was a school dropout with no future except a career in crime.

“I just wanted to make sure you‘re okay. I‘m not alright. But neither are you.” He was always so painfully open.

James would rather stab himself than admitting his brother was right.

About me and ..Dad. I’m sorry that the last time I was with him, I tried to pick a fight. I’m sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him. I mean, for all I know, he died thinkin’ that I hate him. So, you’re right. What I’m doin’ right now -- it is too little. It’s too late. I miss him. And I feel guilty as hell. And I’m not all right. Not at all. I should have died. That was the desperation inside his own head, and he bit back his tongue and flung out a retort instead.

“I swear, the next person who asks me if I’m okay, I’m gonna to start throwing punches.” His deep voice swelled into a bubbling crescendo of resentment, turning his back.

“He wouldn‘t want you to be this way.” Pan entailed quietly, turning to go back into the old house.

After Pan left, James didn’t say anything. He calmly picked up a tire iron from the ground, smacking it in the palm of his hand, feeling the emotion rush to his head like a volcano.

A second passed, and then he broke. He turned to the car and smashed the window, and cutting shaves of glass exploded around his arm. It obviously wasn’t enough. He charged to the front of the Impala and swung the tire iron, crashing it down hard on the hood. He did it again and again, and each blow got more forceful, more aggressive, eventually creating a large crater-like dent. Storming to the back, he smashed the trunk seventeen times, growling with each impact, indenting the fine metal and then dropped the tire iron to the ground with a harsh clatter. Entirely breathless, he stared at nothing, his expression stone-cold.

Xxx

The week before:

Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win. When they do, Blood is thicker than water, and outshines the purpose of virtue. Through flesh and phantom, armor and apparition, we struck the core of chaos buried beneath.

Through stealth and sacrifice, bloodshed and burning, we leave answers and stillness behind.

It's not really about brotherhood, our diverse cultural bonds, the blood, the food, the guns, killing for kicks, or playing cards. It's about cash; the art of making it and the art of hiding it. We market in gambling, violence, extortion, prostitution, blackmail, identity theft, drugs, fraud and murder for hire. We’re as organized as wolves, and the city is the sheep, vulnerable to our elements and bite.

Whether your grave will be red is our perchance and you only have one chance.. will you take it?

It was cold outside; the pavement shivered, the sidewalks cracked, and floorboards contracted. The heat from the cars and lungs escaped like a smoke, twirling and dancing up the chilly air, but the cold did not affect him. Few things did, nowadays.

It was a warehouse those days, 10 years ago. The headquarters were a colossal warehouse, resurrected from a 1920’s museum, and had been through punishing renovations through the years. Situated conveniently near the city’s harbor and flanking the North end of the train tracks, it faced suburbia, which rested peacefully on the other sunny side. Water guarded the stern of the headquarters, while

and overrode the police, by whom were always a step behind the Red Graves.

Sven had recently been promoted. An immigrant from Germany, Only 26 years old, he was the leader, fucking el captain of the esteemed Red Graves, a feat almost impossible to achieve at such a young age when most were in their mid-thirties at best. Oh, a great many had objectified, verbalizing their anger to an outsider taking the reins from Tobias Castle, but the man was made of a terrifying awesome, later proving his worth to those now below him on the food chain.

Xander, having been with the Red Graves for nine years, was the assassin extraordinaire around these parts and refused second-in-command for his own personal reasons ever since eight years ago, so Trey Kingsley was the under boss these days. Harley Fox, made of mean muscle, was the bodyguard. Romeo Evans and Joshua Jensen were top soldiers, capable of undertaking the devil himself. Nathaniel Holmes, pyro and explosions expertise and quite the shrewd drug dealer. Ajax was their medical specialist. And the rest of those petty members were foot soldiers, including some nineteen year old fuckwits by the name of Charlie Olsen and Ty, who were pretty much dim but doggedly loyal.

And then there was Koran August, the newest addition to the higher ranks.. the freshman, however old or young he was,.. was uncertain because he kept his personal history behind closed doors, behind his veil of black hair and glistening obsidian-like eyes. Sven had the dirt on him but kept his lips sealed.

Sven was slightly reminiscent of a Hollywood vampire, but in reality he shouldered albinism, which could have made him a social leper if it wasn‘t for his all guns and blood attitude, and his desire for more power. He ought to have been channeling the soul of Macbeth or some war god in his pale temple because of his steadfast ambition that ripped his conscience apart inch by inch, until there was nothing left. His skin feared the sun, so by day he lay low and by night was when he worked. He didn’t possess a trademark skill but many; he was able-bodied, swift on his feet and ambidextrous with weapons. Men feared him and became humble to his regime, while women did anything to please his handsome, wan façade. Even his lips were pale, drinking from the glass full of red wine he held, fingers grasped around it’s swell. He ran his tongue along his upper teeth, draining the last ruby swigs thirstily.

“So. Xander.” Sven began distantly since his white-nearly-blue eyes were nailed on a folder stuffed full of documents. “When I asked you to retrieve the Beretta, I meant to hand it over to me. I did not mean, pass it along as a fucking family heirloom.”

Xander kept his fraught lips pressed together wisely, because to argue would be childish. He knew it was suspicious when he‘d gotten the hospital phone call about Pan‘s eye because seventeen year olds knew better than to play with kitchen knives, and so he knew James must had found the 3rd floor closet full of weaponry somehow. Contrary to popular belief, James wasn’t an idiot, but neither was he moral.

“And I’ve heard your son, James has gotten himself into trouble. Took the gun to school, was it?”

“And you know who that gun belongs to. That pistol is vorth god knows vat.” Sven waved his hand dismissively. There was to be only one top mafia in this city, the Red Graves, and Sven surely wasn’t going to let the West London, or the Bloodhounds for that matter, walk all over them and take over the place. A malicious glint overrode his pearly gaze and he snorted.

Those spindly fingers laced together and Sven rested his chin in the jagged rows of his knuckles. “Once they have the gun, it won’t be enough and they still won’t stop. They’ll come after your three other boys, your precious daughter.. and that little niece of yours.”

Koran made a guttural noise in his throat, and both men blinked, Sven glaring at him, touched by annoyance, but Koran remained silent, his electric-black trench coat and hair fusing into the unpleasantly cold shadows.

Some eight years ago Xander never would have imagined himself doing this – any of this – but eight years was a long time, and one life-altering moment enough to change it all; the bleeding circumstances stretched the brevity of that one instant into eternity, life shattering like glass before his blue and brown hued eyes, and forever etched in a languid, lazy, unexpected night (third of May) that imprinted itself upon his brain like a double exposure. It was a memory of a lifeline going flat at the push of a button, holding him hostage and helpless in nightmares that ricocheted around his soul,

The old days, long gone, were sewn to certain, poignant memories, stored for safer keeping like a box of most precious secrets: a spilled beer, the first honest smile, getting down on his knee, a phone call telling him it was starting, infant blue eyes and a small hand closing around his finger, a night of startled red, and following years of lacunal grey.

Holding onto those recollections with both hands and teeth because memory was winged, elusive; wanting to remember the moments just as they were, with weight and flavour and smell, not viewed through rose-tinted glasses as passage of time knows so often to alter one’s perception of favourable past. After all, they were perfect just the way they were. It was his family that brought temperance to Gavin’s life, balanced it out by pointing on the fulcrum of everything that truly mattered, and only after they were taken from him, did his wife’s words suddenly make perfect sense. It was all so painstakingly clear, so how could he let go, replace their faces with another, and another, until there were no more lips to remember, no more names to be lost. He just couldn’t.

“I’d do anything.” Xander said helplessly. “I’ll make a deal with them.”

Sven smirked.

“Shut up.“ Xander rasped harshly. “I do need to make sure this isn’t another one of your lies. I haven’t exactly been able to trust you in the past, Sven.”

“I’m offended. You have my word. Your family will be safe. James won’t harmed ..however, since we are offering him protection, he’ll owe me in return, his loyalty.”

Xander withdrew a tight breath. “What’s the catch, Sven?”

xxxxx

“James. Open the door.”

“I’ve never asked anything of you like this before. But you know what did, and it sure as hell wasn‘t smart.” Xander was being honest to a harsh tee, grating away whatever was left of James’s innocence. His childhood was now stripped of it’s remains. “What were you thinking anyways? Trying to get yourself fucking killed?”

Between bringing weapons to school, getting expelled and getting into bar fights, Xander couldn’t decide what made him more frustrated about the boy.
During the past few weeks,

“That gun. I know you still have it.”

Xander sighed

“I know, I’m not your real fath-“

“Then stop pretending to be!”

Xander was silent for a long moment, the bedsprings creaking as he got off the bed, closing the door

“What are you doing?” James demanded,

“I think I should go with you.” James said, testing the waters and being the rebellious one, he fought for every inch.

Xander was ice; James was all fire. They didn’t equal each other out, either, making a comfortable room temperature; they created something else all together. Either way, it burnt. Like hell. Anger suffused James’s chest, creeping up into his cheeks until they flushed. It wasn’t hard to fake anger. It was the only emotion that he could get a handle on.

Granted only months ago, he was three inches shorter. Now at eighteen, he looked like a damn scary man, one who was clinging to control by a hair.

Or he would have looked scary if he wasn’t yelling at a man who was damn terrifying.

Xxxx

Go to the West London HQ.

Xander hooked his beloved Smith & Wesson to his belt and retrieved the Beretta’s weapon’s case, doubt fluttering through him. He never wanted his son to feel the bone-shaking remorse that one felt after killing another human being, but tonight it may be inevitable.

Xander stewed, keeping his anger locked up tight. James knew his father was furious.

He walked outside, stowing the gun in the trunk before getting into the Impala. James slid in beside him, tightly contained, but thrumming with unused energy. Silently they drove to the warehouse district downtown East where West London was holed up, and Xander parked the car where it couldn’t be seen.

Xander was pretty sure that James was getting ready to bust a cap in someone’s ass or ventilate them or whatever lingo the kids were using these days. Xander didn’t really blame him. He was pretty close to toeing the line to murder himself. He just needed to figure out who needed killing so he could pack either silver bullets or consecrated rounds.

There was only one thing that Xander took more seriously than his job, and that was his family. That was the reason they were who they were. Someone, something had fucked with their family and someday it was going to pay. John was going to make certain it stayed that way even if it killed him.

Although he was livid to know his son was being used as bait, Xander was relieved it wasn’t one of his other three children, but that didn‘t necessarily reassure him. He knew that while Pan could never hurt another human being so easily, he would know how to handle himself. His son would have fought his attackers, but when faced with a kill-or-be-killed situation, Pan would choose to safeguard the sanctity of human life over his own safety. His boy was good and pure like that, feeling remorse even for those who didn’t deserve it, looking for the good in everything.

His oldest son would never kill just for the sake of it, but he would annihilate anything that threatened what was close to him. Deep inside, where he hid is heart, James would feel the pain of killing, but he would shove it down and move forward. At night when the shadows were the darkest, the guilt would eat at him, but he would survive it, because that was what James did. James did what others couldn’t, sparing them the agony of it, and taking it upon himself to do the dirty work.

“Well, they seem pretty fucking surprised to see us.” James panted for breath as he and Xander sprinted along a hallway. “I sa

Xxxxx

He dipped his chin, allowing his too long brown hair to fall in front of his eyes, hooding them. His eyes were his best and worst trait. James curled his busted lip into a mockery of a smile, flashing even teeth stained pink with blood. The kid, no, young man was dangerous. “Who’s next?”

A mob of trench coats, pistols, polished boots and brand tattoos. Unpleasant laughter chorused amongst the men,

“I think he’s serious.”

His fist could feel bones crunching under skin as he punched, again, and again, losing track of the faces .

---

For a millisecond there wasn’t anything but pain. Normally his brain was able to filter out physical pain and allow him to function despite it, but this was an all-encompassing, brain-searing, intestine-wrenching pain, and at the first shock of it there was no thought, there was only agony. But when a groan forced its way through his gritted teeth and he caught his breath in a gasp, his brain cleared enough to remember what was happening.

For an instant James almost wished that the thought-crushing pain would return, because hearing the screams of agony made him want to scratch out his eardrums. Physical pain was a breeze. He was the warrior-son, raised to fight through pain, to master it. To enjoy it even, in a perverse, manly sort of way.

Another wave of pain, almost welcome now but just as excruciating, slammed his head back against the rotting wood wall, and over the pounding of his own heartbeat he heard himself moan, cry out for his father.

Pain like fire slashed at him, like knives of flame and acid tearing apart his insides, wrenching from him another near-scream. Blood like a river, gushing from his chest, from his mouth, spilling onto the floor with audible splashes. More blood than a man should ever lose. He gave a small sob, then a choking gurgle as the blood in his throat stopped his breath for a moment, hot and tasting of iron, like fear sometimes tastes. Another gurgle, then the hot blood rolled down his chin, painting his skin with warrior stripes.

Another spasm of pain wracked him, and choked again on the blood in his mouth. He felt a grimace crease his mouth, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. His vision began to surge, clearing around the crooks of his eyes and he saw a black-haired figure slumped on the floor, his chest He was alive.

“an. C’mon, get up.” James insisted weakly while grabbing his shirt to haul him up, murmuring a thank god under his breath as Pan stirred to his relief. The kid was breathless, his lungs screaming for air. “Who-”

Pan groaned, rousing from his coma and looked groggy and dazed. “I don’t know.. They had a bag over my head. Where‘s dad?”

“Where’s your inhaler?” James demanded, ignoring the question while Pan choked on his air, but both went very still, raising their heads as gunshots rang above them floors above.

Xxxx

Nearly, and hunting for breath, he ducked low, spying the entrance to the main floor.

He moved into the room, his body low to the ground, his weapon raised defensively.

“That’s far enough, Mercer.” A terribly familiar voice burned.

A red beam appeared out of nowhere, pegging Xander in the center of the chest. He followed the line of sight back to its origins, but could see nothing but a dark mass of piled debris. Xander stood in defeat, knowing that there was no reason for stealth now. “I should have known it was you.”

Sven Winter was standing calmly in the midst of blood and gore,

“Toss the gun.”

Xander did as he was told, throwing the gun to the side.

“What else you got?”

“Why don’t you come and find out?” Xander didn‘t leer like James would have done. His face was a mask of seriousness. He was playing his cards close to the vest. If the man drawing down on him was dumb enough to come close enough to search him, then that would be his mistake. However, if he didn’t search him, then he would never know what kind of weapons Xander was really carrying.

John could hear the metallic slide of the bolt being drawn back on a rifle, and he almost smiled.

“They’re all dead. Throw out all your weapons or I kill your son.”

If someone was watching Xander closely they may have seen him tense, but it wasn’t likely. With casual disregard for the man who was issuing orders from the shadows Xander began to toss his weapons to the side. The benefit of being heavily armed is that when you do disarm, the sheer numbers of weapons that are dropped convince the assailant that you have discarded everything. After tossing aside three handguns, one shotgun, and a bevy of bladed weapons, one would think that there weren’t any more hiding places for a weapon to be found. They would be wrong.

“Where’s my son, Sven?”

Xander voice was thick with disdain, and he could imagine the consternation on the face of the man who was hiding. He had just upped the stakes by acknowledging Sven was behind it all along, framing the West Londoners when they‘d done nothing at all. He wondered if Sven would check or call.

“He’s around, but you bring up a good point. Where’s that other boy of yours?”

Call it is.

“He’s around.” Xander checked and waited for Sven to raise the stakes. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Look, Xander. I know you are pretty fucking pissed off right now and you have every right to be, but once you hear what I have to say I think you’ll understand.”

“Understand you stealing my boy? That’s gonna take some doing, Sven.”

“Now, Xander.” Sven tried to match Xander’s tone, but he sounded more cajoling than anything. “I know you’re concerned. You’re a good man. You care for those boys, and that’s admirable. You can’t be faulted for not having all the facts.”

Xander wanted to shift his weight to bring his right leg forward, but he restrained himself. He had a .38 in an ankle holster, and he wanted nothing more than to drop and pull the gun so he could shoot the fucker in front of him through the head. Even in the dark, he knew he could make the shot. He didn’t have to see the guy to know where he was. His laser sight and voice told Xander all he needed to know. What he needed was a distraction so he could get the drop on him.

“And what facts would those be?”

“You still have the gun hidden.” Sven breathed. “I knew you weren’t going to give it up so easily for the sake of leverage.”

“Really?

Sven tried a different tact. “I know about your wife. How she died.”

It was a good thing that Xander had a lifetime and a half to practice restraint. If he had been a less disciplined man he might have attacked the guy right then and there. The anger that suffused every cell in his body burned like acid, and he could feel his fingers tremble with it. He inhaled deeply though his nose, calming his senses, and making damn sure that his voice was under control before he spoke.

“I would tread lightly if I were you.” The words echoed in the room, similar to a wolf growling from the cover of its den. His teeth bared slightly.

“I know I’m stirring bad memories, but keep in mind that I have the gun. Don’t be foolish now.” Sven admonished.

“You’re talking about things that you have no business talking about.” Unable to control himself, Xander shifted his leg forward, preparing himself to attack.

“Now, normally I would agree with you, Xander. A man’s family is his business, but you see, it’s the way the gun that makes it all our business.”

That has to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Xander needed to get to the root of Sven’s ramblings before he went off the deep end. It had been his experience that the best way to get a fanatic to talk was to challenge his beliefs.

“Your boy isn’t really yours. Adopted, was he?”

Something sank deep in Xander’s belly. It writhed around inside him until he thought he was going to be sick. His fingers curled into fists at their own accord, and suddenly the air became heavy and stagnant, making it hard for him to breathe.

John was still for a long while, absorbing the man’s words, forming a response in his mind. He needed to get out from under the barrel of the rifle that was being pointed at him and next to his son. And there was only one way to do that.

“I’m gonna need to see some proof, Sven. I need to see my---I need to see Pan.”

Xander thought he sounded pretty convincing. He didn’t think the revulsion that he felt in his gut showed in his tone, but maybe he was wrong. Tom didn’t say anything from the shadows, and Xander’s keen hearing picked up what sounded like the soft chimes of a cell phone key pad being dialed.

“I’m real sorry to hear that, Xander. I thought we would be able to work something out. I really did, but I should have known that it would be hard to convince you.”

“Take me.”

“Vhat?” Sven nearly spat out the word, his jaw nearly wrenched off it’s biological wiring, and sure enough, his mouth twisted into an amused smile. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, you bastard.” Xander said quietly.

“Why, Xander, you’re a sentimentalist. If only your sons knew how much their daddy loved them.”

Xander‘s next words were rushed, and that was a mistake. “Just first, let me see my bo-”

Sven‘s grin faded, and his face went dark, and a snarl curled his upper lip. “You don’t get that right. Goodbye Xander, I guess it was a fair trade after all.” He pulled the trigger without flinching, gunshot ringing out three terrible times.

Xander Mercer was not a man who believed in death by degrees.

He didn't give pieces of himself up to the battle. Parts were stolen—almost the entirety of his future taken in a single flame-spawned night—but they were not offered, not conceded.

He survived scars, skirmishes, and near-death, but he refused to die for lesser things—not when victory and revenge still waited to become his. He still had reserved vengeance for Rose’s killer, and had let go of her long ago, but still, this was now, and that was then.

Making his bargain in the close, dark air of that warehouse basement, he was surprised to find that in trading his life for James‘, he was dying for that everything after all.

He welcomed the three harsh bullets open arms.

---

James’s jaw was clenched so tightly to keep from gasping that he thought for sure that he was going to chip a molar. He was too late. The whole scene burned into James’ eyes, details sharp and indelible: the cloudiness in Xander’s eyes, the greying pallor of his skin, the utter stillness despite the uncomfortable angle of his legs. The tang of blood infiltrated his nostrils, so disgusting, it made his stomach roil. Then Pan was on his knees, vomiting so hard because the asthma was so tight in his chest, stomach aching nearly as much as his torso as he sobbed.

“Shut up.” Sven growled icily, his hand grasping Pan’s upper-arm in a vice-grip and hauled him roughly to his feet with single bicep power. As though disgusted by tears, Sven glanced away from his wet face, the swish of his coat, walking over the blood-stained floorboards “He’s dead and there’s nothing you can do. You want revenge? West London is massacred.”

“Scheiße. What a mess.” Sven raked his fingernails through his cropped hair “Evans, Jensen.. help clear his body. Nathaniel, wipe the fingerprints.”

“You two come with us now.” Sven glanced at James “Christ, can’t you two take orders? Ajax,

James’s head was on fire, and the last thing he remembered, was blackness clouding his eyes, the dark knocking him out like chloroform.

-------------------

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Dad’s dead because of me.”

“You don’t know that.”

Yes, I do.

Pan and James are watching as they burn their father’s dead body on a pyre. Pan is sobbing as he looks on. James, however, is stoic. He stares, unmoving, at the body.

Pan: Before…before he…[He stops, unable to get the words out.] Did he say anything to you? About anything?

James: [after a pause] No. Nothin’. [They both go silent. As James stared at the body, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

At the Redgraves---

This, in general, was a realization the eldest Mercer really wished he hadn't come to, because now on top of the unbearable sadness and self-blame and gried that had piled up so severely over the past few weeks, most of all in the last few days, there was now anger as well. Anger at himself for not being able to keep it under his belt, anger at Pan for making him realize he had weaknesses at all, angry at his father for being dead. Which was stupid, really. How could he be mad at Xander for being dead? Any reasonably person probably would have thought him insane, and at the moment.

Xander have left him the beloved Impala in his will, the volume on the stereo cranked up as loud as he could turn it without risking a speaker blowout, the windows down blowing the most refreshing air he had ever felt, something hard metal that he could drown everything out with ended, and Thank You by Led Zepplin had come on. James didn’t like music. Hell, James didn't get emotional. Period. Speed and raging metal had a way of taking away some pain.

Pain. He reflected on the gaping hole in his chest that was his heart, wondered how he could stand it much longer, curious as to if a heart could actually break in two. He’d already suffered his first and only heartache by he was pretty sure was the only girl he’d ever loved.

Not letting Pan tell him he wasn't okay, snapping at his younger brother every time he brought up anything remotely emotional had enabled him to let anger take the place of feeling.

Splashing cold water on his face, he looked into his reflection and saw the lines on his face from clenching his jaw, the pulsing in his temple. He ran a hand through his hair, breathing as deeply through his nose as he could. He had to hold himself back from punching the mirror that allowed that face to stare back at him.

He didn't understand why he let emotions take the best of him, but he had. And if his family saw him like this, it would all be over. James wouldn't be able to be the strong one any longer, he wouldn't be able to shoulder both their burdens the way he felt he needed to. He wouldn’t be the protector. He would be the weak one, the one who needed help, and that, maybe even more than any of the other factors, pushed him to the edge the most. But before he could numb himself over, hotness was creeping over his face, wetness prickling at the corners of his eyes.

In his need to quench all emotion, he had emotionally rushed into the motel room, not even bothering to see if Sam was in there, to steel himself over before he did anything. Because of that, he shook his head, and quickly slammed the bathroom door shut. If Sam was out there, oh God. He didn't even know. He slid down to the cool bathroom floor and waited. If Sam was there, he would know soon enough. Then...he didn't know. He didn't know much of anything at the present time. It was second by second, holding onto a single thread, just anticipating the break but fighting it with all his life.

Lou. He didn't care. He wasn't... entirely heartless, though. He did what he did and that was just who he was. Woman to woman. Nicole was just another woman.

The silence was loud. James begged the silence to break, but vowed he wouldn't be the one to break it.