greenygal

WIP Amnesty Day, huh? Now that's an idea we can all benefit from... *g*

Hmm. Most of my WIPs, either I do have some hope of using them someday, or they're nothing I'm gonna subject the rest of you to. :) There is, however, this.

This is Apollo fic, written right after the next-to-last issue of the first volume of AUTHORITY. In which Midnighter, um, died. So, heavy on the angst.

***

Somewhere, you're about to be absolutely furious with me.

Actually, you probably already are. You, who almost never raised your voice no matter how angry you were, have probably been yelling at me for months now.

I wish I could hear it.

I know this is never what you wanted. Of course I know. What do you think has kept me going this long?

The strange thing is, we never actually talked about it. Never. Not once. Granted, I don't have your perfect memory--or want it, all things considered. But this conversation I'd remember, and we didn't have it.

Which seems a little odd, given our lives. We spent almost our entire time together either killing people or trying not to let them kill us--not really the safest of existences. So you'd think that at some point over the last seven years, we'd have talked about one of us...dying. And what would happen after.

It wasn't like we didn't know. You, especially. You were the one with the computer in his head, the one who saw every outcome of every fight--including the bad ones. You knew *exactly* how possible it was.

I think, maybe, that's why you didn't want to talk about it. Because you could see it so clearly, and your only defense against that was to pretend that it wasn't there. To hope that if you didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge all those ways you could see me dying, they wouldn't happen...

In my own way, I was just as superstitious and irrational. I never said anything because I didn't think I needed to. Because I believed, in my most secret and stupid heart, that the universe, cruel and imperfect as it was, still had enough rightness in it to grant us just this much: that when we died, we would die together.

So much for that.

Unless I do what we always did, and make it come out right myself...

I'm sorry. I am. Because the point is that it doesn't matter that we never said anything. I could trace every tremor in your body and tell what each one meant, even through the scars: I didn't need words to know that you would have wanted me to go on. And I swore on your grave that I would, because it was the last thing I'd ever be able to do for you...

And I'm failing even that.

I can't talk to people any more, Midnighter. It used to be easy. I used to like people, talking to them and being around them and just sort of *having* them. You'd tease me that I ran off chat, not solar energy, and I'd tell you to remember that the next time you said I was talking too much... But you never minded, not really, especially not in a crowd where you could get away with just letting me talk for you...

These days I feel like a robot. Wind-up Apollo, small talk when you push the button, and if I'm lucky they won't notice that I don't care about a single thing I'm saying...

Other lovers--yeah, I tried that too. And fuck you anyway if you don't like it; you're dead, remember?

You don't have anything to be jealous about, anyway. It was lousy. With you I was almost telepathic; I could get hard just seeing you smirk and knowing exactly what you were thinking of doing to me. First date fumblings don't compare. And I almost killed the last one, because he wanted to play rough and for half a second I thought he was that bastard Last Call...

Yes, I *am* still dreaming about that, why do you ask? And then I'll wake up, and you're not there, sprawled protectively on top of me...and part of me wants the nightmare back. Because at least then I was sure you'd eventually come for me...

And then there's the job. Or rather, there isn't. Officially, Jack has given me an indefinite leave of absence for personal reasons. Unofficially...well, after that last disaster of a mission I can't blame them for not wanting to depend on me in a fight, no matter how much they care.

I'm not angry. It doesn't seem important enough to get angry. Besides, they're doing it for me, too. They think I've got a deathwish, that I'm taking stupid risks because I want to get myself killed, and none of them want to help me commit suicide. Angie was very explicit about that; she screamed at me for a good three minutes, liberally laced with Brooklyn obscenities, before Jack and Shen managed to calm her down. I can't really blame her; she came within about five seconds of having to carry my mangled corpse back to the Carrier...

They're right, of course. I haven't been consciously trying to die--I have just enough control for that. But unconsciously...? It doesn't take your abilities to plot *that* equation.

But I don't think any of them have caught on to the rest of it. It took me a while, too, and I'm sitting here at ground zero. What's really screwing me up is that I just...don't care. That fire that drew us to Bendix in the first place, that got us through five miserable years on the street, that dragged us out of retirement and back into the insanity affectionately known as "saving the world"...it just isn't there. A finer world doesn't matter to me anymore, Midnighter. Not if you're not in it.

...it's hard to believe I can say that. Feel that. I'm not surprised the others haven't picked up on it; we're all so obsessive about what we do--even the Doctor--I'm pretty sure it's never even occurred to them. I wouldn't have, either, if it wasn't me.

I think Jenny might have understood. I wish I could talk to her about it. Well, actually, I have; you just don't get much of an answer back these days...

She's been the last thing, the hardest thing, to give up. We all take care of her, but I've been spending more time with her than the rest, especially now that I don't go on missions anymore. She's getting hard to hold these days; she's a hyperactive little thing who wants to be everywhere at once. Angie and the Doctor have had words with the Carrier; there's nothing on it that can hurt her, and any*one* who tries it will get...unpleasant surprises. Which hasn't stopped the occasional panic attack on all our parts...

But it's when she runs out of steam that it really gets hard. When I have to bend down and pick her up, and feel her snuggle into my arms...

I love her. But I'm afraid of what the man I'm becoming might do to her if he tried to raise her.

And she doesn't need me, not really. Jack will teach her to fight for what's important. Shen will teach her to care. Angie will teach her how to have a normal life, or at least as much of one as she can manage. The Doctor...actually, I'm not quite sure I want to know what she'll get from him, but it's enough to know that he loves her too. She'll be okay. And it would only be worse if I waited...

So really, all that's keeping me is that promise. I never broke a promise to you before. I guess...there's a first time for everything.

And a last.

Forgive me?

I hope so. But either way...I'll see you soon.

***

Those of you reading AUTHORITY around then can perhaps understand how I was prompted to commit this. *shudders* But I don't think the basic idea really holds up, at least not without a lot more work, plus then