MEURTRIIER

Cal knew how quickly the serum would work, but he still wasn’t prepared to watch it dig as deeply into Mats’s mind as it has. Helped along, of course, by Cal himself. Gordon, he reminds himself, but it doesn’t matter. The guilt kills him inside, and he knows Mats will forgive him because it’s part of the ruse, but Cal has to choke down a mix of blaming himself, and anger at Mats.

He’s the one who let it get this far, a cold voice speaks in Cal’s mind, and he recognizes it as Gordon, the practiced voice he’s been refining for months now to make sure his veneer was perfect for this ploy. The amount of deep-diving he’s had to do has fucked with his mind at times, and he hated it then, and he hates it now. Hearing the words, cold and cruel, in Cal’s voice but skewed, different, makes him want to rip the Abstergo uniform off and drag Mats away from the situation.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and it kills him. Mats would break without Cal, they both know their dependence on each other is unhealthy, but Cal doesn’t think he deserves to be forgiven for doing this to Mats. Rising to his challenge. Just as Mats could have backed down when Cal - Gordon - produced the serum, so, too, could Cal have backed down. It might have gotten him a tongue-lashing from the higher-ups, but it wouldn’t have blown their cover.

Instead, he has to stand to the side, hands behind his back, nails digging into his wrist, and watch with as impassive an expression as he can while Mats cries out for his mother, pleads for her to stay, and Cal’s heard these words often enough in Mats’s nightmares to know what he’s seeing.

Mats screams, pounds the floor with his fists, and Cal knows the strength of the serum enough to know that, were he not seeing memories of his mother leaving him, Mats would have enough focus and strength to knock Cal aside and escape. Instead, Cal’s planted the most painful memories he can into his head and forced him to relive them.

Drive it home, Gordon says, a double edged sword of logic and cruelty. Remind him that Callum isn’t here for him, and perhaps he won’t act out again in the future.

Cal’s jaw clenches tighter, and his eyes flicker once to the side as Mats screams louder. To the security camera, it might look simply as if Gordon were uncomfortable with the volume rather than the truth that Cal hates every single second of what’s happening. Rage stirs in the pit of his stomach, at himself, at Mats, at the entire idea of infiltration, and he imagines Moussa, Lin, Josef, and Stevie must be having an easier time with this. Dangerous, yes, but it feels like nothing can hurt as much as this right now.

“You know where Lynch is,” Gordon speaks, accented and cold, and Cal knows it could change the visions along with it, permeate what Mats is already seeing and shift it to follow along. “And Moussa, and the others that broke out with you. You’re protecting them, while they let you get caught. They left you alone-” Fuck, he’s saying this, and he hates it. “-and you’re the one suffering. It can all stop if you would just…cooperate.”

Hell isn’t a place; it’s a memory. 

It’s the echo of his mother’s laughter, knowing he’ll never hear it again. It’s the phantom warmth of his own breath fogging the floor beneath his face, because he’s too tired to lift his head, and too broken to care to try. It’s the hazy face of the man he loves, but it’s not his face, and he’s not the one behind it. He’s there, but he’s not, and it’s torture. 

His insides are in fractures. Shards of bone and punctured flesh, blood and viscera, sadness and madness. How many times can someone be broken before they can’t be put back together again? Before the cracks become the more than the pieces, and none of the edges fit together again. 

How many times, before he doesn’t want to come together again. 

Lynch. 

It’s a light in the storm. His Lynch, his Callum, his king of doves. “He’s not here,” he says, fingers curling into fists on the cold floor. Cold floor, slick floor, not hardwood and dust. “He’s not here, and they’re not here, and I’m not here. Not really. I’m not here.” He’s not here, and it’s not real, and the pain is just pain. 

“It’s like people,” he whispers, pushing his knuckles to the floor. Is the skin really splitting across the bones of his hand, or does it just feel that way? There’s a scream in his throat, but it never surfaces. “Pain is like people. It comes, and it goes. It always goes.” But not his dove. His dove won’t go; he’s just not here. His face is there, his voice is there, but it’s not him. 

His hand slips, muscles unraveling beneath his skin, but he just tries again. Will always try again, because he promised he wouldn’t stop trying to put himself back together again. He owes him that much. Lynch. 

“You’ll go, too,” he tells Gordon. “Maybe not yet, but you’ll go. He’ll come, and you’ll go, and we’ll be gone together before they can find us again.” His laugh is a sob, and he tastes old pennies on his tongue as a smile carves its way onto his face. 

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   if anyone ever thought that james wasn’t entirely aware of his surroundings at all times, they would find themselves miserably wrong. the slightest shift in atmosphere was enough to get his hackles raised and his teeth bared. he was a solitary hunter, a wolf. he may have been getting old, but he wasn’t getting rusty. the creak calls his attention but he pretends to not hear it. 

         what he does hear is the gentle words of mats, who he now considers his responsibility. he flips the knife in his hand, catching it by the blade, and extends it to the other man. 

          “it would be rude to bring trouble and not help sort it. but i think you underestimate just how easily that trouble could have been brought here by me. not you.” a revealing statement. it was true, james lived in fear of the days when he had to cut and run. every so often his past caught up with him. the bratva had a long memory, and they weren’t looking to let the volk slip through their fingers just yet. though, he’d given them said slip many times before. 

          “you don’t get to work for no one without making some enemies along the way,” he steps away from the kitchen and over to the table, reaching underneath it. the sound of tape ripping echoes in the small space. one pistol with silencer, safety clicked off, chamber checked, and as he moves so fluidly with the weapon, he knows the military background shows. he knows more than that shows. he knows that pieces will fall into place. that mats will understand just what flavor of unsavory he is. 

         “besides. it’d be rude of you to leave now that i’ve worked so hard to make the evening pleasant,” he winks and steps around the corner, spot checking the window.

        mats takes the knife when it’s offered, though he has one of his own. he’s not rude. his maman taught him manners, and when a man offers you a knife in his home, you take the knife ( or is that drinks? food? he’s not very good at this whole socializing thing ) and thank them for the kindness.

        “ merci, ” he says, testing the knife’s balance in his hand, then, “ thank you, ” because he’s tired and the barrier between languages has thinned. 

       he’s not especially bothered when james pulls a gun from beneath the table. the man had a knife to his shoulder not too long ago; if he wanted to hurt mats, then he would’ve done it. but he’s interested     curious about the way he holds the weapon. “ i think you’re not just a doctor, eh? ” there’s a hint of a smile on his lips as he says it, bemused. adrenaline brings the nothing back. that warm, comfortable empty seeps back in, makes the pain distant and fear a memory. 

        “ you see anything interesting? ” he looks and sees nothing, but his vision’s still a little gray around the edges. blood loss, exhaustion ... he doesn’t pay the pain much attention, but his body remembers what it’s been through. it remembers, and it occasionally tries to remind him. 

          illya feels no need to point out that just because they don’t want them dead NOW does not mean they won’t want them dead LATER.  he never considers himself safe, no matter where he is ;  some might say he could occasionally afford to RELAX, but if his training’s taught him anything, it’s that people of their profession do little else but make enemies  –  enemies who could be around any corner at any point.

          ❛   perhaps I have less FAITH than you do,   ❜   he answers flatly, practically grumbling, clearly uninterested in encouraging this line of thought.   ❛   I never assume ANYBODY wants me alive.  probably why I am still breathing.   ❜

          the fact that his  ( very TEMPORARY )   partner managed to free himself first irritated him to no end and it was everything illya could do to restrain his growl of irritation.  the last thing he wanted to do was submit to this man’s HELP, which only increased his drive to break his own bonds.

          ❛   before you say anything, I have it HANDLED.   ❜

          mats rights his thumbs with a pop and a half-there wince. truth is, he’s done it so man times that he barely feels the pain. it’s the NOISE he doesn’t like. joints popping, the hard-rubbery sound like old taffy hardened in the sun. he shakes his hands out and squats in front of illya, head cocked. 

It’s moments like these where Cal doesn’t know what to do, to say, how to react. It isn’t necessarily that he’s looking for a fight, it’s just that he tends to find more than he doesn’t when it gets like this. When the need to exert energy and run from the memories doesn’t leave just by running six miles out and back.The restlessness eats away at him, makes his skin crawl and his blood run fast, and it’s only due to years of bar fights and drugs that makes the ease of punching someone until they’re out cold calm himself. He isn’t a bad person, he doesn’t want to fight - at least, not these assholes - but he knows, Mats knows, that it helps.

It helps more when they’re pieces of shit who deserve a decent beat down, but the satisfaction isn’t always there. It’s a gamble in times like these.

His fingers curl around Mats’s, loose, hand slowly rocking back and forth to the off beat rhythm of the pulse in his veins, and he thinks. He thinks, and there’s something about all of it that really drives home how fucking broken they are. What a shit pile they’ve become through one circumstance or another. Abandonment issues, daddy issues, addiction, loss of sanity, distance from humanity. It’s a specialty that Abstergo teaches, exacerbating pre-existing insecurities and making them worse. Cal doesn’t want to see Maria die again; he beats the shit out of some asshole in a bar who can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

(And how Cal hates when people can’t accept an answer.)

He sighs, turns his eyes back to Mats, shifts just barely beneath his weight (his soft weight, comfortable on Cal, belying a deadly anger coiled inside of it all, and he sometimes wonders if anger attracts anger, because together they’re enough to burn the world). They’re both terrible at talking, but have somehow come this far.

“Why don’t we just…drive. Yeah? See what happens.” Maybe getting out of the motel, away from the stuffiness of the room and the steam still settling from the shower, will help clear his head. Maybe Spain will stay here for the night and Cal will find some sort of solace in being out. It doesn’t always work; the memories are in his mind, not the room. But it feels right sometimes. Maybe they’ll find a new motel, somewhere where Maria’s dead body doesn’t bleed endlessly in his peripheral. Maybe he’ll get tired enough to sleep when they get back. 

Drive. He knows Mats understands what he means. They’re too nomadic at times not to.

Lying so close to Cal (read, basically on top of him), Mats can feel too clearly the tension coiled in every one of his muscles. It even seeps into his fingers as they curl around Mats’s. He wishes he knew a way to ease that tension out, but he also knows that these things ... there’s no easy fix. He can’t take the vestiges of Spain from the corners of Cal’s eyes. He can’t make him stop seeing the death of a woman he might’ve loved, in another life. He can’t fix it. 

The best he can do is try. 

“ Drive, eh? ” He pretends to consider it, though he’s already agreed in his head. There are very few things Mats wouldn’t agree to, if Cal thought it would help. So he’s leaning up to press a quick kiss to Cal’s jaw, then he’s rolling off Cal and onto his feet in one smooth motion. Fortunately, they never unpack their bags, so it’s not too much trouble for Mats to gather the few things they have. Maybe they come back to this place, if they don’t find anywhere better. But it’s just as likely they drive to somewhere different, find another motel, another bed, and try to settle in there. It’s easier just to bring their things. 

He’s not especially attached to the hotel room, either. He’s always been transient, moving from place to place at the drop of a hat (except the times the places wouldn’t let him move, and those aren’t exactly memories he looks on with fondness). Whether they sleep in this place or another place, a motel or a spread-out blanket in some clearing off the road somewhere, it makes no difference to Mats. So long as Cal’s there, Mats brings home with him. 

It’s the cheesy kind of thought even he rarely voices aloud. Instead, he’s dropping their things by the door and shoving his feet into his boots. Maybe his jogging pants and t-shirt aren’t great going-out attire, but he could count the shits he gives on one hand and still have five fingers free. 

These - these - are the times when Cal feels his resolution begin to waver. Any other time, he would be at his side, holding him tightly and trying to help him through it all. The physical pain will pass eventually, Cal knows this; the pain will always pass. But the words tearing at Mats’s throat are proof enough that the emotional scars never heal; calling for his mother, still not understanding, still alone even knowing his mother’s fate. His fingers curl and he clasps his hands behind his back, somehow staying resolute.

This plan was a difficult one to concoct to get to this point, though. He wants to go to him, wants to hold him and promise him it’ll be alright. But Cal’s the one who did this (Gordon, he reminds himself, but it isn’t much comfort), and they worked too damn hard to get here for him to break it all now. Mats will suffer at Cal’s hands until they can get what they need and get out. This is an opportunity they haven’t had before: simple access to any information Gordon’s security clearance can get them, no one standing in their way, no stealth attacks and disabling alarms and gunfire and casualties. 

But Cal hadn’t expected it to come to this. Threats turned into realities, torturous pain throbbing through Mats’s blood, and why hadn’t he just backed down? Of Course Mats had to be stubborn, even now, even in this situation. And now he’s on the floor, crying in broken French for his mother who’s passed, and Cal can’t fucking do anything.

His teeth clench and he has to blink to clear away the burning in his eyes. He hopes the assholes watching on the security camera don’t see the distress in the lines of his face. According to Abstergo, Mats deserves this. He will break and give them the answers they’re looking for. And Cal has to play the part the entire time. Gordon Flynn doesn’t care about Mats; he hardens his heart to keep himself from showing too much of his hand. They can’t be found out.

If he were more aware of himself, he’d find a way to bite back the screams. He’d push himself onto his knees. He’d muster up a smile, because he’s supposed to be the madman, the one they couldn’t break, the one they’ll never break (and because maybe, just maybe, that would make this easier for Cal). 

But he’s too far gone for that. 

He’s half out of his head, screaming until his throat is raw. They aren’t even words anymore, just animal sounds, torn from his throat by the pain tearing across his nerve endings. He’s been in pain before. He’s experienced death before. But this is different. It’s pain he doesn’t understand, pain he can’t predict because it doesn’t come from anything or anywhere; it’s in his veins. It has a mind of its own, targeting his joints, cramping his muscles, burning under his skin.

When the screaming finally stops, it’s not because the pain’s gone away. It’s not because he’s less disoriented or crushed or confused, or because he’s come to his senses. He just can’t make the sound anymore. He’s screamed his throat raw, breathing in shaky, wheezing pants. He’s halfway between reality and somewhere else, between conscious and unconscious, lying on his side in the floor and staring blankly at the wall behind Cal’s   no, Gordon’s feet. 

It’s not enough to break him. All the things Abstergo has done to him over the years, the torture and the treatments and the punishments for his escape attempts ... none of it has ever broken him, and neither will this. But he’s only human, and he’s dancing on the verge of shock. Sensory overload. He’ll come back from it. He’ll straighten up, he’ll put on a smirk, he’ll play his part and keep the heat off Cal for as long as he has to, for them to get what they need. He’ll put himself back together, the way he always does. 

          he can hardly BELIEVE that the other man could possibly laugh in the face of their situation.  of course, illya doesn’t find many things funny at all, but in their current predicament, mathias’s response certainly IRRITATES him.  initially, he wants to snarl, but he bites his tongue, convincing himself that it isn’t worth it and instead continuing to use his nimble fingers on the ropes that bound him.

          of course, illya can only stay silent for so long and his ( temporary ) partner’s words grate on him FAR TOO MUCH not to respond.

          ❛   a learning opportunity until they try to put BULLETS in our brains.  this is not a joke.  frankly, with that attitude, I am surprised you have survived this long.   ❜

         mats isn’t all that surprised that illya doesn’t appreciate his particular outlook on life and imprisonment. the others he’s been stationed with during his time in the military ... they didn’t usually appreciate it, either. not right for him to smile like that in times like those. not right for him to act the way he does. not right, until he’s the only one mad enough to do what needs to be done. 

        “ then we escape before we die. mais pour l’instant ... if they wanted us dead, we would be dead. so they will not shoot us so quickly, i think. ” 

         all the same, he’d like to have his hands free when they do come, and the knots are ... challenging. another failed attempt to loosen the knot, and he’s sighing. there are other ways to slip a knot.