#oh_barracuda

Charles Xavier is shot; Erik Lehnsherr keeps his heart beating. __ There was a cracking sound, like the snapping of a wishbone — once, twice, a third time. And a flash, a ringing, a sharpness — then an animal scream, torn from the back of a throat. Like the hand of God. That was what Erik thought during the attacks on Genosha, in his final moments of consciousness buried in the rubble, and that is what he thought again, here, now: Like the hand of God. __

★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★

Erik Lehnsherr had spent the last few months of his life living like prey. He had lived in a dozen hotel rooms in a dozen countries, never staying in one place for any longer than a week. Inside his suitcase was a rubber-band-bound stack of counterfeit passports, each with a different name and a different photograph.

At the moment, he was Louis Boulanger, a French tourist. Yesterday, he was Veild Larsen. Tomorrow, he would be someone else completely.

The alleged Mr. Boulanger sat at the small breakfast table in his hotel room. In another life, as another man, he would have rather liked Moscow. He hadn’t left his room since he had arrived, but had spent most of his time by the window, watching the snow. It was snowing then, and despite being well into the morning, the sun had yet to rise.

He sat alone in the dark and sipped his coffee — black with far too much sugar — and watched the city below.

Once, when he was a child, his father took him to watch a fox hunt. He couldn’t have been any more than seven years old. It had horrified him: the smell of the dog’s breath, the flashing of their white teeth, the barking loud like the voice of god — and the fox. The poor fox, with its pinned ears and its wide eyes, running and running and running.

He could still remember the sound the fox made when the dogs finally caught it: a scream like a child’s scream. He thought of it often. It was the very first thing he had ever watched die. The men had whooped and celebrated as he stood trembling, hiding his face in his father’s sleeve. It was only a sport to them.

It was only a sport to them now, too. The prey was different, but the game was the same. It had been two months since the attack on Genosha. They had killed his people. Erik had not slept in three days on account of his nightmares. Men used to tremble when they heard his name, but now his voice was hoarse from smoke damage, and he had developed a limp, and the burn wounds on his chest made him weep at night. He had lost.

Magneto would have rallied the survivors. Magneto would have brought the human race to its knees. Magneto would have rebuilt again, as he always did.

But Magneto was dead. Erik Lehnsherr survived. And he was so, so tired.

In a way, Marty had always wanted it. So many hours riding side-by-side in that damned car, so many shared drinks, blood stains, alibis — these are the things that starve a man. Brushed hands, passing glances, flashes of skin in a locker room — these are the things that feed him. Rust Cohle had fucked his wife. Worse still, he hadn't fucked him.

★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★──★

“You and Cohle had a falling out, though, that July.”

They are on the third hour of the interview. Hart, tie undone, is on his fourth cup of coffee. Clock ticking steadily. Black fly caught in the windowsill. The air conditioning growling, fighting a losing battle with the Louisiana heat. Everyone is sweating, itching, wanting to go home. Hart most of all.

He clears his throat. “We did.” He likes to think he’s got a good poker face, but there are tells: a twitch in his jaw, a flush at his collar. “Personal differences.”

“Personal differences,” Papania echoes with a dog-like cock of his head. Marty doesn’t like his eyes. He has eyes like a coonhound, eyes that chase. “Tell us about that.” 

(Late night, the tangle of a hand in his hair, the press of his lips against Rust’s exposed throat…)

Hart sucks his teeth. “Hardly relevant,” he huffs, tapping a finger idly on the rim of his coffee cup.

“Hardly relevant?” 

(The taste of blood and sweat on another man’s lips…)

Marty shifts in his seat. “Hm.”

There is a long silence. Papania waits expectantly, letting him writhe in it. The fly in the windowsill rises again and beats its small body against the glass. It’s a terrible sound, the buzzing. This combined with the wheezing of the air conditioner and the sound of Papania palms rubbing against his pants and the whining of the digital recorder and the heat and the remembering of those panting, hurting sounds — all of this makes Marty feel very nauseous, and very warm, and very dirty. 

The fly gives up. Marty watches it fall, twitch once, and then go still. It almost makes him gag, seeing this small crumbled body on its back, legs pointed skyward, and he wants very desperately to take a very long and very cold shower. 

The recorder continues to whine. It is an old thing, still running tape. He hates it viciously.

“A guy like Rust, batshit as he was, he could rub you the wrong way,” Marty says finally, defeated, loosening his tie. “And one day, well fuck, you get tired of it. One day he rubbed me raw, that’s all.” ... ...