round 3 overflow post

[starkmodistries.livejournal.com]

Round 3 Overflow Post

This post is for Round 3 fills only. We ask that when a round hits 8500 comments, fillers begin moving their fills to this post.

Format:
SUBJECT LINE -- Round #, short description of fic (ex: "Alex/Hank, lab partners")
--- Link to the prompt
--- Text of the prompt

--- Link to the fill
OR
--- Entire text of the fill

EXAMPLE:
Prompt: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=1038472#t2038174

Charles/Erik -- Charles is a bakery owner whose most frequent customer is Erik.

Fill: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=0139482#t4502942

Charles started off the morning the same way he always did...

Comments

FILL: Everyday Love in Stockholm 169/? TW: CHARACTER DEATH

[tahariel.livejournal.com]

LXVIII

Erik doesn’t remember the next part. The next thing he remembers is being covered in blood and screaming at Emma to get away from him, for somebody to find those responsible and torture them until they give up the next layer and the next layer and the next, until all of them are dead.

She tries to tell him that he killed them already when he took their guns from them, but he doesn’t listen, just grabs at everything metal in the vicinity and whips it up into a maelstrom of sharp edges and glinting scales, keeps them away from him and Raven, huddled in the eye of the storm together where everything is quiet.



LXIX

The next thing he remembers is throwing up noisily over the edge of the stage, retching until his throat is raw and only more blood is coming up, and he can only hope that it’s his, because he can’t remember, he can’t, he won’t -



LXX

He did this.



LXXI

No.

They did this.



LXXII

Oh, God.

Charles.



LXXIII

It’s Azazel who finally pulls her away from Erik, falling to his knees alongside the two of them with his face slack from grief and horror, and Erik lets him take her, lets his arms fall loose and stares at his hands while the Russian yells and bellows his rage to the empty park, full now only of their people, dotted around like abandoned toys, helpless and doing nothing useful.

“I’ll let you be,” Erik says, and his tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth, like perhaps he has bitten it. He can’t be certain because everything tastes like blood at the moment.

At some point he finds himself in the elevator going up to the apartment, and when he looks down all he can see is red and red and red, and maybe some of it is his tunic but too much of it is - not.

When the doors open it’s all he can do to force himself to step out. There is no sign of Charles here but for the smashed mug on the rug between the couch and the television, cold tea still soaking into the fibres and leaving a dark stain among the shards and dust of broken crockery. The armchair has tipped over onto its back, legs in the air like a stranded animal, as though someone stood up too quickly and caught it with the backs of their knees, not caring to right it.

Erik stands among the wreckage and wonders, distantly, if he should clean this up. Instead he walks over to the sink in the kitchen and washes his hands, grabs the nailbrush from the windowsill and scrubs until the skin is raw and pink. The tunic he drags over his head in a sudden panic and stuffs into the trash, leaving him in his undershirt, which is speckled yet with rust where it’s soaked through.

From down the hallway there is a sudden loud sob, like the sound of a heart breaking. His hands clench on the cold metal of the sink as he tries to force his breathing under control; it’s coming in and out in short, sharp gasps, too shallow to be useful, and his head is bowed so low it’s pressing down on his windpipe, making it even harder to draw in air. His fingers tighten and the sink crumples in his grip, leaving deep dents in the shapes of his hands, and yet he can’t let go, has to force his hands loose enough to fling himself back and away from it, crashing into the table and making an almighty racket as wood clatters on tile.

“Erik?”