[OOC] Fic - I Can't Be Perfect [WIP]
May. 6th, 2011 11:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sympathyforblueTitle: I Can't Be Perfect
Rating: T(?)
Genre: Family/Angst
Summary: Alan Black has been waiting for this visit ever since Blue came back from that place a twisted villain.
Warnings: References to experimentation, general creepiness.
Reccommended listening: Simple Plan - Perfect
"Ah, good morning, warden."
Alan Black freezes with his hand halfway towards the light switch for his office. The key he's just unlocked the door with is on a key ring clutched in his other hand. No copies of any of these keys exist.
"You're wondering how I got in here," the voice continues, as smooth and calm as though it is discussing the weather, not reading his mind. "It's a good question, isn't it? After all, you've just unlocked the door yourself and you know well enough – thanks to the psychological evaluation you had a friend in Illinois draw up for you once I came back to the city – that I wouldn't risk locking myself in here, not when there are so many variables in your daily journey from your home that could prevent your from arriving on time or even at all." A soft breath, shallower that Black would have to take if he tried giving a speech that long, that quickly; it seems to be for effect as much as anything.
He still does not turn the light on.
"No windows," the voice observes. "I remember that day you had me in here, lecturing me for the last time, so red in the face and raging… I thought about saying you ought to open a window and cool off, but I doubted you would have appreciated the joke."
Another pause. It extends into an uncomfortable silence of several minutes before Black realises that he's required to give an answer and nothing else will be said until he does so. It's a tactic he recognises, even employs himself from time to time. That does not stop it working.
"Probably not. I wasn't exactly in the mood for jokes that day," he grinds out, hardly hearing himself over the blood pounding in his ears. Not that that is a problem; the sound of his own blood, his pulse, is proof that he's alive, which becomes more surprising with each moment that passes. If his suspicions about what has happened are correct, he should be being held at least partially responsible. He knows he holds himself responsible; the nightmares springing from his fears and imagination still strike at least once a week.
"Nor any other day, as I recall." Leather creaking softly, the dull thump of heavy boots landing on the carpet. "Turn the lights on, warden. I shan't crumble to dust."
A flash of anger cuts through the cloud of fear and barely-suppressed panic, leaving him with one thought: that disrespectful little boy has had his feet on Black's desk. He opens his mouth to utter a reprimand before remembering that he's no longer a seven-year-old child. Then the request – no, order – registers and he's not sure what is more surprising: that the order is given, or that he doesn't hesitate to obey it. Partly, it is his own curiosity – he wants to see for himself, up close, just how much has changed – but not all. He can't deny that there is a quality to the voice that is surprisingly commanding.
Or maybe it's not so surprising, given his current position.
The click of a switch; fluorescent lights illuminate the room. He is indeed sat at Black's desk, tipping the chair back slightly. Black is torn between hoping he falls backwards and cracks his skull, and wanting to push the chair back onto four legs and give him a lecture on being irresponsible and stupid just to look good.
How is he supposed to separate out the elements of a person into the child whose memory still wakes Black up in the middle of the night on occasion, constricting his chest with guilt, and the despicable villain who rampantly murders, destroys or otherwise removes anything – or anyone – who gets in his way? How does he look at Megamind, smirking humourlessly at him over steepled fingers, without seeing Blue being led away by those governments suits, clutching his odd little fish and looking over his shoulders one last time at the man who has been the closest thing to a father he's known on this planet?
Rating: T(?)
Genre: Family/Angst
Summary: Alan Black has been waiting for this visit ever since Blue came back from that place a twisted villain.
Warnings: References to experimentation, general creepiness.
Reccommended listening: Simple Plan - Perfect
"Ah, good morning, warden."
Alan Black freezes with his hand halfway towards the light switch for his office. The key he's just unlocked the door with is on a key ring clutched in his other hand. No copies of any of these keys exist.
"You're wondering how I got in here," the voice continues, as smooth and calm as though it is discussing the weather, not reading his mind. "It's a good question, isn't it? After all, you've just unlocked the door yourself and you know well enough – thanks to the psychological evaluation you had a friend in Illinois draw up for you once I came back to the city – that I wouldn't risk locking myself in here, not when there are so many variables in your daily journey from your home that could prevent your from arriving on time or even at all." A soft breath, shallower that Black would have to take if he tried giving a speech that long, that quickly; it seems to be for effect as much as anything.
He still does not turn the light on.
"No windows," the voice observes. "I remember that day you had me in here, lecturing me for the last time, so red in the face and raging… I thought about saying you ought to open a window and cool off, but I doubted you would have appreciated the joke."
Another pause. It extends into an uncomfortable silence of several minutes before Black realises that he's required to give an answer and nothing else will be said until he does so. It's a tactic he recognises, even employs himself from time to time. That does not stop it working.
"Probably not. I wasn't exactly in the mood for jokes that day," he grinds out, hardly hearing himself over the blood pounding in his ears. Not that that is a problem; the sound of his own blood, his pulse, is proof that he's alive, which becomes more surprising with each moment that passes. If his suspicions about what has happened are correct, he should be being held at least partially responsible. He knows he holds himself responsible; the nightmares springing from his fears and imagination still strike at least once a week.
"Nor any other day, as I recall." Leather creaking softly, the dull thump of heavy boots landing on the carpet. "Turn the lights on, warden. I shan't crumble to dust."
A flash of anger cuts through the cloud of fear and barely-suppressed panic, leaving him with one thought: that disrespectful little boy has had his feet on Black's desk. He opens his mouth to utter a reprimand before remembering that he's no longer a seven-year-old child. Then the request – no, order – registers and he's not sure what is more surprising: that the order is given, or that he doesn't hesitate to obey it. Partly, it is his own curiosity – he wants to see for himself, up close, just how much has changed – but not all. He can't deny that there is a quality to the voice that is surprisingly commanding.
Or maybe it's not so surprising, given his current position.
The click of a switch; fluorescent lights illuminate the room. He is indeed sat at Black's desk, tipping the chair back slightly. Black is torn between hoping he falls backwards and cracks his skull, and wanting to push the chair back onto four legs and give him a lecture on being irresponsible and stupid just to look good.
How is he supposed to separate out the elements of a person into the child whose memory still wakes Black up in the middle of the night on occasion, constricting his chest with guilt, and the despicable villain who rampantly murders, destroys or otherwise removes anything – or anyone – who gets in his way? How does he look at Megamind, smirking humourlessly at him over steepled fingers, without seeing Blue being led away by those governments suits, clutching his odd little fish and looking over his shoulders one last time at the man who has been the closest thing to a father he's known on this planet?
