NEEDED
Part 5

Disclaimer:  I do not own any of the characters (you just had to rub it in didn’t you?). Cowlip and Showtime have the rights to them.  This is just for fun, not for profit…

WarningContains foul language,  is also unbeta'd. 

 

This is fucking not happening.

 

It’s vaguely funny. No, not vaguely, it’s downright fucking hysterical. I get my ass to Austria, because everyone’s so fucking convinced that once I get here, Justin would miraculously awaken.  What the fuck kinds of bullshit fantasy world are they living in? Though, in hindsight it’s understandable. I have been known to make miracles happen. Well, apparently they were, I was, whatever the fuck, we were, right… I do have some sort of weird power, because as soon as I land on this godforsaken soil, fucking Paganini Junior wakes up. 

 

Christ, how’s that for a fucking joke?

 

Well, I figured since Sunshine’s little husband is awake; I can get back to my job.  But fuck no.  It seems that nobody can grasp the tiny little detail that Vance gets my ass if I don’t land the fucking Twilling’s account. 

 

But boys and girls, here’s the best part. 

 

Ian, or whatever the fuck his name is, has ‘requested’ to speak to me.  What. The. Fuck?  Mikey, loyal, dependable Mikey told me, and I laughed in his face, and I expected him to laugh along, because he’s Mikey, he always laughs along.  Well apparently not this time.  It seems he’s joined the band of admirers at the Fiddler’s feet.  It’s fucking sick.  What is this, he wakes up from a coma and suddenly he’s Mr. God Almighty?

 

Well fuck them.  My answer to that asshole’s request is and will always be Schleich dich*.  But thank you Debbie.  Thank you so very much for being the nosy bitch that we all know you as but definitely do not appreciate you for.  

 

I glare through the glass at the Fiddler, sitting there, with his overly large hospital gown and sickly pale complexion.  This’ll be easy, I’ll go in, glare at him, pretend to listen to whatever the fuck he has to say, and then leave.  Simple.  I don’t even have to acknowledge the other presence in the room, better yet; I can turn my back on the other bed.  After all, that’ll be the only position in the room where I’d have a clear, close up, unobstructed view of the Fiddler’s face. So, it’s normal.  Completely fucking normal that I should stand there. 

 

I walk in, smirk in place, and say, with my sickest, sweetest voice, “You called?”

At least the fuckwit had the decency to blush.  Bastard.

 

And then silence.  I’m not sure how long it lasted before he spoke; I’m not even sure what he said.  Frankly, I don’t have the energy.  There are only two things on my mind right now; the first is to give my best condescending look to the Fiddler, and the second, to ignore the bed behind me.  So far I am succeeding with one of the two.  And suddenly nothing’s fucking funny anymore.  I don’t want to be here.  I don’t want to feel this fucking heat.  I don’t want to have to resist the urge to turn around.   I don’t want to stare at the Fiddler’s fucking excuse for a face. I don’t want to have to repress these fucking… whatever they are.  And I sure as hell don’t want it to be like before. 

 

You know, it wasn’t easy.  In fact, it was shit.  For a while there, everything was fucking shitty, I was shitty, the job was shitty, Babylon was shitty and even, especially, the fucking loft was shitty.  But I’ve gotten over the shit, and I’m fucking ready to move on.  I’m not needed here, this was all bullshit anyway, and everyone fucking knows… whether they’ve admitted it to themselves or not is an entirely different story. 

 

I’m ready to leave, the Fiddler’s still talking, but I look at him, really look at him… not some vacant stare I had going during the majority of time, but a meaningful, appraising look.  And miracle of all fucking miracles, he understands and shuts up.  Fuck.  He might not be that bad after all, who knows, maybe I’d have fucked him if it weren’t for Justin? No… that’d be going a bit too far, besides I’m not into grease.  Finally I turn around, because I can now, and it’s not hard or extremely painful, not like I thought it’d be. He’s asleep, and his face is so peaceful, his skin pale, almost translucent, fucking golden hair, like Goldilocks…except not.  I finger his hair - I have to, and I ignore the Fiddler’s gaze.  I sniff him, and he doesn’t smell like soap any longer and I have to get out, but I can’t because he’s speaking and I have to listen.  I lean closer, because the sound is so soft, and the buzz of the machines are so fucking loud, I tell him to speak louder, I know the little shit’s doing this just to annoy me.  And for once he listens, because he does speak louder, only he’s not speaking anymore and I’m not sure if he ever spoke.  But there were sounds coming out of his mouth, out of his chest, gradually getting louder and louder and I want to tell him to shut the fuck up, but I don’t because I need to hear.  Then I know something is wrong, because he starts thrashing and I can hear Ethan’s voice yelling for the nurse and I keep looking at him because otherwise he’ll stop and it’ll all be over, and it can’t be over, not yet. Not fucking yet.

 

~

I don’t know what happened. What the fuck happened? I have no fucking idea what’s happening now either and I fucking hate feeling this… this helplessness.  There are nurses and doctors surrounding him and all I’m doing is fucking standing here, getting in people’s way like some fucking liability.  It was a bad idea.  I know it now, but I can’t leave, because he’s not sleeping anymore.  So I continue standing here, and for only the second time in my life I pray… because I’m the son of Joan Kinney, and maybe, for once, that’ll help, and I’m so fucking pathetic that I want to laugh. 

 

So I do because there’s nothing else I can do.

                   

 

   * 'Schleich dich' is Austrian for fuck off.

 

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