Fandom: Black Cat
Rating: PG-13 (probably not, but better safe...)
Disclaimer: Black Cat is property of Yabuki Kentaro & co. Non-profit fanfiction all the way, baby!
Notes: 1POV, PT challenge. Ended up too long for the 15 minute limit, and rather too short for the 60 minute one, clocking in at just under 30 minutes. My excuse for the ensuing melodrama? I have exam angst; I needed to take it out on someone, and these boys were just begging for it.
It shouldn't have ended up like this. It was a simple job; no Creed, no tao-wielding psychos, just a routine sweep. Easy.
Except that it turns out we were dealing with an altogether different breed of lunatic, the sort who'd rather die than be captured and who decided it'd be fun to take us with him. Train's always been a faster runner than I am, though, so I was still back around the corner when the guy triggered that pack of explosives. That's why Train's the one lying here with a slice of glass the size of a dinner plate jutting out of his chest, and I'm the one sitting next to him, useless.
I'm glad Eve didn't insist on coming with us on this job. I wouldn't want her to see this. She's seen plenty of violence in her time, I know - been the cause of it, mostly - but she shouldn't see him like this.
I should be doing something, elevating his legs or something like that, yet I'm still just sitting here, listening to him try to breathe around the sheet of glass in his lung.
"...Sven." It's an effort for him to speak, I can tell.
"Don't talk. I called an ambulance - they'll be here soon."
"I want to know... Tell me, what's going to happen."
I shake my head stubbornly, fearfully.
"I don't need to," I insist. "You're going to be fine. Just hang on a few minutes and the ambulance will be here."
"Tell me!" he hisses, his hand shooting up to clamp onto the side of my neck. His fingers are slippery with blood - everything is - but his grip is surprisingly strong and his eyes are fierce. Reluctantly, I slide the eyepatch up and look at him, just for a second. Then I quickly replace the patch and smile, and let a note of relief touch my voice.
"Like I said, you're going to be fine."
He stares at me for a few long moments, gaze intent, and then sighs.
"You're a lousy liar, you know that?" He laughs; coughs wetly; winces as something tears inside. I shake my head again, willing myself to be wrong, hating that fucking cursed eye. He can't die. He's the Black Cat, uncatchable and unkillable, always landing on his feet. He can't die.
"Guess I'm finally getting a taste of that bad luck I spread around, eh?" He grimaces. "Tastes like blood."
Just like him to crack a joke at a time like this. And a bad joke, too. I'd tell him so, except there's something caught in my throat, making it difficult to talk. His hand is still gripping the side of my neck firmly, but his breathing is getting shallower, more laboured.
"Hey, Sven?" His tone is inquisitive, but his voice is little more than a whisper.
"Yeah?" I reply, but instead of saying anything more he slides his hand around to the back of my neck and pulls my head down near his, and I let him.
He was right; he does taste like blood. His mouth scarcely moves against mine, and his breathing sounds even worse this close.
After a moment he lets go and I sit back up. The grin he flashes me is weak but self-satisfied, tinged with red.
"I always kind of wondered about that," he says.
He doesn't say anything else.
Eventually I brush his eyes closed, carefully, and then stay sitting beside him, because there's nothing else to do, really.
A few minutes later the ambulance arrives.