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Gus Arrives [Closed]
Feb. 3rd, 2014 01:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mr_fring[[CW: Ableist slur // Breaking Bad spoilers in the first bit]]
The door is shut. Tyrus turns Hector to face him. It is quiet, hospital quiet. The quiet that falls before death.
"What kind of man talks to the DEA?" Anger boils under his skin. Acid under his tongue. "No man," he says. "No man at all."
A little click as Tyrus removes and prepares the syringe. Gus isn't interested in Tyrus. He takes one of the guest chairs and he drags it harsh across the floor, scraping it into the scoured linoleum. He brings it within arm's length and sits.
"A crippled little rata," he sneers. "What a reputation to leave behind."
Hector refuses to acknowledge him, once again. His mouth twitches furiously, his eyes glaring hotly at the wall.
Tyrus offers the syringe and Gus takes it without moving his eyes from Hector.
"Is that how you want to be remembered?" he murmurs, extending the needle. He sighs heavily. Disappointing. "Last chance to look at me, Hector."
He won't look. The man may be a rat but he still has his repulsive pride. Doesn't matter. He's the last one now, the last one to be rid of. Gus will be rid of him and then it will be done.
He leans forward, fingers searching out a vein. Something, some sense, flicks his gaze back up, and he sees something he has never seen: he sees Hector's eyes, meeting his own.
And he is frozen, his lips parted in a slow exhale. Stunned, stilled, gently paralyzed by this moment he thought would never come.
But it isn't right, it isn't right at all. Hector's expression shifts, warps, turns ugly and malicious, like the old Hector, the Hector that smirked when he shot Max. He looks like a rabid dog, a wild animal. He looks triumphant. He looks proud.
No. No. Something is wrong. Tyrus has missed something. He has missed something.
Hector rings his bell, frantically, incessantly, like he does, but this is no call for help. The sound is wrong, duller, muffled. Gus is still holding the syringe balanced between his fingers but there is something wrong, he can't do it until he-
There is something on the wheel, affixed to the wheelchair-
He screams, a raw animal noise, broken and wordless, as his body snaps up, but it is too late, the bomb goes off, rips into his skin and his muscle, and he doesn't really understand what's happened when he steps out of the room, straightening his tie, he doesn't understand how much of him is gone, not until he's really gone, really, totally gone.
Gus blinks awake.
Something's not right.
He sits up and his back is horribly stiff, his clothes unclean. He's been asleep. Asleep on the ground. Him.
He stands up quickly, eyes darting around. No one's seen him. There are people, but they are distant, they aren't looking at him. He moves to straighten his tie, and his hand goes very still.
His fingers are trembling when they ghost over the right side of his face, but it's there, skin and bone and muscle, all of it unbroken. His glasses are there too, good as new.
What the hell is this?
Why is he here? It's Central Park, no mistaking it, but he cannot reconcile this.
Mike. Have to talk to Mike. He reaches into his pocket but his phone is gone. Everything is gone.
He stands there in the park and for the first time in a very long time he does not know what to do.
The door is shut. Tyrus turns Hector to face him. It is quiet, hospital quiet. The quiet that falls before death.
"What kind of man talks to the DEA?" Anger boils under his skin. Acid under his tongue. "No man," he says. "No man at all."
A little click as Tyrus removes and prepares the syringe. Gus isn't interested in Tyrus. He takes one of the guest chairs and he drags it harsh across the floor, scraping it into the scoured linoleum. He brings it within arm's length and sits.
"A crippled little rata," he sneers. "What a reputation to leave behind."
Hector refuses to acknowledge him, once again. His mouth twitches furiously, his eyes glaring hotly at the wall.
Tyrus offers the syringe and Gus takes it without moving his eyes from Hector.
"Is that how you want to be remembered?" he murmurs, extending the needle. He sighs heavily. Disappointing. "Last chance to look at me, Hector."
He won't look. The man may be a rat but he still has his repulsive pride. Doesn't matter. He's the last one now, the last one to be rid of. Gus will be rid of him and then it will be done.
He leans forward, fingers searching out a vein. Something, some sense, flicks his gaze back up, and he sees something he has never seen: he sees Hector's eyes, meeting his own.
And he is frozen, his lips parted in a slow exhale. Stunned, stilled, gently paralyzed by this moment he thought would never come.
But it isn't right, it isn't right at all. Hector's expression shifts, warps, turns ugly and malicious, like the old Hector, the Hector that smirked when he shot Max. He looks like a rabid dog, a wild animal. He looks triumphant. He looks proud.
No. No. Something is wrong. Tyrus has missed something. He has missed something.
Hector rings his bell, frantically, incessantly, like he does, but this is no call for help. The sound is wrong, duller, muffled. Gus is still holding the syringe balanced between his fingers but there is something wrong, he can't do it until he-
There is something on the wheel, affixed to the wheelchair-
He screams, a raw animal noise, broken and wordless, as his body snaps up, but it is too late, the bomb goes off, rips into his skin and his muscle, and he doesn't really understand what's happened when he steps out of the room, straightening his tie, he doesn't understand how much of him is gone, not until he's really gone, really, totally gone.
Gus blinks awake.
Something's not right.
He sits up and his back is horribly stiff, his clothes unclean. He's been asleep. Asleep on the ground. Him.
He stands up quickly, eyes darting around. No one's seen him. There are people, but they are distant, they aren't looking at him. He moves to straighten his tie, and his hand goes very still.
His fingers are trembling when they ghost over the right side of his face, but it's there, skin and bone and muscle, all of it unbroken. His glasses are there too, good as new.
What the hell is this?
Why is he here? It's Central Park, no mistaking it, but he cannot reconcile this.
Mike. Have to talk to Mike. He reaches into his pocket but his phone is gone. Everything is gone.
He stands there in the park and for the first time in a very long time he does not know what to do.
