Entry tags:
Fic: A Shadow, Cast by Light
Title: A Shadow, Cast by Light
Fandom: Violent Messiahs
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lunesque
Rating: PG-13
Pairing (if there is one): unrequited!Job/Cheri
Summary: For one brief moment, Job was only a man, casting aside his role as the shepherd.
Content Notice: none
Disclaimer: Owned by Joshua Dysart, William O'Neill, and Image Comics. No infringement intended.
Author's Note: written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
poetry_fiction. Thanks to lady_krysis for the beta!
Word Count: 1,170
It was a bad performance.
That's because I'm the only actor
and there are few humans whose lives
will make an interesting play.
Don't you agree?
~ "The Play" by Anne Sexton
~*~
Rankor Island was, at heart, an easy, simple place for Job. He knew his duty — he watched the animals scurry about their business and culled the rabid. Eventually, his father had told him, he would move on to be a shepherd of the world, using violence and shadows to lead the masses to the light.
It would have been a worthy life.
And then he saw Cheri Major's face on the television and knew it would never be enough.
~*~
Cheri Major wasn't glamorous or all that beautiful — if Job were honest, her face was too hard and her hair was ragged from lack of care — but she had a presence that Job could sense even through the barrier of the television. He finished his duties for the evening, another body to be lost beneath the weight of its filth, and went home to find out everything he could about her.
People, as a rule, were generally boring, living their lives day by day, paycheck by paycheck, unless something caused them to rouse from their stupor, but Job still felt an alien thrill of excitement and anticipation as he pulled up Cheri Major's name in their files. He read everything — the child abuse, her mother dying from cancer, the murder—
The murder.
Cheri Major was like him.
~*~
He never thought her eyes would be so green.
~*~
Job knew that he was doing the wrong thing, but it didn't stop him from slipping the lock on her apartment door and stepping inside.
Cheri wasn't home.
He took a deep breath of the calm, cool air, tasted it — wood and gun metal and the barest hint of perfume — and walked through her apartment. The cabinets in her kitchen were of a dark, if cheap, wood, and the dishes were ceramic. Plain white, with nothing of Cheri's personality.
There was a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in her refrigerator. For a moment, Job allowed himself to close his eyes and imagine the taste. He tried to imagine what it would be like to kiss her, but the furthest he could get was the phantom touch of her fingers against his cheek.
He closed the refrigerator and prowled silently into the next room.
Cheri's living room was warm with a comfortable-looking arm chair and a thick blue rug covering the weathered wooden floor. He stroked the waxy leaves of the green plant in the corner of the room before he got a glass of water and poured half of it into the dry plant food. He watched the water sink into the potting soil like it was never there and then drained the rest of it in the sink before he put the glass back where he found it.
He pulled out his gun and traced it along the curtains, pushing at the heavy fabric with its muzzle, and then peeked into her bathroom, running it along the edge of Cheri's cracked bathroom sink. There was a robe hanging on the back of the door, and Job raised his gloved hand as though he might touch it.
Cheri had worn that robe.
Job stepped back and left the bathroom. There was one room left, the door half open and layered in shadows. This, too, was a private part of Cheri that he couldn't bring himself to invade. He squeezed the doorknob and tried to imagine the way she pushed open the door. Did she use the doorknob? Or did she use the palm of her hand to shove the door open? He imagined that it gave way beneath the force of her existence, bowing like a reed from her storm. Only he was strong enough to embrace her rage.
He made his way back to the living room and sat in her armchair. His suspicion had been right. It was very comfortable.
Some time soon, he anticipated, Cheri would come home. Clear as day was the path.
~*~
Job told her that he didn't have any dreams, that he was the scheme of powerful men, but what he meant was that he never had any dreams until her.
When he closed his eyes now, it was always her voice leading him from the dark.
~*~
She was getting closer to everything, just as Job had anticipated. His secrets, the Family, Jeremiah — all would be laid out before her, all would be cleansed, if not forgiven.
His father had a discerning eye, however, and saw what Job had to hide. His performance was poor, even he had to admit that, but even after his punishment, he couldn't keep Cheri Major out of his head.
His father, the Keepers, they were False Gods.
Cheri Major was his light. She was the Way.
~*~
There was death, as there always was, and he filled his days with blood and revenge and muted, wishful thinking of what ending this would feel like. Cheri, of course, was just a dream, a pretense without any connection. It was time to end it.
He lurked through the shadows dealing death, peddling bullets instead of drugs, and it was only luck that he saw Cheri across the street. She was staring out the window of a coffee shop, her hands cupped in front of her mouth as though she could breathe heat into her fingers.
Job couldn't fight the inexorable pull he always felt when he saw Cheri, and he circled toward her, moving closer and closer. Cheri was the center of his labyrinth, both the battle and the prize, and he wanted so fiercely for a moment that he forgot himself.
He stepped into the world. For one brief moment, he was only a man, casting aside his role as the shepherd.
It was too late; it had always been too late. Cheri had turned toward the barrista, her fingers already cupping the drink that would keep her warm.
He touched the glass where Cheri had been so close there was a fog on the window. He rested his cheek against that spot and closed his eyes, imagining that he could feel her breath.
That would have been a worthy end as well.
~*~
Job had never made it this far in his dreams. He was a pragmatist. He knew that destroying his family would mean destroying himself, but he had always thought that he would die alone.
But now, with Cheri at his side and North End Mansion burning behind them, he had no idea what he would do, didn't know if he should even think about what might happen next.
That was a lie. He knew what his future held. He only hoped there was enough time to make sure Cheri was safe after he was gone.
He wanted so many things still —the sun on his face and Cheri by his side and the entire universe cupped in his palms as a gift to her. None of those were more plausible than any of the others. He'd given up on realism.
To die for Cheri Major was more than he had hoped for. He would make her untouchable. Unstoppable.
He would make the world her stage and watch as it burned down behind her.
Fandom: Violent Messiahs
Author:
lunesqueRating: PG-13
Pairing (if there is one): unrequited!Job/Cheri
Summary: For one brief moment, Job was only a man, casting aside his role as the shepherd.
Content Notice: none
Disclaimer: Owned by Joshua Dysart, William O'Neill, and Image Comics. No infringement intended.
Author's Note: written for
poetry_fiction. Thanks to lady_krysis for the beta!Word Count: 1,170
It was a bad performance.
That's because I'm the only actor
and there are few humans whose lives
will make an interesting play.
Don't you agree?
~ "The Play" by Anne Sexton
~*~
Rankor Island was, at heart, an easy, simple place for Job. He knew his duty — he watched the animals scurry about their business and culled the rabid. Eventually, his father had told him, he would move on to be a shepherd of the world, using violence and shadows to lead the masses to the light.
It would have been a worthy life.
And then he saw Cheri Major's face on the television and knew it would never be enough.
~*~
Cheri Major wasn't glamorous or all that beautiful — if Job were honest, her face was too hard and her hair was ragged from lack of care — but she had a presence that Job could sense even through the barrier of the television. He finished his duties for the evening, another body to be lost beneath the weight of its filth, and went home to find out everything he could about her.
People, as a rule, were generally boring, living their lives day by day, paycheck by paycheck, unless something caused them to rouse from their stupor, but Job still felt an alien thrill of excitement and anticipation as he pulled up Cheri Major's name in their files. He read everything — the child abuse, her mother dying from cancer, the murder—
The murder.
Cheri Major was like him.
~*~
He never thought her eyes would be so green.
~*~
Job knew that he was doing the wrong thing, but it didn't stop him from slipping the lock on her apartment door and stepping inside.
Cheri wasn't home.
He took a deep breath of the calm, cool air, tasted it — wood and gun metal and the barest hint of perfume — and walked through her apartment. The cabinets in her kitchen were of a dark, if cheap, wood, and the dishes were ceramic. Plain white, with nothing of Cheri's personality.
There was a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in her refrigerator. For a moment, Job allowed himself to close his eyes and imagine the taste. He tried to imagine what it would be like to kiss her, but the furthest he could get was the phantom touch of her fingers against his cheek.
He closed the refrigerator and prowled silently into the next room.
Cheri's living room was warm with a comfortable-looking arm chair and a thick blue rug covering the weathered wooden floor. He stroked the waxy leaves of the green plant in the corner of the room before he got a glass of water and poured half of it into the dry plant food. He watched the water sink into the potting soil like it was never there and then drained the rest of it in the sink before he put the glass back where he found it.
He pulled out his gun and traced it along the curtains, pushing at the heavy fabric with its muzzle, and then peeked into her bathroom, running it along the edge of Cheri's cracked bathroom sink. There was a robe hanging on the back of the door, and Job raised his gloved hand as though he might touch it.
Cheri had worn that robe.
Job stepped back and left the bathroom. There was one room left, the door half open and layered in shadows. This, too, was a private part of Cheri that he couldn't bring himself to invade. He squeezed the doorknob and tried to imagine the way she pushed open the door. Did she use the doorknob? Or did she use the palm of her hand to shove the door open? He imagined that it gave way beneath the force of her existence, bowing like a reed from her storm. Only he was strong enough to embrace her rage.
He made his way back to the living room and sat in her armchair. His suspicion had been right. It was very comfortable.
Some time soon, he anticipated, Cheri would come home. Clear as day was the path.
~*~
Job told her that he didn't have any dreams, that he was the scheme of powerful men, but what he meant was that he never had any dreams until her.
When he closed his eyes now, it was always her voice leading him from the dark.
~*~
She was getting closer to everything, just as Job had anticipated. His secrets, the Family, Jeremiah — all would be laid out before her, all would be cleansed, if not forgiven.
His father had a discerning eye, however, and saw what Job had to hide. His performance was poor, even he had to admit that, but even after his punishment, he couldn't keep Cheri Major out of his head.
His father, the Keepers, they were False Gods.
Cheri Major was his light. She was the Way.
~*~
There was death, as there always was, and he filled his days with blood and revenge and muted, wishful thinking of what ending this would feel like. Cheri, of course, was just a dream, a pretense without any connection. It was time to end it.
He lurked through the shadows dealing death, peddling bullets instead of drugs, and it was only luck that he saw Cheri across the street. She was staring out the window of a coffee shop, her hands cupped in front of her mouth as though she could breathe heat into her fingers.
Job couldn't fight the inexorable pull he always felt when he saw Cheri, and he circled toward her, moving closer and closer. Cheri was the center of his labyrinth, both the battle and the prize, and he wanted so fiercely for a moment that he forgot himself.
He stepped into the world. For one brief moment, he was only a man, casting aside his role as the shepherd.
It was too late; it had always been too late. Cheri had turned toward the barrista, her fingers already cupping the drink that would keep her warm.
He touched the glass where Cheri had been so close there was a fog on the window. He rested his cheek against that spot and closed his eyes, imagining that he could feel her breath.
That would have been a worthy end as well.
~*~
Job had never made it this far in his dreams. He was a pragmatist. He knew that destroying his family would mean destroying himself, but he had always thought that he would die alone.
But now, with Cheri at his side and North End Mansion burning behind them, he had no idea what he would do, didn't know if he should even think about what might happen next.
That was a lie. He knew what his future held. He only hoped there was enough time to make sure Cheri was safe after he was gone.
He wanted so many things still —the sun on his face and Cheri by his side and the entire universe cupped in his palms as a gift to her. None of those were more plausible than any of the others. He'd given up on realism.
To die for Cheri Major was more than he had hoped for. He would make her untouchable. Unstoppable.
He would make the world her stage and watch as it burned down behind her.
no subject
The fic itself is a poem, and it's FUCKING GORGEOUS.