Too Many Bloody Days Later

A/N: I’m drunk and emotional right now… don’t judge.

SUMMARY: whore. Spud rocks fur evvah.

DISCLAIMER: whatever, man. Just go whiddit.


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TOO MANY BLOODY DAYS LATER

Chapter 7: “What’s your name?”

"This is stupid," Jim though. "It's just bloody ridiculous."


West was again on top of what he'd like to describe as "the object of his affections", and he was loving every second of it - as opposed to the object itself. In his fragile mind, the major was fooling himself to believe that this was more of a romantic display of affections between two consenting adults than a forceful display of extreme excessive horniness solely on his part.
As the man on top was sweating, dribbling, panting and grunting, reeking of beef, Jack Daniels and cigarettes, Jim was getting fed up. He figured he should be crying and feeling sorry for himself, but seeing the pathetic figure, not even remotely threatening in this fatigued, worn-out state, sent Jim more in the direction of 'annoyed'. He marvelled at this, his inability to shed any tears. There was none of the usual "why is he doing this to me??" ...No, more like "I hate that doss cunt, and I wish he died a horrible, humiliating death."

Jim was scaring himself.


"He MUST be done soon," Jim hoped, as his mind ever so often travelled back to reality in the midst of trying not to remember in which position he was in. It was getting quite boring, but even so, Jim was surprised that this was how he was feeling about his current situation, as opposed to on earlier occasions. He wasn't afraid and pitiful any longer; he was just annoyed and angry at this big, stupid turd of a man who had the nerves to lay his hands on him. In the back of his mind, Jim cursed himself for not realizing his increasing courage towards the major before he'd been bedded, but that was too late to do anything about now.

In his mind, Jim played with a number of possibilities before deciding to grab the pillow beneath his head, and flinging it violently in the direction of West's face when the fucker least expected it: At the height of the climax. It would be so crude a thing to do, and it was perfect, the perfect ambush.
Jim had fantasized about this for a long time, pretty much all of the time he'd been locked up there, actually... Never in his wildest imagination had he thought he'd get so angry he'd soon be taking initiative, taking to his senses, mustering up the courage to make something out of his eye-for-an-eye-ideology. Even when he did it, it washed over him like an electric shock... only it felt really, REALLY good.

His right hand had a firm grip on the side of the pillow, and as the major started to groan louder, Jim lifted his head slightly, and smacked it in West's face, causing him to fall over on the bed. Jim's adrenaline level went so high he could hardly think in lines of anything other than "why the fuck didn't I do this fifteen minutes ago??" and didn't even notice that he was no longer impaled by West's fleshy manhood. He just kept pounding at West with the pillow like he was possessed, harder with each stroke, but as the adrenaline wore off he threw the pillow away and decided to finish his work with his bare hands. The major, shielding himself from Jim's sudden and unexpected hissy fit, was stammering words of confusion.

"Jim... Wha-"

"Shut up, bitch, I give the orders now," Jim said, with a voice he recognized as his own, but couldn't really figure out if came from his own imagination or the very depths of Satan's soul (if the fucker ever had one). Everything about this scenario confused him, but he was pleased with how it was developing. He'd brushed West's hands away from his face with a gentleness that was in strong contrast to his current body language, and made the major stare him in the eyes. West did so, reluctantly, and as their eyes met, Jim's face adopted a smile so mischievous you wouldn't think it belonged to sweet little Jim at all. He immediately grabbed the major’s strong neck with one hand, and lifted his frame slightly while holding him up against the wall. Jim saw the pitiful look in West's eyes, and wanted to say something, something meaningful, making him think twice about fucking Jim up the ass without his permission. But he figured West wouldn't care, that he'd think it was just another one of Jim's little "issues", "periods", "moods", or whatever he liked to call them. Because usually, when Jim was trying to get out of a pickle with the major, his talking was unstoppable. But now he meant business. The major would try to prove something as always, and Jim was afraid he'd crumble if the major said anything. He didn't want to give him that satisfaction, so he saw to that both their mouths were sealed shut until one of them were six feet under... so to speak.

Jim tightened his grip on West's neck, using both hands now. The major tried to speak, claw at Jim's chest, pound at him, anything to make him let go. He tried giving him the 'look' again, he even tried crying, which maybe wasn't deliberate after all - but Jim was cold. Calculating. Consise. Completely and utterly CALM.
In spite of the coughing, the grotesque guttural gurgling, the body cramping and the emptying of body contents, Jim's expression never changed.

It seemed to Jim that it was taking forever to squeeze the life out of the bastard, like he was clinging on to life like a hair on the shower wall - and after good over fifteen minutes, he still had his hands around West's neck... even though the eyes were starting to look pretty dead after just five. "I have to be sure," Jim though, and part of him was frozen in that moment. His hands seemed stuck to the neck, as if they'd turned to stone around it.

Jim released the cold, stiff neck with a jerk, and with a gasp he felt his entire form being pulled back entirely by itself. He started breathing heavily and shaking at the sight of the dead man on his bed, and it was as if he hadn't been present in the room at all. It was as if he'd just come in, discovering the naked, sweaty old fart lying there, recently satisfied, recently deceased, and indiscreetly dressed. Jim was left hanging there in the moment, wondering what he'd been thinking, what on God's green earth had been going through his mind.

..Yet, ultimately, he was pleased.


As he grew familiar with the thought, he sat down on the bed, too far from the pale, lifeless form to actually see the glassy look of the eyes - he tried not to look - but near enough to reach out and see if he found a pulse.

…Nope, nothing there.


Jim sighed in something he didn't know whether was exhaustion, shock, disappointment or just plain joy. He got up, hastily put on his recently discarded clothing, and pulled a packet of cigarettes out of West's jacket pocket. He hadn't been smoking for years, but he felt like he needed one now, after all.


As he was lighting up with a match - also a belonging of the now late major West - he heard the door creaking. He looked up, and found Clifton in the doorway. The private was seemingly staring into thin air, but no - the dead body of his former superior had caught his eye. How could it not? The only colours contrasting the dark shades of the room were that of Jim's pale face, and of that revolting, limp figure on the bed. Clifton looked to Jim for an answer, but the young man only turned his gaze in apathy to something on the other side of the window, in order to emphasize his point. And Clifton knew exactly what he meant.


Clifton, after standing there like a mannequin, frozen in time for a few moments, moved slowly and cautiously over to one of the chairs in the room. To him, everything about that moment seemed amputated, as if it was not even a part of reality anymore, not of this world at all. It was a cartoon, or a film noir.
His brain was numb and hyperactive, sleeping and screaming at the same time. He thought for so long about something smart to say, but there was really nothing smart to say at all. Not here anyway, not about this…
He had no comeback, no punchline, no catchphrase to help him out.

But Jim helped him out with breaking the silence.

"I hardly had any reason to do it," he said, turning to Clifton. "But I did it anyway, and now it feels pretty good." There was no tone of remorse in these words, and it frightened the private a bit.
Jim took long, draught-out steps towards the chair in which Clifton was sitting, and as he reached the soldier, he fell to his knees. Clifton looked up, seeing that Jim was there right in front of him, with his soul completely exposed through those icy blue eyes.
They stared at one another for a brief moment, before Jim decided to let his weary head fall onto the unexpecting Clifton's lap.

"What's your name?" Jim asked him. His head barely moved.

Clifton hesitated, before answering, quite soberly, "Daniel."

Jim said nothing, and let his head rest in private Clifton's lap, feeling a couple of warm hands stroking his hair as he dozed off...


He'd let his guard down.


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TBC!! As always…. (Dear god, I dunno WHY I do this. Why do I do this??!!)