unautremonde (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unautremonde) wrote2004-07-18 03:56 pm
unautremonde) wrote2004-07-18 03:56 pm
Entry tags:
Souviens-toi de moi, (1/3) - lotrips AU, R, Dom/Guillaume
Title: Whisper
Series: Souviens-toi de moi, 1/3
Genre: AU
Pairing: Dom/Guillaume
Rating: R (NC-17 for the whole series)
Summary: London, 1943. Dom has demons clinging to his skin and haunting him through his dreams.
Warning: violence, character death
Disclaimer: Obviously all lies, and I'm certainly not trying to pretend I know anything about these actors' real personalities and sexual preferences. It's all fiction, people.
Author's note: additional disclaimer and visual aids to be found here.
Thanks: to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rynalwyn and shaenie for incredible support and betas. This story wouldn't be what it is without you.
Whispers, menacing and chilling, voices ordering him down, melting him into the hard stone wall at his back.
“You did well, Dominic, we will break him soon.”
He feels the sweat running down his spine, cold sweat, freezing his blood and allowing the chill inside. His guts are twisting, fierce and painful twist of inevitability. He can still hear him shouting, can still see him in his mind’s eyes, the image burned on the inside of his eyelids for him to see every single time he closes his eyes.
Walter is here, glaring at him, snarling or smiling triumphantly, it’s hard to tell, but definitely reading him like an open book, and Dom can feel himself being pulled inside out, ready to be trampled on. Walter has never been subtle, and breaking is his business after all. This time, though, Dom is aware Walter isn’t just set on breaking the enemy.
“You’ve been very good, Dominic, really. I would be proud of you, if…”
Dom doesn’t have to look up to know what Walter isn’t telling him. He knows it’s impossible for Walter not to be able to tell that Dom’s finally gotten his priorities all tangled up, that he’s no longer reliable and sure. He spent months in France, months seeing and hearing things he’d ignored far too long.
And then, there’s Guillaume.
Dom shudders at another blood-curling scream, trying not to notice the cruel little smirk lighting up Walter’s face.
“I would be proud of you. I will be proud of you if you make the right choices, Dominic. But you are aware I can’t let you go easily.”
Dom knows what this means. He needs to prove to Walter that his loyalties still lie with Abwher, still lie with Walter Kappe and the Reich.
He breathes desperately, tries to obscure memories, tries not to remember the feel of Guillaume’s skin under his fingertips, tries not to think of anything at all. His hands close around the handle of the heavy black club Walter is holding out, and he closes his eyes one last time, desperately looking for some composure. The image of Guillaume assails him: Guillaume half naked and raw, tied to the sink in the tiny little cell, skin wet with blood and blue with bruises, eyes desperately seeking for a way out.
There’s another scream, half muffled but still loud enough to pierce Dom’s chest, and his eyes fly open, falling instantly on Walter’s impatient frown. He pushes himself away from the wall and makes his way slowly to the cell’s door, stopping only briefly in front of it before stepping inside.
Walter is at his back, pushing him forward without even touching him and Dom lowers his gaze, avoids looking at the crumpled body slumped against the table’s leg, closes his ears to the whimpers coming from it. He knows without a doubt that the next time the whimpers soar into a scream, it will be his own name on Guillaume’s breath.
Dom wakes with a start, hand closing around the cold metal of his gun under his pillow. Years of conditioning have him instantly aware of his surroundings, no sleep drowsiness lingering, and he immediately knows he is alone in the room.
His senses are alert, he’s listening, watching, looking for what might have dragged him out of sleep, but there’s nothing, no one. London blackout in the middle of the night, cheap sheets glued to his skin with sweat despite the cold chill blowing in from the window and its broken glass, and yet he can still feel the hard edges of a stone wall at his back, the burning shame of the club in his hand.
He turns around and drops back down to his bed, hand clutching the gun, face buried in the pillow, muffling his frustrated sigh. He can still hear a voice ringing in his ear, split lips bleeding his name on an agonized scream.
He deserves the nightmares. Deserves every single blood-curling dream that drags him through the scene again and again and again… He knows he was young, and maybe a bit trusting, idealistic, blind… but he spent months in France, at the border, mingling with the men and women that made up Walter’s worst enemy: La Résistance. He saw them fight, and he tried so hard to not let his own ideals betray him that he finally lost track of them and started realizing what was driving these outlaws to fight so fiercely. He saw things, things Walter had cleverly hidden from him, betting a lot on his innocence and gullibility.
Walter wasn’t one to let anybody go easily, though, and there wasn’t much that Dom could have done to keep Guillaume from falling into Walter’s carefully planned trap. There wasn’t much, but there had been at least a couple of things: Dom could have given himself away, could have warned Guillaume off at the risk of his own life, could have risked being rejected both by Guillaume and his people, and Walter and Abwehr-2…
Dom had chosen to follow through with Walter’s plan and his own mission orders.
So yes, Dom deserves every single nightmare, and he deserves to fail in his half-hearted attempt at righting things by spying for the other side. Though he’s not even sure he’s spying for the other side… He left Abwehr, yes, but there is nothing to tell him he’s not still working for those who made him a murderer.
Dom is still clutching his pillow and his gun, breathing raggedly into the rough cotton, when the sirens go off. He listens to the wailing signalling the approach of his former compatriots, hears the sounds of the rest of the building waking up in a frantic scramble to get to the shelters on time. For a few seconds he thinks about not getting out of bed, not running down the steps and joining his new neighbours inside the dusty bunker down the road where there isn’t enough room for everyone on the street anyway, and where it’s not much safer than it would be staying out here. They all need the ritual, though, the illusion of safety, of doing something to survive and keep themselves as much out of harm’s way as they can.
Tonight, he thinks he might need the illusion more than ever.
He gets up and grabs his trousers, slipping them on, then putting on his shoes and stacking the gun inside his belt. If he’s going to pretend to be safe, he may as well take it with him.
As he steps outside and runs down the street to where everybody else is already trying to push their way inside, he thinks briefly of Guillaume and fancies he can hear his ragged voice wailing Dom’s name along with the RAF sirens.
********
on to part 2: Chase
Series: Souviens-toi de moi, 1/3
Genre: AU
Pairing: Dom/Guillaume
Rating: R (NC-17 for the whole series)
Summary: London, 1943. Dom has demons clinging to his skin and haunting him through his dreams.
Warning: violence, character death
Disclaimer: Obviously all lies, and I'm certainly not trying to pretend I know anything about these actors' real personalities and sexual preferences. It's all fiction, people.
Author's note: additional disclaimer and visual aids to be found here.
Thanks: to
rynalwyn and shaenie for incredible support and betas. This story wouldn't be what it is without you.WHISPER
Whispers, menacing and chilling, voices ordering him down, melting him into the hard stone wall at his back.
“You did well, Dominic, we will break him soon.”
He feels the sweat running down his spine, cold sweat, freezing his blood and allowing the chill inside. His guts are twisting, fierce and painful twist of inevitability. He can still hear him shouting, can still see him in his mind’s eyes, the image burned on the inside of his eyelids for him to see every single time he closes his eyes.
Walter is here, glaring at him, snarling or smiling triumphantly, it’s hard to tell, but definitely reading him like an open book, and Dom can feel himself being pulled inside out, ready to be trampled on. Walter has never been subtle, and breaking is his business after all. This time, though, Dom is aware Walter isn’t just set on breaking the enemy.
“You’ve been very good, Dominic, really. I would be proud of you, if…”
Dom doesn’t have to look up to know what Walter isn’t telling him. He knows it’s impossible for Walter not to be able to tell that Dom’s finally gotten his priorities all tangled up, that he’s no longer reliable and sure. He spent months in France, months seeing and hearing things he’d ignored far too long.
And then, there’s Guillaume.
Dom shudders at another blood-curling scream, trying not to notice the cruel little smirk lighting up Walter’s face.
“I would be proud of you. I will be proud of you if you make the right choices, Dominic. But you are aware I can’t let you go easily.”
Dom knows what this means. He needs to prove to Walter that his loyalties still lie with Abwher, still lie with Walter Kappe and the Reich.
He breathes desperately, tries to obscure memories, tries not to remember the feel of Guillaume’s skin under his fingertips, tries not to think of anything at all. His hands close around the handle of the heavy black club Walter is holding out, and he closes his eyes one last time, desperately looking for some composure. The image of Guillaume assails him: Guillaume half naked and raw, tied to the sink in the tiny little cell, skin wet with blood and blue with bruises, eyes desperately seeking for a way out.
There’s another scream, half muffled but still loud enough to pierce Dom’s chest, and his eyes fly open, falling instantly on Walter’s impatient frown. He pushes himself away from the wall and makes his way slowly to the cell’s door, stopping only briefly in front of it before stepping inside.
Walter is at his back, pushing him forward without even touching him and Dom lowers his gaze, avoids looking at the crumpled body slumped against the table’s leg, closes his ears to the whimpers coming from it. He knows without a doubt that the next time the whimpers soar into a scream, it will be his own name on Guillaume’s breath.
Dom wakes with a start, hand closing around the cold metal of his gun under his pillow. Years of conditioning have him instantly aware of his surroundings, no sleep drowsiness lingering, and he immediately knows he is alone in the room.
His senses are alert, he’s listening, watching, looking for what might have dragged him out of sleep, but there’s nothing, no one. London blackout in the middle of the night, cheap sheets glued to his skin with sweat despite the cold chill blowing in from the window and its broken glass, and yet he can still feel the hard edges of a stone wall at his back, the burning shame of the club in his hand.
He turns around and drops back down to his bed, hand clutching the gun, face buried in the pillow, muffling his frustrated sigh. He can still hear a voice ringing in his ear, split lips bleeding his name on an agonized scream.
He deserves the nightmares. Deserves every single blood-curling dream that drags him through the scene again and again and again… He knows he was young, and maybe a bit trusting, idealistic, blind… but he spent months in France, at the border, mingling with the men and women that made up Walter’s worst enemy: La Résistance. He saw them fight, and he tried so hard to not let his own ideals betray him that he finally lost track of them and started realizing what was driving these outlaws to fight so fiercely. He saw things, things Walter had cleverly hidden from him, betting a lot on his innocence and gullibility.
Walter wasn’t one to let anybody go easily, though, and there wasn’t much that Dom could have done to keep Guillaume from falling into Walter’s carefully planned trap. There wasn’t much, but there had been at least a couple of things: Dom could have given himself away, could have warned Guillaume off at the risk of his own life, could have risked being rejected both by Guillaume and his people, and Walter and Abwehr-2…
Dom had chosen to follow through with Walter’s plan and his own mission orders.
So yes, Dom deserves every single nightmare, and he deserves to fail in his half-hearted attempt at righting things by spying for the other side. Though he’s not even sure he’s spying for the other side… He left Abwehr, yes, but there is nothing to tell him he’s not still working for those who made him a murderer.
Dom is still clutching his pillow and his gun, breathing raggedly into the rough cotton, when the sirens go off. He listens to the wailing signalling the approach of his former compatriots, hears the sounds of the rest of the building waking up in a frantic scramble to get to the shelters on time. For a few seconds he thinks about not getting out of bed, not running down the steps and joining his new neighbours inside the dusty bunker down the road where there isn’t enough room for everyone on the street anyway, and where it’s not much safer than it would be staying out here. They all need the ritual, though, the illusion of safety, of doing something to survive and keep themselves as much out of harm’s way as they can.
Tonight, he thinks he might need the illusion more than ever.
He gets up and grabs his trousers, slipping them on, then putting on his shoes and stacking the gun inside his belt. If he’s going to pretend to be safe, he may as well take it with him.
As he steps outside and runs down the street to where everybody else is already trying to push their way inside, he thinks briefly of Guillaume and fancies he can hear his ragged voice wailing Dom’s name along with the RAF sirens.