Note: Sorry this last chapter was so long in coming. I must admit, this is a challenging configuration to write, but I think it turned out pretty well. Thanks for all the reviews, and let me know what you think of this chapter! I'm re-posting this because I caught a few grammatical errors, and changed some things I wasn't quite happy with.

Disclaimer: I don't own "Fight Club."


I haven't slept. In days, minutes, hours, months—I don't know.

The bags under my eyes are so pronounced they almost need their own names. I'll call the right Tyler and the left Marla. Marla. She never did come back for her dildo. Tyler stuck it on top of the leaky, lukewarm fridge where it stands semi-erect like some fucked up tribute to what Tyler said I can't remember how long ago. Women are the last thing we need.

I'm lying on my mattress, taking care of myself since Tyler is gone. Thankfully his fucking space monkeys are gone, too. He leaves without saying anything most of the time, and his boys left crowing something about some new mission—but clam up when I'm around. There's no joy in the task, literally, in hand. It's fucking impossible, staring up at the stained, decaying ceiling, thinking about Tyler, but just getting an awful image of him smirking, "You decide your level of involvement in Project Mayhem."

My face twists and it must be ugly, I give my cock a near-violent pull and then I hear the door creak open, "If you're not careful, you're gonna yank your dick clean off. Then how'll I collect on my owed fuck?"

His silhouette leans against the doorway. Tyler Durden. Hate, rage, loathing, need, desperation, churn through my sleep-starved mind. I prop myself up on my elbows and give him a sneer, "Sorry, I didn't think there was a still-standing debt, Mr. Durden."

He shifts a little in the doorframe, and flashes a smile, all teeth, "Trying the clever thing again? I'll tell you this—it's not working out for you."

I've got no snappy response, I'm too exhausted for Tyler's games, so I turn away from him and stare at the wall opposite, eyes glancing over the swelling plaster and rot. Flashes of memory, hands wearing patches in the damp bathroom wall, heat, want, having, make me even more embittered.

Tyler lets out a dramatic, put-upon sigh. Suddenly, he's flopped on the bed, and I flinch. We're about three inches away from what would look like spooning. "C'mon, sweetheart," his voice is mocking, "Don't be that way, you know I've got obligations."

I grit my teeth, and shut my eyes, imagine pounding his stupid grin into Lou's cement floor—though it'd never really happen. Tyler hates being ignored. A hand grabs my shoulder and jerks me flat on my back, before I can react, he's straddling me, holding my arms spread-eagled and bruised against the mattress.

"Get the fuck off me!" I scream, muscles coiled and writhing against Tyler's hold, but it doesn't matter. Tyler always has the upper hand. "Why don't you just go screw one of your space monkeys!?! Leave me the f—" Tyler's velvety lips seal over my cracked and dry ones, his tongue down my throat stops the rest of whatever I'd been yelling. I try to turn away, but Tyler releases my arms, and forces my head to stay still with his palms against my temples while his fingers massage my scalp roughly. Any half-planned attempt at getting Tyler off me scatters.

It's not even kissing, really, just a brutal assault of teeth and our tongues, his lingers over the sockets where two of my molars used to be, mine finds old cuts and brand-new tissue before Tyler nips my tongue, hard. My erection pulses as a strangled yelp escapes me, and I taste blood. Lots. Tyler lets out a smug chuckle, but doesn't draw back. I can't help it, rage pools in the pit of my stomach and without thinking, a fist—mine—smacks Tyler in the ear, just how my very first one landed.

"Fuck!" Tyler sits up unsteadily, disoriented. I'm already struggling to right myself with Tyler still straddling me, like the pushover I am, I start to apologize. He looks down out me disgustedly, "Psycho," he says as he sucker punches me in the stomach. Air whooshes from my lungs. I am Jack's unleashed aggressions.

I hit Tyler in the jaw this time, then his sternum, and all he does is laugh—I picture when Tyler let Lou beat the shit out of him, blood and spit spattered across the concrete floor, how he laughed just like he is now—as I punch him again and again. Somehow, our positions have reversed, I'm on top, feeling confused at how I've gotten there and how uncomfortably unbearable my boner has become.

"What now, Ikea Boy?" Tyler looks up at me through his one eye that's not starting to blacken. "Gonna make that wood into a nice little yin yang coffee table? Or are you going to do something useful with it?" He thrusts his pelvis up, and makes his own need apparent as it bumps against mine.

My breath catches, electricity where our cocks rub. Tyler has sweat and blood smeared around on his face, his button-down, cheesy, patterned shirt sticks to his skin, his hands are settled on the tops of my thighs, his eyes taunt me. I lean down before Tyler can make any other comments and cover his jugular with my mouth, laving my still-bleeding tongue over it as my hands work the buttons of his shirt. Unexpectedly, Tyler leans his head back, and mutters something that sounds like appreciation for the job I'm doing on his neck—I bite down, revenge, sinking my teeth into sinews, which seem to be the only thing Tyler's made of.

"Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck do you think you are? A vampire!?!" Tyler's head jerks away and one of his hands comes away red when he wipes his neck, the other leaves half-moons with dirty fingernails in my leg. I don't answer and grab his hair roughly while fumbling with his belt buckle and I lock mouths with him, mostly to feel the lips scarred into my left hand against my own.

The buckle's undone, I unzip his fly and manage to yank his pants down some. I grip his cock, which feels heavy and heated—Tyler groans and grabs my wrist impatiently, "Worry about that once you're in, cowboy." His joke falls on deaf ears, because even now, I can't wrap my mind around fucking Tyler. It'd be more plausible to fuck God up the ass.

Tyler knows I'm hesitant. He snorts, "Aw, you pussy! Get back to me when you've grown a pair." His hands are against the mattress, trying to get up. I almost let him. It's that all-knowing smirk that makes me shove him back down.

"Whoa! That's more like it!" I ignore Tyler, trying to concentrate on getting through yet another near-life experience, pulling his pants farther down, finally taking out my own needy cock from threadbare boxers. Before I have time to think anymore, I angle myself clumsily at Tyler's entrance, amazingly, he keeps his wise-cracks to himself, and I buck violently forward into what might be uncharted territory—well, let's face it, Marla's dildo probably made it there first.

Tyler and I scream hoarsely. Fully sheathed, I can barely stand it—I've never even thought about what he'd be like, didn't want to overstep any unsaid rules Tyler might have. It's easy to imagine Tyler making a rule like that: "Rule number 11 billion, you do not fantasize about fucking Tyler Durden." Yeah, I'd know why he'd make that rule—fucking him is infinitely better than fantasizing.

His left hand clutches my ass, his right pounds repeatedly against my shoulder blade, like inflicting pain while receiving it will make anything better. Ragged inhales and exhales, searing heat where our bodies connect. I wait a beat, but it feels much, much longer. My body asks how I could've ever fucked anyone besides Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, lying beneath me. All primal, violent instincts channeled into fucking. I am saved—if I can only keep myself from cumming too early.

I begin to move uncertainly. Tyler hisses and claws at my back, I didn't even remember to use spit to make this any easier. Nothing for it now—I reach a hand between the two of us, letting my fingers slide over Tyler's sweat-slicked abs, before gripping his erection. Tyler tenses around me as his hips jerk up, my vision goes white for a millisecond and I grind back into Tyler without thinking. I freeze, looking down at him for some sign that it's okay to pick up the pace, and Tyler's glassy, lust-filled eyes meet mine. I am Jack's lost inhibitions.

Uneven strokes in and out of Tyler, same goes for the hand trying to pleasure Tyler's cock, which is smashed between our stomachs. The pants I'd attempted to pull down are in the way, the zipper's cutting into my left thigh, but I can't bring myself to care or fix it. Tyler makes primal noises, and in the mix, I hear a name that sounds like my real one, I'd almost forgotten it, but Tyler distracts me from that half-thought when he shoves a couple of his fingers into my resisting ass. A strained gasp escapes my throat, I barely resist wriggling backwards against Tyler's digits, and instead jerk forward, trying to find that spot inside Tyler that's going to make him screa—found it.

I circle the pad of my thumb over the tip of Tyler's erection, wiping the pre-cum leaking from his slit around the head, while pumping into him mercilessly. The end is almost near for both of us, I can feel my orgasm building in my gut, but I manage to hold it off, hoping to get Tyler to cum first. I attach my mouth to his neck again, right where the angry purple bruise and teeth marks are placed and rake lips, teeth, tongue over the exact same spot, hoping to fucking god it'll get Tyler off... Tyler's thighs clench, vice-like against my hips and a barely intelligible "F-fuck!" rips through his throat as he arches up against me, burying his fingers deeper into my ass. Cum spurts in ropes between sandwiched bodies, and I ejaculate into Tyler, following him down the orgasmic abyss, inky, all-consuming, and fucking perfect, screaming the only name that matters to me, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler, Tyler.

I collapse on top of him, muscles spasming as I pull out and roll off, listening to our exhausted, gasping breaths. Tyler flings his arm over my chest, and the back of his hand rests there—the closest thing to any after-sex affection I know Tyler will ever show me. "You did good, champ," Tyler says and lets out a sigh as he settles back against the one ratty pillow. I smile a little as my eyelids close, and dark, enveloping sleep folds over me. Finally.

I am Jack's missing pieces. For all I fucking care, Tyler can keep them.