Please, Blow My Brains Out
Inspired by Kytten's fic, Restraint, so go read that too.
Fuck if I don't feel like the most horrible person in the entirety of whatever is left of the world. If I've never seen eyes as sad as his are now, then please, for the love of god, someone blow my brains out. I fucking deserve to be shot, and it would certainly be less painful, because right now I feel like my heart has given it's notice and is shutting down the works.
He stopped wiping up the bar not of his own volition, but I can tell that it's purely out of shock and rage and devastation. And he loves me and he hates me and I wouldn't be offended if he spit on me because it's all my fault.
Because I was weak and I held his hand like a friend, and like a lover. I was lonely and I was happy to find a caring, beautiful soul. And we talked, and shared secrets, and bared souls to one another.
But then I left him, and I visited him, then I left him again, and then I met Charon. And ho-ly fuck am I a weak and worthless woman because I can't resist his hands and his voice and the way he fucks me over the table. And I love Gob in the way you love a truly good man, but when Charon grabs me in the bar, and Gob's hands tighten around the glass he's cleaning, I can't resist the contact and I can't swat his hands off, and I can't not meet Gob's eyes, and try to tell him in a look how fucking sorry I am.
I'm sorry that I'm so weak-willed and I'm sorry I had to ever stumble into Underworld and I'm sorry that it wasn't him fucking me over the table at least once.
And there's nothing I could say to him to fix the damage I've done to him and his patchwork soul – shredded and stitched up after every offense. But I couldn't help it, and when I say that I mean it with the sincerity of a woman who would do anything to make it not true, and if I had the choice, I'd love the sweet, wonderful man from Moriarty's Saloon until my dying breath. But I have grandiose dreams and patchwork morals.
I'm just lying to myself if I say I can resist Charon in any way, shape, or form. And if you'd asked the kid from Vault 101, I'd say I'd never in a million years make that 'nice guys finish last' cliché a true one, but, in practice, the nice guy held my hand and comforted me, and the gruff and vulgar one screwed me good.
Fuck if I'm not the kind of woman the younger me would have called a selfish bitch. And I know it and I feel it and it's true. I'm a selfish bitch who can't resist a dick.
This sure isn't the daughter my father raised, and I've violated everything I ever stood for. His eyes trail down to the bar and he scrubs at a tiny area that is probably as clean as it'll get, and if he wasn't so physically torn apart, I would have sworn he was holding back the urge to cry. And suddenly I can't because I know how much wrong I've done to him and to myself and I just saw the life I could have had with him, but threw it away in a fit of lust, with someone he knew, even.
Charon surely doesn't know why I'm suddenly crying, but Gob glances back up and stares back with every bit of love and malice and sadness, and I know that he's begging me to go away.
And so I'm walking out forever, because no matter how I admit to myself that I'm horrible or weak, I'll never be able to say no to Charon, even if it means tearing the heart out of a beautiful innocent. Walking out, leaving behind love and trust and secrets and kindness that I'd entrusted him with the first day I'd met him, I leave a huge part of me with Gob, and honestly I'm not really all that adverse to dying anymore, knowing I let him down, and knowing that I'm never going to see him ever again because of it.