Another Luther fic from meeeeee. I want this Archive to grow. Like nao. I need me some Jalice fic.

He considered himself, if nothing else, an agent of balance. His job was to seek out imposition upon the steady equilibrium between good and evil, and right it with the swift justice that God and government had given him. His life was dedicated to the correction of all that could be classified in that semantic category of wrong. She was the living, breathing embodiment of all that he was against; nothing less than a perfect storm of everything that he worked to stop. But no matter how hard he tried to file her, he constantly found that columns A through Z in the category 'evil' were full up: big blaring signs declaring that they were closed for business when it came to Alice Morgan.

It was confusing at first because he knew what she had done, the lives she had taken and would continue to take; the permanence of her wrongdoing was etched into his declarative memory like the commandments on Moses' stone. The image of the ripped apart dog was burned into his retinas, even to the point of instant recall the second he saw anyone with red hair. Of course, no one quite managed the brilliance of Alice's colour, but anything was close enough for him. She was on his mind so frequently that it had grown hard to separate her from his reality. So he put her aside, pulled her away from his real life and set her in limbo.

She was fiction. She was a really good novel that he couldn't put down. Well-defined, excellently thought out and a thriller from start to finish, he picked her up and read her through over and over again, dog-earing the pages of the parts he liked best - chapters labelled "Hair", "Eyes", "Mouth", "Danger", "Sex". He skipped the parts that warned him of misdeeds, past, present and future - "Dead Parents", "Murderer", "Psychopath" - and ignored the symbolism that emphasized her gaping, canyon sized flaws. And he was fairly certain she was doing the same.

His flaws matched hers tenfold, but the difference was that while he pushed her away on account of her faults, she pulled that much harder on account of his. She wanted the mistakes and the luggage that accompanied them because it made him like her; when he was at his lowest, most formidable point was when he was most like her. They were two sides of the same incorrigibly insane coin.

The differences are still there, though, ones that make the content of their characters abundantly clear. When he let Madsen fall, he felt dirty; unclean in a way that he couldn't scratch out or wash away in the shower. The taint of the deed soaked into his soul, muddying the waters of good that had once flowed through him. His given right to do good had been marred with an ugly, ugly scar that healed improperly - a gaping wound across his conscience. But Alice felt none of this. She revelled in the exhilaration of flaunting her crimes in the face of everyone while remaining untouched; the filth he felt creep over him left her spotless. But there is a contradiction in their actions: He, who let a paedophile and murderer fall to his almost-death, had not only been exonerated from his crime, but should by all standards have felt no guilt or criminality in his actions, and yet he still did; Alice killed her parents, good people who loved her and cared for her throughout her whole life, but displayed nothing but sly pride in her ability to get away with it.

It was a bizarre polarity that matched them - him, a gruff horse of a man with strong hands, and her, who was little more than a lithe porcelain doll.