Of Pain and Killers: Blake's Confessions

Summary: Blake's interior monologue centering on one agent Norman Jayden. What his first impression of the FBI agent was, what he had expected and what had gone wrong. This story explores another side of Blake, the one he never let anyone see; the one we didn't thought existed.

Paring: Carter Blake/Norman Jayden

Rating: PG-13

Warning: short chapters; weird narration; no plot; stream of consciousness; unbeta'ed; angst. OOCness on the part of Blake because I wanted to look at him from a different angle.

A/N: Anybody else noticed how much Leon Ockenden smiles? Playing the depressed and grave Norman Jayden must have been a far cry from his real self. This thought is pretty much the whole inspiration behind this mini-story. God, this story's so weird.

Part I:

I am drunk on you. It sounds stupid, I know; it would make you do a double take and question my sanity if you were to hear it, and the implications it has, will do nothing for my pride and dominant nature; yet, don't judge me; don't laugh at me, I can explain. But you never laugh or even smile. Sometimes you smirk, but the effect is lost because it is always at my expense. I wonder what would happen if you do; smile, I mean. Or rather, what has to happen for you to smile? I have never seen you smile, but I know it will look good on you. You have the face for it, and sometimes I imagine those pale, gray eyes of yours filled with mirth and turned into a vibrant shade of blue, I can hear the peels of your laughter resonating along these walls, shattering them to pieces by their constant frequency, and your lips stretched wide across your youthful face, and suddenly everything is a hundred shades brighter. You laugh and the sound of your laughter stops the rain. You laugh and the children stop dying. You laugh and I start to believe the world is not such a bad place to live in after all, if one gets to hear you laugh.

It's a hobby of mine, imagining you doing impossible things; like smiling for one, and being genuinely happy. I wonder if you had ever been happy. You don't have laugh lines around your eyes, but instead there are lines of tension on your forehead. There is a permanent frown set upon your face, and you always, always look tragic. Even when you're angry, or frustrated, there is always a veil of sweet tragedy wrapped around your slender frame. It almost makes me sick looking at you, my heart churns every time you blink, but you are a fatal car crash in the middle of a rainy highway, and I, try as I might, cannot avert my eyes from the hideous sight of you.

I know it's heavy, the burden you carry; too heavy for your years and slight built. But you never let on how much pain you are going through every single day. You walk tall and your steps seem sure and stable, but deep down you are a staggering drunk searching blindly for a wall to lean against. You try your best to hide them, the trembling of your hands, the cold sweats running down your nape, the wheezing of your breath, the shroud of dread draped heavily around your shoulders, but you can do nothing to hide your face littered with black and green bruises (your bones rattle as you walk), and the dark bags under your eyes speak volumes about the insomnia that has a vice-like grip on you; I know you make love to her every night and almost never come. Is that what has made you look so tragic? Being in the state of constant dissatisfaction and failure? Is that why you look so miserable, drowned inside those expensive suits of yours, looking sharp and professional to the world, but a pathetic cripple in the mirror? Is that why you push me away every time I try to reach for you? Is that why you turn your back on me every time I try to get a rise out of you? Is that why you punched me the other day? I can still feel the skin throb, where your hand had touched my face, and I wear the bruise with pride. I remember every second of it, but mostly the expressions that filtered through your face as I held you at gunpoint. I don't know why I did it, drawing my gun and treating you like a lowlife criminal. I admit I don't have the best of tempers, but it has never been this bad before. I almost want to regret it, to wish it never happened, if it weren't for that god-awful expression that broke across your face. The fear, that raw, primal fear, but mostly the desperation and the resignation, that goddamn pang of hatred and revulsion, but maybe more of pain, a convulsing throb of agony that shattered your face as if it were fine glass. And it was all fucking tragic; so tragic that I could almost sob; so fucking miserable that I could almost pull the trigger on you. If so that I could put an end to that god-awful expression. If so that I could make you happy. But you're never happy, are you? Will death make you happy? What makes you happy, Norman? What?

You talk in Pain, the universal language, and I still have trouble understanding you.

"Sometimes I get depressed over my own pain; it's the only kind of depression that makes me feel alive."

You are a valley of misery; a swamp of infected wounds. Your pain runs deep into your core; I am just scratching the surface.

And my nails come away with blood; your blood; your pain; mine now.


A/N: So what do you think? I hope it didn't suck too bad; I have read a bunch of HR fanfictions, all of them absolutely brilliant and delightful, and was tempted to write one of my own; only, I wanted to explore another side of Blake, the one he himself may not be even aware of. In almost all the fanfictions I've read, and even the way the canon Blake has been portrayed in the game, Blake has been shown as a brutal cop who doesn't care about the consequences as long as the desired goal is achieved. It seems as if his hatred for Norman stems from jealousy and rivalry, but I wanted to look at it from another angle. To explore the forbidden territory, so to speak. So, hmm…tell me what you think! :)