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This page last viewed: 2017-11-20 and has been viewed 2097 times

He knew the man in the hospital bed was faking it


By Katkin


Rated PG13

Summary So… how come Faceman has the bullet, wondered Junkfoodmonkey after reading Memories are made of this. Here's how! Though I wrote it later, this is a 'prequel', of sorts, to Fear, itself and Memories are made of this.

Disclaimer I'm doing this for a big fat zero. They're not mine… but I have a plan and I just know I'm gonna love it when it comes together…





He knew the man in the hospital bed was faking it.


Almost the second he'd walked into the room, the man's breathing had taken on a new rhythm; faster, more urgent. He'd seen the evidence on the blood pressure monitor: numbers racing up the scale. A bad dream? Maybe… though not if the white knuckles clutching the blanket were any indication. The man was well aware of his presence.


He stared at the man for a few moments. His face was almost as white as the pillow and the machinery surrounding him made him appear small and insignificant as he lay in the bed. The thorn in my side, he thought. Small and insignificant – but hurts like hell when it's well and truly stuck. And stuck the man was… working his way in deep; drawing blood with a sly dig here and there, hitting the same mangled nerve with every challenge, twisting in his flesh each time he demanded the answer to his endless questions: "When? How much longer?"


Never, in the early days, had he even entertained the thought that this one: the youngest one, who had seemed the weakest in character, the easiest one, the one most likely to keep his mouth shut and get on with the job, would be the most difficult to convince. He had fully expected it from the others. Not this one. But somehow this one had rapidly seen right through him… and was becoming a bad influence on the others.


The watcher reached into his pocket and withdrew the prize he had been so careful to save. It seemed small and insignificant. But it had hurt like hell when it was well and truly stuck… drawing blood… hitting mangled nerves… twisting in the flesh.


He leaned in, up close and personal, gratified to see the sick man's nerve break and his eyelids flutter open in panic. Dull eyes instantly focused on the bullet held between thumb and forefinger, not five inches from his face.


"Peck," Stockwell murmured softly, almost comfortingly. "The next one has your name on it."


Insignificance by Katkin



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