Pairing: Simon Bellamy/Nathan Young
Rating: PG 13
Summary: It's the middle of the night when Simon hears them downstairs.
Disclaimer: I do not own Misfits, if I did this would be canon
Author's Notes: Comments=Love
It's the middle of the night when Simon hears them downstairs.
He shakes you awake and at first you don't hear anything. Then clear as a bell you both hear the loose floorboard in the hall creak twice.
The bastards don't care if you hear them.
"I'll go downstairs and see what they're doing." Simon whispers and you catch his wrist as he's moving.
"No!" you hiss and don't let his wrist go. The argument is an old one and now is not the time to revisit it.
He stares back and you only let go once he nods. He kisses you before you turn away and you think about putting a shirt on.
You slip out of your bedroom as quietly as you can. Every noise you make is suddenly too loud.
Making your way downstairs avoiding all the creaky spots you feel as if you are playing 'don't step on the cracks'.
You're scared they'll hear you breathing before you can get close enough to do anything.
Once at the bottom of the stairs you can hear noises from the kitchen, dining room and Simons 'study'.
They are going to steal the laptop you got Simon last Christmas. Not if you can help it.
You turn for the open door like a stealthy cat and freeze when you think of Raccoo. Usually he'd be rubbing agaisnt your leg right now. You hope he's ok.
A figure is silhouetted by moonlight, he is crouching low to the floor. Probably trying to untangle the laptop charger from Simons various other cables. You bless Simon his nerdiness.
Taking a paperweight from the desk you raise your arm above your head ready to bring down on the bastards head when the floorboard moans under your right foot. The figure spins around.
As soon as you see his face you know. They wanted you to wake up, wanted you to come down.
They want an easy explanation as to why you died.
Your eyes widen and you shout "Invisible!" at the top of your lungs. The 'e' is pulled from your throat by the knife Jonny Vera thrusts into your stomach.
The sound the knife makes as it slides out of your abdomen echoes in the silence. Jonny's face is set in a sneer.
Blood trickles down your left leg, staining your blue boxers a dark red that looks black in the moonlight. Your legs collapse.
You and Jonny are no longer alone in the study. Bulky forms block out the moonlight and they mumble to each other under there breath.
They're deciding how to finish you.
The paperweight is lying loose in your palm and your fingers draw around it as your blood seeps into the carpet.
Gritting your teeth against the pain you fling the glass orb at Jonny. You may be on the floor but your arms still work.
It hits the back of his head, shattering instantly. You taste the blood on your teeth when your mouth stretches into a toothy grin.
"Bigoted Bastards." you rasp and spit blood in their vague direction. Not only to get the taste out of you mouth but in the faint chance it will hit one of them.
Apparantly you've made their descion for them. The spitting might have swung it.
You wonder for a second where the cricket bat comes from but then it hits you in the face and you decide it really doesn't matter.
A boot collides with your side and you hear your ribs break. You clench your jaw against the screams collecting in your throat.
They are shouting things as they kick and swing but you can't make out the words.
You hope Simon has stayed in your room, he's seen you die too many times.
He always insists on watching. It'll drive him crazy one of these days.
Speak of the devil.
Behind who you think is Paul Burton, the local butchers son you see a carving knife floating in mid air. Obviously when you told him to stay in your room you were talking to yourself.
He's invisible, he at least half listens to you.
The knife is bobbing along, blade pointed to the floor. It's heading for Jonny, passed out on the floor. Simon saw everything.
You love him but he really is villian material. Revenge is high on his list of priorities
When attacked by something invisible people tend to flail wildly and flailing wildly whilst in possesion of a cricket bat does not pose well for the invisible assailant.
You shake your head but Simon isn't looking at you. The knife seems even more determined than before.
Sighing internally you shout "Simon!" but it comes out more of a gargle. The knife halts anyway.
The downside is that your assailants hitch the beating up a notch and you grunt when one well aimed kick hits your groin. Your eyes slide closed.
You ask yourself why you haven't curled into a ball yet. When you attempt it your limbs are unresponsive.
You think your fingers are broken.
A sharp kick to your side forces your eyes open and you catch a glint of moonlight reflecting off of the knife. It is raised behind the still unconcious Jonnys back, the point hovering over his spine.
This time when you shout it is almost all gargle. "No!"
The knife lowers then Thomas Kavanagh laughs and says "Begging us to stop are you faggot?" They seem to sneer in unison.
You just can't help replying "Oh no do please continue." It's worth the spike of pain talking causes to see the looks on their faces.
The cricket bat greets your face again.
It is at this point that you very much hope Jonny Vera bleeds to death.
Then there's a loud click and everything goes black.
Death, you think has become so boring.
You gasp awake inside a morgue cold chamber a white sheet covering you. Naked. Again.
Far too many people have seen you naked now.
They have stitched the gash in your stomach closed. Breathing through your nose you pull out the stitches.
It tingles as the skin knits itself together perfectly. You begin to wonder when Simon will arrive.
The steel of the chamber stares down at you and you stare back.
Now you'll have to move house. Again.
There's no more a public death than being murdered in a homophobic attack. Your photo will be all over the news.
Closing your eyes you start to count down from a hundred. 100. 99. 98.
You hope Simon hasn't done anything rash whislt you've been dead. A tiny part of you hopes he has. 94. 93. 92.
Simon will have to bury you, put on a show. Then come dig you up before the air runs out. 88. 87. 86.
Asphyxiation isn't fun and you'd rather not die again for at least another week. 82. 81. 80.
Maybe this time he'll cremate you, well 'your' coffin anyway. Somehow you doubt he will. 76. 75. 74.
You suspect Simon likes playing the grieving boyfriend. 70.
The cold chamber door opens and your snap your eyes closed. Scaring poor mortuary attendants to death by 'rising from the dead' is not very productive to keeping a low profile.
The sheet is lifted off your face and lips meet yours and someone whispers "Wake up my sleeping beauty."
Seventy, always seventy.
You grin and reply "Only for a handsome prince." It earns you a punch in the arm.
Opening your eyes you blink against the combination of white lights and white tiles. Simon is staring at your scarless stomach all humour gone from his face.
He always looks for the scars. Neither of you need them to remember though. Remembering is something you both do far too well.
You sit up and swing your legs over the side of the metal slab. The sheet slips and you let it.
Simon is still looking at your stomach. You stare at him until he looks up then say "Come here."
He doesn't hesitate and soon you have your arms full of the man you love. He tries to hide it but you know.
Everytime you die so does he.
The moment lingers and the cold makes its presence known. Simon leaves your arms without being asked, turns and hands you some clothes.
He has brought the t-shirt he likes you best in. You smile at his back.
You dress quickly and with Simon stood at the door as look out.
Once you have clothes on you feel safer. Now if anybody were to come in they would just think you and Simon are identifying a corpse.
That's the line you'd spin anyway.
You walk out of the hospital without event, only getting second glances when people notice your linked hands.
When the car park comes into view you are really glad Simon learnt to drive. It looks almost merose as if it too likes this Time-Jump.
There are boxes on the backseat and you'd wager that the boot is full of them too. Simon came prepared, ever the boy scout.
In the back of your head was the hope that Curtis, wherever he is, would mess with time again. That you'd not have to deal with this.
Alway having to run like criminals. It's not right.
You put the radio on and a song you both know fills the car. You sing along as Simon grins.
Let it never be said that Nathan Young and Simon Bellamy can't compartmentalise.
The miles pass steadily, Simons face getting more and more intense the further away you get.
He is holding something in. You have the urge to say "You're gonna get a huge ulcer one of these days Si." but hold you tongue.
Forcing an issue works as well with Simon as it does with you. That is to say it doesn't.
Precisely seven miles go by before you've had enough of Simons silence and you huff out "Ok what is it?"
He doesn't turn to face you when he answers "I don't know what you mean."
You look at him and just know. "Simon what did you do?" only half dreading the answer.
He lets out a breath you didn't know he was holding but otherwise says nothing.
The subject stews for another two miles until Simon pulls into a little petrol station. The petrol tank is full.
Wordlessly Simon gets out and heads into the shop and reappears a few seconds later with a newspaper in his hand.
He slides into is seat and drives the car around to the tyre air pump with the newspaper resting on his lap.
When he stops he slumps and rests his head on the stearing wheel. You take the folded newspaper.
Unfolding it you notice its a local one, local to the borough. Then you see the headline.
"FOUR KILLED IN RETALIATION TO HOMOPHOBIC ATTACK."
The article does nothing to settle your anxiety. It reads:
The bodies of Jonathan Vera, Thomas Kavanagh, Paul Burton and Samual Tattersall were found early this morning in a barn on the outskirts of Rowley. Each had severeal stab wounds and their throats were cut. The police are said to be looking for Simon Bellamy in relation to this crime. Det. Morgan who is leading the investigation has said "We believe Mr Bellamy killed the four men in retaliation to the murder of his boyfriend Nathan Young which we believe to have been at the hands of the victims." People are advised to steer clear of Bellamy and to phone the police should they sight him.
Setting the story off nicely is a picture of you and Simon together with a caption underneath.
To be honest you expected this, didn't you. Hoped for it almost.
Simon is looking at you sideways, his forehead still on the stearing wheel. You feel your face soften.
You shift as close to him as the handbrake will allow. He watches you warily but sits upright.
Bringing up your hand to his face you cup his jaw. You use the grip to bring his head towards yours, his lips to yours.
He still makes you fell airy, feel new. It hasn't faded.
Your hands are framing his face and his are tangled in your hair. Neither of you want to breath.
But when you break appart his eyes are fragile. He needs reassurance.
So you smile and say "I would have done the same thing."
He hides his face in your neck and mumbles "I love you so much Nathan, it scares me sometimes."
He scares you sometimes.
You say "I love you too Si." and after a pause "Lets get out of here before someone reports us to the fuzz."
It gets the laugh you hoped it would.
And as Simon is pulling out of the petrol station you mumble to yourself "Looks like we're criminals after all."