unjustifiable | 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙻𝙾𝚆

[ The question needles him. His glare whips back to James, and he snaps before he can stop himself. ]

I don't like hurting people!

[ Even as the words leave his mouth, he knows it's a lie, and he knows that James will hear it for what it is. His jaw clenches. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing a long, steadying breath through his nose to keep his temper from boiling over. He always intended to tell James more about himself, but this is not his he imagined it.

No--he tells himself he intended to, but deep down he knows he simply stopped feeling the need to... and now look where that's gotten him.

When he opens his eyes, he's still glaring, but the anger is pointed inward now. His next words are more subdued and somewhat strained. ]

I don't... want to like hurting people.

[ Igarak's anger rattles James' overtaxed nerves. His involuntary flinch says more than words ever could. He's treading dangerous ground, and he knows it. A little more needling, and Igarak might very well run out of patience. Maybe part of James wants that. He's had it coming for quite a while.

He doesn't respond to the admission immediately. Without bothering to finish undressing, he takes a seat on the sofa and stares into the fire. There's enough room for Igarak to sit down beside him if he so chooses. After a while, he finds the courage to speak. ]

When I... [ He forces himself to say it. ] When I killed Mary. [ The words hang in the air for a second, stark and horrible. ] I felt... like I watched myself do it. Like I was standing outside my own body. I wanted to stop, but I couldn't.

[ He shakes his head, his face ashen underneath the dried blood. ] Or maybe that's just another excuse. I don't know. I suppose I'm trying to say that... I know what it feels like to lose control.

[ Igarak watches James but doesn't join him, choosing to keep space between them. He saw that flinch. James is still afraid of him. Maybe he always will be. The thought weighs on him, a heavy, inescapable knot of sadness and shame passing into his chest.

When James mentions Mary, though, Igarak finds himself moving towards the sofa anyway, knowing how difficult the subject is. He hesitates there, unsure whether his presence will make things better or worse, before at last lowering himself to the cushions. He puts as much distance between them as the space will allow, making himself as small and unimposing as possible. He doesn't even think about the blood on him and or the stains he'll inevitably leave on the sofa; blood feels as natural on him as his own skin.

His tail rests beside him, the tip twitching every now and then by his feet. He stares first at the fire, then drops his gaze to his hands clenched into tight fists on his thighs, claws digging sharply into his palms. Several more moments pass before he speak, his voice hollow when he does. ]

That wasn't me losing control.

[ He could have stopped, if he'd wanted to. But the truth is he hadn't wanted to. ]

That was just... me.

[ James looks sharply over at Igarak. His eyes are bright in the firelight. Feverish. ]

What about when you saved my life? Wasn't that you? Hells, you saved this whole city. Wasn't that you, too?

[ For all his lingering fear of the man, he hates the way Igarak shrinks away from him. He can't help but feel like he's somehow undermined the trust that's been built up between them. Worse, he's hurt someone he cares for. ]

I won't lie to you because you've never lied to me. What I saw tonight shook me. I don't claim to know what kind of darkness you fight against. But I don't think you're a monster.

[ They're nice words, but James knows all too well that words only mean so much. He reaches out to place a trembling hand on the other man's shoulder, just as Igarak had done for him on the night they met. ] I still want you here. With me.

[ The sentiment is kind. It should afford Igarak some reassurance... yet when James talks about his role in saving the world, he visibly flinches, and tension coils beneath the man's touch when he lays a hand on his shoulder.

Igarak gives James a sidelong look, then drops his gaze again. ]

Before you commit to that, there are other things you must know about me.

[ James winces at that flinch, but he doesn't move his hand. He inches closer to Igarak on the sofa, as though he were trying to approach a skittish animal. He thinks of that night by the harbor again, of the patient way that Igarak consoled him. ]

Then tell me. It won't change how I feel.

[ Igarak wants so badly to lean into the touch, but he won't let himself. Instead, he remains rigid in his spot, bracing for certain rejection. His stomach twists, as it always does when he's admitting the dark truths about himself, only this time the anxiety runs deeper. He and James didn't spend months battling side by side in life or death situations. They did not share the nightmare of being afflicted with a mind flayer parasite. As far as Igarak is concerned, there's no reason for James to feel any kind of loyalty towards him, beyond his misplaced sense of debt.

He isn't even sure where to begin... but perhaps his status as the supposed 'savior of the city' is as good a place as any. He takes a breath and releases it slowly. ]

The reason the city needed saving in the first place is because of me. I was part of the Absolute plot. One of its architects, in fact.

[ He keeps his gaze on the fire as he speaks, refusing to see whatever expression might be waiting on James' face. ]

I don't know all the details. I have... amnesia. What I do know is the person I was before wholly embraced Bhaal's will.

[ James is very lucky that Igarak can't see the look on his face. He just sits there, gobsmacked and speechless, turning the words over and over in his mind in the vain hope that he's misunderstood their meaning. He tries to imagine Igarak pacing some shadowy room, plotting domination on a massive scale, but the image feels almost comical in its absurdity. He can't reconcile that man with the man he knows.

But he has to try. He has to accept this. Not because he owes Igarak a debt, but because he cares for him. His hand remains on Igarak's shoulder, but the gesture might be more reassuring if he could stop himself from trembling. ]

You must have killed a lot of people.

[ There's nothing accusatory in his tone. It's just a blunt statement of fact. ]

You saved a lot of people, too. Even if you only did it out of guilt, you still saved them. They're alive now because you. I am alive because of you.

[ He tries to catch Igarak's eye. Strangely enough, he's no longer afraid. Shocked, yes, but not afraid. ]

Do you still feel like the same person you were before?

[ James' trembling grip tells Igarak everything he needs to know. He's upset. Frightened still, perhaps even angry. The exact feelings don't matter; the result is the same. James is unhappy with him. As difficult as it is, there's a strange, almost weary relief in the idea that someone might finally hold him accountable for his sins.

So when James' next words offer not condemnation but reassurance, Igarak is blindsided.

He's quiet for a time, until at last turning to look at James in stunned silence. He's never understood why others are so willing to forgive the unforgivable when it comes to him. Once, it made him angry, made him think everyone was a fool, offering their hands to a rabid dog. These days he's grateful... but no less bewildered by it.

James saw something in him that frightened him today. But he must also see something in him greater than that.

Remembering he'd been asked a question, he swallows against the dryness in his throat, then shakes his head in uncertainty. ]

I can't know for sure. I get flashes of memory every now and then, and what I see is worse than anything you saw today. It sickens me.

But I can't pretend it wasn't me who did those things... or that the capacity for cruelty doesn't still exist within me.

[ Almost against his own will, James imagines what it might be like to find himself bound to an altar in some reeking charnel pit, unable to move or even cry out as a familiar horned figure advanced upon him, dagger raised. Would Igarak kill him quickly? Or would it be drawn-out and agonizing? He tries to banish the thought, but it leaves behind a woozy feeling, like vertigo. ]

If I had met you before you... started over, would you have...

[ He loses his nerve midway through asking the question. This isn't how he wanted this to go. He should be consoling his friend, not indulging his sick curiosity. ]

I'm sorry. That was - [ An uncomfortable pause. ] Inappropriate. I know talking about this is difficult for you.

[ A faint crease forms between Igarak's brows. As he studies his friend's blood-spattered face, the thought slips in, unbidden, that James wears it far too well. He forces himself to look away. ]

I'll answer anything you ask. But... you don't truly want the answer to that, do you?

[ James holds Igarak's gaze. The dim light turns his hazel eyes dark, like two chips of obsidian set into his skull. Other than the rise and fall of his chest, he's perfectly still. That odd sensation of vertigo remains. He feels like he's back at the top of the bridge, working up the nerve to jump. ]

Yes. I do. I want to know.

[ Igarak's toes curl in his boots, tension coiling throughout his body. There's danger in this conversation. He can feel it. But he meant when he said he'd answer anything. He doesn't want his past poisoning the trust they've built, even if it means losing their friendship. His unblinking gaze remains fixed on the fire as he speaks. ]

If I'd come across you drowning, you'd never have met me. I would have made certain you never surfaced. And if I'd come across you in passing, I--

[ He breaks off as a memory abruptly surfaces: an empty alley bathed in darkness, a man writhing beneath him as he chokes the life from him. The sensation is vivid--his claws digging into a collapsing throat; the desperate kicking; lips turning blue. When his memory self looks down at the man's dying face, it's inexplicably that of James.

He slams his eyes shut, banishing the image from his mind. When he continues, he speaks quickly. ]

I- I don't know. I don't know how I chose who to kill. Eventually, everyone would die, but I know I didn't kill indiscriminately.

[ Something must have broken loose in James' skull when he hit his head on the cobblestones. He's sick, incurably sick. He leans in as Igarak speaks, hanging on every word. He tries imagine himself struggling under the water as an anonymous, impersonal pair of hands hold him down, but then the fantasy changes of its own accord: the hands are around his throat, and there's nothing impersonal about them anymore. ]

Oh.

[ James can barely breathe. The room is far too hot all of a sudden. The hand on Igarak's shoulder moves down to rest against his bicep, to feel the muscles that have snuffed out so many lives. This is wrong. Igarak speaks like each word causes him pain. If James were good friend, he would stop. But he can't stop. ]

What about now? Tonight? How would you do it?

[ He is safe with Igarak. Igarak would never hurt him. He knows that, or at least he thinks he knows it, but what he saw in the alley speaks for itself. That side of his friend will always be there, hidden beneath the surface. James can't stop thinking about it. Maybe he wants to see it again. ]

[ James is far too close, the heat from the fire far too hot. As his friend's hand slides down to his bicep, Igarak understands what's happening on an instinctive level. His body reacts accordingly.

His thoughts, on the other hand, are a storm of alarm and confusion, every warning going off at once. This is dangerous. This is a trick. James is trying to coax him into killing him, just as he'd wanted Igarak to do weeks ago when he'd dragged him from the water.

He hears himself swallow. Prying his eyes open, he turns toward James and closes a hand firmly around his wrist, but he doesn't move the hand from his arm. ]

James.

[ His voice is firm, yet there's a noticeable undercurrent of conflict lurking beneath. He's not sure whether what he's about to say is meant to reassure James or warn him. ]

I won't hurt you. I won't. What you saw tonight wasn't a lapse in control. I knew exactly what I was doing.

You won't hurt me.

[ James speaks the words slowly and carefully, like he's trying to make himself believe them. He can't quite pull it off. He glances down at the hand around his wrist, then back up at Igarak's face. His own face is pale and wan underneath the dried blood, but heat in his gaze leaves little room for misinterpretation.

Does he still want to die? Is that what this is all about? No, he decides. Drowning himself was an act of desperation. He wanted an escape. He wanted the pain to end. This feels different. He wants to stand on the precipice, but he doesn't want to jump. It seems monstrously selfish to think of Igarak as some kind of instrument of punishment, but part of James can't help but wonder whether the man wants the same thing he does. Maybe they're the same kind of sick. ]

Not even if I want you to?

[ The heat in James' gaze is unmistakable. It stokes an answering fire in Igarak, one he'd tried to smother deep beneath denial and duty. A ravenous hunger for violence and cruelty, but not only the acts themselves: for the unspeakable pleasure derived from them. His eyes, already like embers in the low firelight, burn with it. James wants that cruelty from him--and, gods, Igarak wants to give it to him.

His gaze passes over the blood on James' face again, then drops to his lips. He tries not to imagine them turning blue. Then he looks lower still, to where James has left the top of his doublet undone. His heart lies below that. Igarak imagines he can hear it beating, fast and eager and echoing his own. He could hurt James. Drag a claw or a dagger down the line of his throat to his sternum, pressing just enough to draw a thin ribbon of blood, which would pool in his clavicle, begging to be tasted. Igarak yearns to put his mouth on him, to sink his teeth in, to taste blood and flesh and sinew and--

He cuts the thought off sharply.

Very little frightens him, but his own darkness has been his worst fear for as long as his ruined mind remembers.

With effort, he lifts his gaze back to James, regret plain in his expression. Gently, he pulls James' hand from his arm and looks away. His voice is thick with lingering want. ]

You should wash up.

[ James doesn't know what's happening to him. He feels like he's missed a step going down the stairs. Where solid ground ought to be, there's only empty air. It's exhilarating. Igarak's gaze is so laden with unspoken desire that it seems to have physical weight and form, like the blade of a knife bearing down on him. James lets it flay him open. He follows the other man's eyes downwards, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. The point of no return draws near. If he crosses it, if he keeps pulling on this thread -

But he won't. Igarak looks away, and the moment is over. The charged atmosphere dissipates so abruptly that it may as well have never been there at all. But it was. James felt it. He knows he did. ]

Yes. Of course.

[ The words come out awkward and stilted, as though he were speaking to a perfect stranger. He does not trust himself to look at Igarak as he rises from the sofa and walks stiffly over to the washbasin. He's appalled to find that he's hard. He has never humiliated himself so thoroughly and completely in front of a friend before, but far worse than the sting of shame is the certainty that he's failed Igarak in some irrevocable way. He knows what it's like to distrust himself, to live in fear of hurting other people. A good friend wouldn't do what he did. A good friend wouldn't want what he wants.

He pulls off his doublet and flings the filthy garment onto the floor with a bit more force than necessary. The water in the basin is ice-cold, but maybe that's just what he needs. He runs the wet cloth over his face, then down over his throat and chest. It comes away red. When he washes the blood off his hands, his eyes linger on the deep scratches in his forearm. Four parallel lines, angry red against his pale skin. Some of the blood under Igarak's claws must be his. The pang of hunger he feels at the thought is startling. With great effort, he turns his mind to other matters. Slowly, hesitantly, he turns around to face Igarak. ]

We don't have to -

[ - acknowledge this, he's about to say, but he thinks better of it. James knows with absolute certainty that what happened to tonight changed things. Even if they pretend that it never happened, their relationship won't go back to the way it was. The thought saddens him. ]

Never mind. I, uh - [ He winces at his own awkwardness, then shoves a clean cloth at Igarak. ] Here. You're getting blood on the upholstery.

[ James' stilted tone hurts to hear, but Igarak knows this is for the best. He doesn't want to hurt James--even while he very much does. Although he hasn't lost control of himself since his father's influence left him, the fear that he could still haunts him. The things he wants sometimes... He tells himself they're only thoughts, but in the throes of pleasure, when letting go is the whole purpose, who is to say thought won't become action?

Besides, James has been through a lot tonight. He's likely in shock. Fear clouds his judgement. He doesn't truly want what he thinks he wants.

Igarak keeps his gaze fixed on the floor while James washes, and doesn't lift it until a cloth is shoved towards him. ]

Sorry.

[ His own voice is flat. He takes the cloth and stands, still refusing to look at James. He's bathed in the presence of friends countless times. They've seen his naked body, and he's seen theirs; he is not shy. But any state of undress right now feels like risking temptation. He's hard to the point of discomfort, a state he hasn't found himself in for quite some time.

He stands at the basin without doing anything at first, considering just leaving. It wouldn't be the first time he's walked through the city covered in blood. He's still considering it even as he dunks the cloth into the cold water and then presses it to his face, allowing the chill to cool his fevered skin. ]

[ James tries to keep his eyes away from Igarak's groin and fails catastrophically at it. His mouth is dry. His own body, somewhat subdued by the cold water, responds with gusto. His trousers are nearly as filthy as his doublet, but he doesn't dare finish undressing in the state he's in.

He doesn't know what to make of Igarak's apology. As far as James is concerned, he's the one who ought to be begging for forgiveness. He follows the man's gaze to the floor, as though he might find answers there. All he finds is dust and a few bloody boot-prints. He glances up at Igarak, his brow furrowed in confusion. ]

For what?

[ Igarak keeps the cloth pressed to his face until it warms. When he finally feels a little more clear-headed, he draws in a steadying breath and then lowers the cloth on exhale. He makes the mistake of looking at James then, unable to stop himself from giving him a brief once-over. Heat floods his body all over again. ]

For the blood.

[ He forces himself to focus on James' face, and only his face. ]

On the upholstery.

[ The khol around his eyes is already smudged from sweat and the damp cloth; the black on his lips becomes similarly smeared as he bites at them, worrying the skin back and forth. His gaze darts to the scratches on James' forearm, then back again. ]

Do you want me to...

[ He lifts a hand, indicating the healing granted to him by his oath. ]

Oh.

[ James flushes crimson. He's too absorbed in the task of not humiliating himself to harbor any lingering concern for the upholstery. ]

Right. It's, uh...

[ He trails off, staring at Igarak's mouth as the man bites his lip. Those teeth look sharp. They look like they'd draw blood. He can't help but wonder what they'd feel like buried in his throat. A methodical killer like Igarak must know the body well; James imagines that he'd know how to inflict pain without causing any permanent damage. How much could he take, he wonders, before he begged for relief? ]

...It's fine.

[ But of course it isn't fine. Whatever the hells this might be, it's very far from fine. What does it say about him, then, that he doesn't want it to stop?

At Igarak's question, he glances down at his forearm. The scratches are crusted over with dried blood, but they still sting. James runs a finger over one of them, wincing slightly as he touches the torn skin. A bit of magic, and they'd be gone. No scars, no pain, nothing. ]

No.

[ His answer comes far too hastily. He looks away, afraid to see Igarak's reaction. ]

I wouldn't mind keeping them for a little while longer. But, uh, you could clean them. If you like.

[ As James blushes, Igarak can't help but think that red is a good color on him.

This isn't fine at all.

He looks at the scratch marks again, frowning. James wants to keep them? As some kind of horrid memento of Igarak hurting him? They'll scar eventually, cleaned or not; they're too deep not to leave lasting marks. How will James feel when he sees them later? He might think he wants this now, but how could he possibly want a reminder of something so frightening? A reminder of the monster Igarak is capable of being. And Igarak himself...

How will he feel, knowing he left them?

He stares at the torn skin... and is dismayed by the jolt that runs through him, something he can't quite discern but that is certainly not repulsion.

This truly isn't fine. He should leave. Immediately.

Instead, he finds himself taking a step closer, fingers curling gently around James' wrist and pulling his arm forward between them. The conflict is plain on his face as he dips the cloth back into the water and begins to carefully clean the wound. He glances at James' face. ]

...Why do you want this?

[ No one has touched James with this kind of gentleness and care in a quite a while. He closes his eyes and lets himself focus on the warmth of Igarak's fingers around his wrist, the slight sting as the wet cloth touches the wound. He shouldn't be enjoying this, but he's too weak to stop himself. ]

I don't know.

[ He opens his eyes and meets Igarak's gaze. The uncertainty he sees there is mirrored in his own expression. ]

Maybe I just want someone to punish me. But I don't think that's all there is to it.

[ He pauses, teeth worrying at his lower lip as he tries to make sense of his thoughts. Guilt and desire tangle together in a confused snare, so tightly intertwined that he can't separate one from the other. The only thing he can be sure of is that he wants. Desperately. ]

...For the longest time, I wanted it all to end. Before Mary died, even. I didn't want to feel anything anymore. I just wanted to get away. That's why I threw myself off the bridge. But this is different. I don't want to run anymore. I want...

[ A realization strikes him. It feels like an epiphany. ]

To live. And I want to feel alive. I want to stand on the edge again, but this time I won't jump.

[ And this will make him feel alive.

Igarak drops his gaze back to James' arm. It makes sense, in some twisted way. Or perhaps he only wants it to make sense, because he craves it so badly. Or maybe it makes sense because whatever is wrong with James is the same thing that's wrong with him.

He runs his thumb lightly along the wounds, tracing the path his claws had taken, before covering them with the cloth again. ]

A lot has happened tonight. I don't know if you're thinking clearly.

[ He shakes his head, bemused. ]

I don't know if I'm thinking clearly.

[ With a final swipe of the cloth, he releases James' arm and steps back, meeting his eyes again. ]

Rest. Think with a clear head in the morning. Will you do that?

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