Work Text:
The night air was thick, heavy with the damp chill of Bristol’s streets. Cook’s boots slapped against the pavement, each step a dull thud that echoed in his ears, louder than it should’ve been. His knuckles were raw, split open, still slick with blood that wasn’t all his. Dr. Foster’s blood. The bastard’s face was a pulp in his memory—caved in, lifeless, those smug eyes gone dark. Cook’s fists had done that. His rage had done that. In the moment, it felt righteous, like justice for Freddie, for Effy, for all the pain that sick fuck had caused. But now, with Foster’s office shrinking behind him, the adrenaline was leaking out, leaving something jagged and cold in its place.
He kept walking, head high, shoulders squared, like he was still the king of this shithole town. The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows that twisted like fingers reaching for him. His breath was ragged, but he ignored it, tried to shake it off. *Tough it out, Cookie,* he told himself. *You’re the fucking man. You did what you had to.* But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the blood drying into crusty smears on his skin. He shoved them into his pockets, but the tremble crept up his arms, into his chest, where his heart was starting to hammer too fast, too hard.
“Fuck,” he muttered, stopping under a streetlight. He leaned against the pole, the metal cold against his back. His vision blurred, and he blinked hard, trying to push it away. *Don’t fucking cry, you pussy.* But the tears came anyway, hot and stinging, spilling over before he could stop them. He swiped at his face, smearing blood and tears together, and that’s when it hit him—the weight of it all. He’d killed a man. Not just any man. Dr. Foster. Beat him to death with his own hands, felt the crunch of bone, the give of flesh. And for what? Justice? Revenge? It didn’t bring Freddie back.
Freddie. The name sliced through him, sharp as a blade. Cook’s knees buckled, and he sank to the pavement, the cold seeping through his jeans. His breath hitched, coming in short, desperate gasps. He couldn’t get enough air. His chest was too tight, like someone had wrapped chains around it and was pulling. *Breathe, you idiot, breathe.* But he couldn’t. His hands clawed at his shirt, trying to rip it open, like that would help. The world spun, the streetlights blurring into streaks of yellow and white.
He saw it again—Freddie’s clothes, stuffed in that storage bin in Foster’s office. Cook had known, deep down, that Freddie was gone, but seeing those clothes, touching them, made it real. His best mate, the one person who ever really got him, was dead. Murdered. And Cook had killed the man responsible, but it didn’t fix anything. It just broke him more.
“Freds,” he choked out, his voice a raw sob. “I’m sorry, mate. I’m so fucking sorry.” The words spilled out, half-formed, swallowed by the night. He curled in on himself, forehead pressed to the pavement, tears mixing with the dirt. His whole body shook, not just from the cold but from the dread clawing at him. He’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. He wasn’t just Cook, the loudmouth, the party animal, the kid who didn’t give a fuck. He was a killer now. A murderer. And he was only seventeen.
Underneath the chaos, the bravado, the fights, and the booze, Cook was still that kid who just wanted someone to stick around. Someone to see him, really see him. Freddie had. And now Freddie was gone, and Cook was alone with blood on his hands and a life that felt like it was over before it’d even started. The panic surged again, his heart racing so fast he thought it might explode. He gasped, clawing at the ground, trying to anchor himself, but all he could see was Foster’s face, Freddie’s clothes, the blood, the blood, the blood.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure who he was talking to—Freddie, Foster, himself. “I didn’t mean to…” But he had. He’d wanted Foster dead. Wanted it so bad it burned. And now that it was done, the fire was gone, and all that was left was ash and this suffocating panic that wouldn’t let him breathe.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, crumpled on the pavement, sobbing like a kid who’d lost everything. Maybe he had. The street was quiet, save for his ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city. No one came to help. No one ever did. Cook was alone, and for the first time in his life, that scared him more than anything else.
Eventually, the sobs slowed, his breathing steadied, but the dread didn’t leave. It settled in his bones, heavy and permanent, like a scar he’d carry forever. He pushed himself up, wiping his face with the back of his hand, the blood and tears mixing into a gritty mess. He stood, shaky but upright, and started walking again. Not because he knew where he was going, but because he couldn’t stay still. If he stopped, he’d break again, and he wasn’t sure he could put himself back together.
Cook was a sweet soul, deep down, buried under all the anger and chaos. But that soul was cracked now, fractured by what he’d done, by what he’d lost. He’d killed a man. He’d lost his best friend. And as he walked into the dark, the weight of it all followed him, heavier than any fist he’d ever thrown.