Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

007n7 was a flawed man. He knew it, and he was painfully aware of the fact that everybody else knew it as well.

He knew, because all his wrongs weighed on him. They pressed down on his back, threatening him with the looming possibility of crumbling under the pressure. As if that mattered anymore. There was nobody left to care. That, in itself, didn't even matter anymore. It was his responsibility that mattered. His initiative to accept the blame for what he'd done, to make up for a fraction of the wrong he'd done. And he could do it now.

His responsibility, his paltry way to atone, was nestled snugly against the underside of his chin. Cool metal dug into his unkempt stubble, pressing against his throat harder with each nervous swallow. He could faintly feel his heart in his throat, thrumming against the cold steel, as if trying to push it away.

This could be it. His final act. He could show the world the very best of him, one last time. All it would take was a squeeze of a trigger and a flicker of pain, and then he'd be gone. Snuffed out, just like that. The thought terrified him, despite everything.

His squirming thoughts latched onto a new strand, an image coalescing in his exhausted mind. A small boy, red and fluffy. So many memories from what felt like so long ago.

Him, exhausted and in an unfamiliar element, feeding a crying infant. Even though he was ragged and overwhelmed, he held the little one with unforseen care.

Him, recording his son's first steps. Cheering him on. Crying tears of joy and wrapping him in a hug when he managed to toddle to his father.

Him, walking his son to school. A small clawed hand in his own, a nervous little face. Reassurances. Care. Encouragement.

Him, vomiting in the bushes after a particularly rough ride at the amusement park. His son, older now, giggled and rubbed his back. He smiled at the boy, wiping his mouth.

Joy.

Him, stapling a missing poster to a telephone pole, a stack of the same prints held under one arm. He was afraid. He was unkempt, stricken with grief and guilt.

He was at fault.

Numb fingers squeezed the gun tighter. His vision blurred, in a haze of tears and exhaustion. His whole life was a tapestry of horrible things he'd done and people he hurt. Yet, he couldn't feel remorseful for it. That was what he felt guilt about. He didn't regret a single speck of his life. It was good. He had fun.

So, so much fun.

Unbidden, more memories trickled back. Thin hands, purple and black, on his shoulders. Jokes, shared under the warmth of the sun. Slightly chapped lips on his, warmer and warmer. A thin body moving against his own, in the quiet serenity of an early sunrise, intimacy in a shared bed.

More tears welled up, bitter and unwanted. He accepted that what happened with them was his fault. And yet he could not feel guilt for it. That disgusted him. He was disgusted with himself for
it.

His death would be too good for him. Too good for what he'd done.

He faintly registered that his phone was buzzing. It had been for a while.

He ignored it.

It didn't matter.

Then again, neither did he.

His grip tightened on the weapon, palms slick and clammy with sweat. His breathing was faster, and all he heard was the ringing in his ears. He didn't hear the creak of the floorboards underneath him, or the knock on his front door. He had been standing here for a while, hadn't he? Better fix that.

He closed his eyes, clearing the thoughts of his victims out of his broken mind.

They didn't deserve to be sullied along with him, in his final moments.

.

007n7 pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through his skull, spraying fragments of bone and brain into the air behind him. He toppled before the gun did, knocked back by the force of the bullet. He crumpled on the floor, gun held loosely in his hand, and blood steadily spread under his head.

The crack of the gunshot resounded through the empty room, even echoing outside.

The knocking on his front door turned into a hammering pound, and an indistinct voice yelled into the home, voice heavy with fear.

But 007n7 remained still on the floor. His eyes were empty, tears having worn tracks down his hollow cheeks. He didn't say anything in response.

He never would again.

Chapter Text

Elliot builder was too forgiving for his own good.

He'd been told that all his life. He forgave, he forgot, he laughed it off.

Until he couldn't anymore.

When his…when someone he'd considered his *friend* betrayed him, he had been stunned. Even through the pain of the burns all over his body, he has enough mental faculties to register shock.

007n7 and his son had ruined his pizzeria. The ovens had exploded while Elliot was in the kitchen. He'd suffered horrible burns and wounds over over half of his body, and had struggled to stay alive for hours afterwards.

So he didn't forgive 007n7.

But he still cared for him.

That was why he was here now, knocking on his door. It was cold, early morning, and his breath came out in hazy puffs. Even thinking back on his accident caused a twinge of pain across his body, and he shuddered a little..

No. Now isn't the time to think of that. He was here for a reason.

A gnawing feeling of unease had settled in his stomach, growing by the minute. It had led him here. It felt wrong.

He pulled off a glove with his teeth, signing into his phone and scrolling on his contacts list. He had 007n7s number blocked. Of course he did, why wouldn't he? ..He unblocked it, and after a moment of wavering hesitation, pressed the fall button.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

Elliot frowned. He leaned back, glancing at the windows of the home. They were dark, but he knew that the man didn't keep the lights on anymore. He attempted to call him again, but got no response.

Standing up straighter, he knocked on the door. No response, but who really got a response on the first knock? He kept knocking, calling into the home as loudly as he could without fear of waking the neighborhood.

After a small while, he stopped, sighing softly. ..Maybe 007n7 wasn't home. He could try texting him later. He jammed his hands into his pockets, and turned away, starting to step off the porch.

A resounding bang suddenly echoed through the neighborhood. Elliot jerked in alarm, whipping around. The sound, which he was painfully familiar with, had come from inside the house

The feeling of unease in his stomach had escalated into full blown panic. He began banging on the door, shouting sevens name, eyes starting to feel hot. He needed to get in.

He ran off the porch, hurrying to a window. 007n7 never locked his windows. He pushed it open, struggling a little, and clambered inside. He barely registered what room he was in, blood pulsing in his head, vision wavering. He screamed his name again, rushing through the home.

007n7s door opened, and Elliot tumbled inside. He whipped his head up, yellow curls bouncing, and then.

.

His thoughts froze.
His blue eyes, wide and horrified, stared at the corpse on the floor.

This wasn't real.

This couldn't be real.

He couldn't have been *right outside* and unable to stop it. That wouldn't be fair. It couldn't be real.

He was always on time. That was even his schtick when he was on pizza delivery duty.

This isn't real. It can't be.

Always on time. Always there early.

It *can't* be.

And he was late.