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Edwin had imagined his return to hell with dispiriting frequency. The hows and whys varied wildly but he was never quite able to escape the idea that he would be back. If he was feeling bold he would imagine himself escaping with newfound ease and strength of mind. After all, the path out was surely seared into memory at this point. Admittedly, it was rare he had such conviction in his abilities. Usually, he recalled all the ways he had been destroyed, dreaded the revenge that would be exacted for his brief jaunt on earth, and imagined all the ways it would be eternally meted out. But in all the times he had imagined this exact misery, he had assumed he would at least be given the chance to run. Was that not part of the game?
Dragged away and torn apart. Hilarious in its familiarity, agonising in its reality.
He’s slammed against the floor, air knocked from his lungs in a baleful wheeze. What a wonderful reminder that he needs air once more. It leverages his body now, pressing down on his chest and hip so it can rend flesh from bone with greater ease. Claws dig gleefully into skin, flesh, sinew, and begin to pull, ripping and tearing with manic giggles.
He screams.
He can feel teeth and claws sink into his side, beginning to gouge and tear, his blood hot against his skin. He’s trying to writhe away, but it’s bearing down on him with all its considerable weight, a pressure felt keenly in the grinding of his bones. He’s keening now, screaming taking more effort than he has left. A distant part of him wonders if it always hurt this much, or if he had just become out of practice. He’s made piecemeal, parts of him disconnecting as he is torn asunder by elated hands and claws and teeth. A claw slips, four neat lines crashing across his throat.
And just as quickly as he dies, he’s standing watching his corpse be devoured.
He knows the time to run is now. When it’s still preoccupied with the remnants of pain it can eke out from the last version of him. He knows this well. But he’s standing stock still, staring at the corpse, now carelessly tossed to the corner, its eyes open but unseeing, its face as splattered with blood as the rest of what remains of its torso.
Images race unbidden through his mind. Of trembling steps into freedom. Of casual arms slung across his shoulders, of hands meeting, gentle and swift, over game boards or case files, of hugs, of handshakes, of bumped arms and teasing pokes. Of his first kiss.
Of Charles.
All belonging to a body that no longer belongs to him.
It is not often he finds himself overruled by sentiment. He knows logically that those experiences are still his and that the corpse on the floor has no greater claim to his memories than any other version. There will be no way to tell the difference between the corpse that knew freedom and ones that never will once they pile up, and they will pile up.
But it hurts. Some inarticulate warble in his heart is grieving that the last three decades of his existence were so easily taken from his hands.
He feels more than he sees the attention of the demon turning onto him once more. He’s taken too long, allowed himself too much time to wallow, and now he will be lucky if he prolongs this life for more than a few minutes. It chitters at him with delight.
He runs anyway. He always does.