☞ i am a soldier, baby, who works just like a slave

[stomped]

who jack + isaac
what isaac likes to pretend to be james bond
rating idk r
warnings too much "isaac can u not"

[ The heated seats are a plus, in Isaac's honest opinion as he settles himself down further and feels like he's going to vomit. He's got a cigarette that he managed to bum off of someone crammed between his lips and coffee sloshing around in his stomach because apparently he looked like a hobo who "needed the coupon." It's better than nothing. Better than the fresh, wet, bloody skin on his back, off in strips and curves and patterns. He hasn't seen it yet in a mirror, he's afraid to. He knows it's something in their words, their goddamn language written on his walls in blood. 

He shakes his head.

Eyes on the road, he thinks as he steps on the gas. Enough of that. Don't go back there.

That's a bad place to go.

He drives like he's chasing a storm, punching, breaking ninety. There's someone he has to go home to, a dead man or not. He's seen it in the obituaries. It was a part of the newspaper he'd picked up at the broken down fast food joint. Isaac Clarke. Age 46. Died in service (his cover is that of a military man). No direct family, but condolences. Only ever condolences.

If they sent Jack some fucking fruit basket he's going to scream. 

Telling him he's dead on top of it. ]

Oh ye of little faith.

[ He mutters this as he reaches the filter of his cigarette, stubbing it out in a cup holder. 

It takes him a full hour of driving to get where he needs to go. The city that's familiar to him. They took him fucking far away, that's what they did. It was a gun to his head and a rag over his face and an arm around his body and the vague feeling of being shoved into the trunk of a car. The duct tape around his wrists had peeled away a good layer of skin that never quite had the time to heal.

He looks to his wrists.

More letters.

So he struggles for a few choice minutes while yanking down the cuffs of his bloodied button down. Good enough. The curve of something still peeks up over his wrist, but beggars can't be choosers and right now Isaac looks close enough to a beggar with his clothes in a state of filth and the gaunt lines around his face. The January air is biting (fucking six months, he still can't believe it--fucking Unitologists.) 

Make us whole, they said.

We need that pretty little head of yours, they said. 

Tried to lobotomize him, he kicked them in the teeth. That's how he'd gotten away. Kicking a man's teeth out, crushing his face to powder, scrambling and hiding and feeling the largest adrenaline rush of his entire life. He didn't want to go back. Didn't want the small cell they kept him in, the writings on his skin with a small, thin knife and fire. He wanted home, wherever that was, wherever Jack was. 

He swallows tightly.

The car is filled with his own breath frosting in the air around him, the smoke bleeding from his burnt down filter in the cup holder. The heat proper in the car doesn't work, so that's why he's glad that at least hey, his ass is warm.

The drive is a long one, and the closer he gets the more anxious he gets. Isaac Clarke. 46. Deceased. No, no, no, no. All wrong. Those fuckers have it all wrong and he's going to be damned if he'll stay dead. He's marching into the Director's office first thing in the morning, hands on his desk, leaning over, all dominant and grudging and the like. He is determined as fuck not to be a dead man. Take the bullshit off, he'll say. I'm not dead. I don't know why you thought so. As he thinks this, he notes the tell-tale lighting on the street, the lamp post with the same grubby poster that it had six months ago. Lost Dog: Freckles, big dog, Labrador. Call ###-###-#### if found. Reward. ]

Why couldn't you assholes just do that?

[ He mutters it before stopping the car and palming the keys. One foot out, then the other as he lifts himself into the cold January air. Now... the car... gotta get rid of that. Isaac Clarke scans the street and finds himself laying eyes on a kid smoking just outside the next building over. He's dressed in a dark brown parka with a tight knit cap and pale skin. Twenty-five years, he surmises. Still a kid either way. ]

Hey kid.

[ He calls over and the other responds, looking up a bit startled and glancing all ways before beginning to walk over out of curiosity. He smells strongly of weed, and Isaac wrinkles his nose, but hey. Whatever. He tells the kid to take the car. It's his. You're just giving it to me? he snorts in disbelief and Isaac cocks a brow, dangling the little keychain with the swirling insignia of those damn Unitologists. Take it, it's yours now. The kid slowly grabs the keys with gloved hands, the fingertips bright red at the points where he's cut said gloves. For a while they remain silent, Isaac's fingers still resting on the keychain, the kid's fingers wrapped around the key to the car.

Isaac twists his fingers around the keychain, snaps the soft leather so that the insignia falls away and he pockets it, leaving the key in the gloved palm.

"Who are you?" that is the question that lingers in the cold January air.

He smirks and turns around, beginning to head towards that familiar building, a walk he knows and loves, that puts a swagger to his hips. He looks over his shoulder. ]

Bond, James Bond.

[ Before entering the apartment and shutting the door sharply behind him. He counts twenty-three seconds before the engine to the Mercedes Benz revs loudly and speeds off down the street. 

The steps he takes up are heavy, drawn out, because his legs ache and every movement pulls at his skin, scabbed over and cold. But he has to think of it this way, each step is a step closer. Closer to the hall, closer to the door, closer to the threshold, closer to Jack. It seems as though it takes forever to reach the apartment number, 4920, but he gets there and he's breathing hard and his entire body wants to give in. But he knows that it's almost time, that he's almost done, he just has to knock on the door.

So he does. ]