SUMMARY: Every night, Wilson watches...
RATING: R for language and themes.
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
The firefly bobs and weaves through the darkness, its tiny light dipping and blinking.
Wilson watches through slitted eyes almost hidden beneath the swelling; in his heavily-drugged state the idea that there's a bio-luminescent bug in what should be a sterile ICU environment makes perfect sense.
It reminds Wilson of when he was a kid, when his dad used to take him and David camping. They'd do all those corny father-son things—toasting marshmallows on green sticks, pointing out the constellations in the clear night sky, telling terrifying ghost stories about drowned women and escaped madmen with hooks for hands.
There had always been fireflies, their tails brightening and dimming like some kind of alien semaphore—a Morse code for insects.
Later on, of course, he'd learned that silent signaling was a mating dance, a search for a companion.
A search for love.
Wilson's chest aches; it hurts so much to breathe that sometimes he just wants to stop. He knows now that all those stories his dad told him were true; that there are madmen out there, villains worse than any campfire tale, laying in wait for their innocent victims.
There's not enough fireflies in the world to protect everyone, but for right now, Wilson will take just this one.