Probability
Characters: Claude/Bennet
Rating/Warnings: R, for extensive violence and bad language.
Word count: 3,384
Spoilers: Very minor ones up to S2, but virtually nothing past 1.17 ("Company Man")
Summary: Even after you've calculated the odds and checked your working, twice, some things are still just ... inevitable. Set between ".07%" and "The Hard Part".
A/N: Heartfelt morally grey thanks to fantasticpants for her endless encouragement and suggestions, and to entangled_now, who started the whole taser-porn thing in the first place.


He's fifteen blocks from the poodle's place before it takes him; pushes him into an alley and sucks the air from his lungs until he thinks he might drop where he stands. Tears wet his cheeks and he can hardly breathe - just stares, gasping, at the purple night over New York, trying to blink away the helpless blurring of vision and control the panic before it rips right out through his chest.

He's been a stupid, careless wanker. Done everything wrong. Everything. Been distracted by events that might have meant something, when he should've been keeping his arse out of trouble, unseen. And now he's paying for his stupidity, and isn't that nice.

When the tears have dried to cold salt on his cheeks and he's feeling a bit more together - cursing himself for the sheer fucking idiocy of it, but at least he's not crying like a bloody kid - then there's only one thing left keeping him warm. A name.

Bennet.

It's a pretty angry warmth - but then, it's a cold night, and Claude's used to taking what he can get.

*

Even after you've calculated the odds and checked your working, twice, some things are still just ... inevitable.

There's a muffled click from the bedroom.

Noah reaches for the gun lying ready on the bathroom windowledge; the other hand finds his glasses, and he leaves the shower running, trusting the noise to cover his footsteps.

Cautiously, he steps out into the room, gun raised. He can't see anyone - but it's been a long time since he found that particular perception reassuring.

"Claude."

Silence.

"I know you're there, Claude."

More silence.

Noah's had this half of the conversation a thousand times.

He steps sideways, towards the door, right before an invisible fist clocks him in the jaw and sends him staggering back into the wall.

Evidently, this is that one time in a thousand.

He tries to aim the gun, but something comes down hard on the side of his wrist, hitting a nerve, and his fingers sag. The gun slips - is pulled - from his grasp and falls to the floor at the same time as strong, warm fingers grab him by the throat, pushing him back into the wall.

Claude fades into visibility, fingers still pressed firmly against Noah's windpipe, and his expression is exactly the same as Noah imagined: furious and dishevelled and seeping with bitterness. Only it's worse, because this isn't his imagination spinning out of control at four a.m. while Sandra sleeps beside him; this is actually happening.

He manages to squeeze the words up through his throat, past the tight grip of shaking fingers. "Hello, Claude."

"Bennet." The two syllables are infused with hatred.

He weighs the distance to the gun on the floor, but Claude must catch the flicker of his gaze, because a sneakered foot scuffs it away across the carpet. "Don't even think about it, rookie." The nickname spat out harshly, a bitter epithet; but Claude's fingers loosen, a little.

Noah chokes the words through an airway gone dry. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to call me that anymore."

Claude snorts. "We agreed a lot of things, mate." He plants his other hand to the right of Noah's head, forestalling the obvious movement. "Don't."

This is every bit the Claude he imagined: bitter and condescending, and impatient with rage. Not that that helps, exactly, but there's a sliver of comfort in knowing he was right.

Claude is scrutinising him with absolute disdain, breath hot against Noah's face as he leans in, eyes cold, seething with barely-suppressed fury. "I should bloody kill you right now."

Noah smiles blandly. "But you won't." He leaves out the of course; Claude has his pride, after all.

"Not yet, I won't."

That's good, then; that buys him a little time.

He tries to ignore the disgust apparent on Claude's face; anger, he knew to expect, but this— this is infinitely worse.

A flicker of a glance confirms that, yes, that is a taser-gun in Claude's pocket. So.

Claude nods, acknowledging Noah's relative state of undress. "Very thoughtful of you, friend," he says with vicious emphasis. "Saves me time, yeah?"

Which more or less dashes any remaining likelihood of this little ... chat ... going anywhere but south. It's Bayes' theorem, essentially: the probability of one thing, given another. Shoot your partner, and you get used to sleeping with a gun under your pillow.

He doubts Claude would appreciate the math.

"Thing is," says Claude, reaching towards his pocket - and Noah doesn't really know why he doesn't follow the movement, push Claude backwards and knock the damn thing from his hands - but next thing he knows, there's something cold pressing into his skin above the roll of towel; two blunt, careful points. "Thing is— last time ... you didn't seem very interested in listenin' to what I had to say."

"Well," and Noah tries to control his breath as it pushes, hot and impatient, inside his lungs, "Now you have my full attention." Giving Claude the illusion of control.

Claude glares at him. "Don't patronise me, rookie."

He supposes it was worth a shot, though a more realistic assessment of the situation might have placed him somewhere between the cat and the snowball on their respective trajectories through Hell. "Okay." He leans back against the wall, which is cold against his shoulder blades. "If you're going to hurt me, would you mind getting it over with?"

"Got a plane to catch, Bennet?"

He shrugs, careful not to move towards or away from the taser gun."I never saw the point in putting off the inevitable."

"Suit yourself."

Noah half-sees Claude grit his teeth, but the moment is lost as his stomach is gripped by an all-consuming fire that seems intent on torturing every muscle in his body. He tries not to cry out, but can't entirely hold back a sound that isn't the sort of noise he should make; isn't even the sort of noise an animal should make.

He's dimly aware of hitting the floor, of Claude's tatty sneakers beside him. Jesus, it hurts.

"How'd you like that, rookie?"

"I told you," he grits out, "Don't call me 'rookie'."

"Stubborn bastard." If Claude's voice is almost affectionate, the indifference with which he presses the taser against Noah's shoulder is quite the opposite. Chilling. And infinitely worse, now that Noah knows what it feels like.

But Claude hesitates, doesn't pull the trigger. Slowly, the feeling starts to return to Noah's stomach, pain leeching gradually away.

"By the way, rookie—" Claude's emphasis is careful, deliberate "—those glasses make you look like a refugee from the bloody Nixon administration."

He snorts. "You know, I think the phrase 'adding insult to injury' is meant to be metaphorical."

A pause, long enough for Noah's imagination to conjure multiple possibilities from the silence, before his shoulder and then his entire back erupt in burning agony.

Bastard. Though it's a while before he can even form a thought that coherent; pain chases up and down his side, wrapping mean tendrils around his spine.

Claude kneels down beside him on the floor. "Sore, that, was it?" he says, viciously conversational.

"Go to hell," Noah manages, trying to blink away the blurriness of his vision.

"I was in hell, mate. Seven bloody years playin' dead." Claude pokes the taser into Noah's ribs, and the movement makes him twist involuntarily, which turns out not to have been a good idea at all.

Claude prods him again, persistently aggressive. "D'you have any idea what that was like?"

He doesn't. There's no easy, glib response. Only guilt, but even that is overwhelmed by the still-receding pain in his shoulder, twitching muscle tissue in his upper back and the burning in his skin.

He can almost hear the sneer on Claude's face. "Didn't think so."

He curls up tightly on his side; a basic, atavistic posture that seems to be all he knows how to do.

Claude stands; Noah can only watch the sneakers move away, out of sight.

There's a long moment in which nothing happens, and he wonders if he should be turning around. He's pretty sure that turning your back on someone you've shot gets a mention in the first few pages of Partnership For Dummies - probably on page 1, actually - under Things Not To Do.

He's still considering the unpleasant necessity of actually moving when his calculations are proved right.

"You - fucking - shot - me," says Claude, words punctuated by the hiss of breath against Noah's neck as his partner - former partner - snags him in a brutally efficient headlock. The muscles in Noah's neck and shoulders resist, and the resulting pain mocks him, taunting him with the feeble movements of his bare feet against the atrocious motel carpet, Claude's arm tight around his throat.

Eventually, he gets control of his breathing again. "I had to make a choice."

Claude leans in close until his mouth is right next to Noah's ear. "Can't say I'm all that impressed with your decision-makin' skills, mate."

"I didn't say I'd made the right choice," Noah says, quietly.

If he was expecting some respite, any acknowledgment of this concession, Claude doesn't give it. "Fuck you, rookie. You ruined—" and for a moment, Claude's voice hovers close to breaking "—you ruined everythin'."

Oh God. He'll take the pain of tasers or headlocks or anything, over that sound.

"I'm sorry." It's almost silent; a whisper of repentance, nothing more.

"What's that, Bennet?" Claude's breath is hot against his ear.

"I said, I'm sorry."

"Fucking right," says Claude, savagely, releasing him from the headlock. "Pity you're seven years too late."

Noah feels the points of the taser-gun pressing in, but even that can't prepare him for the sensation as Claude sends another fifty kilovolts through his lower back.

He wonders, in the shrinking spaces between jolts to his spine, whether he might actually die here.

When the jagged edges have retreated to the point where he can think again, he isn't sure if he'll even be able to speak; the muscles around his ribs feel as though they might tear apart from the effort.

"I'll understand if you feel the need to kill me." And it's not even reverse psychology - not that Claude would fall for something so obvious and elementary.

And Noah would understand; knows it's no more than he deserves.

He hears Claude snort. "Bet you'd like that. Martyr to the bloody cause."

"It's not—" he coughs, feeling the muscles of his chest spasm and burn "—not like that."

"No?" and Claude yanks Noah's head up, fingers grasping painfully at his hair, until their eyes meet. "What's it like, then, rookie?"

God, he does deserve to die. The look in Claude's eyes - it's just—

Noah can barely speak; tries to put the weight of all his feelings into a a poor, croaky "I'm sorry."

Something shifts in Claude's expression, a subtle change that swallows contempt for just a moment, leaving only sadness.

Half a second later, it's gone.

"Fuck off. Don't— don't look at me." And Claude shoves Noah's head back down against the floor and fades into invisibility.

But looking is all he's got. It's all they've got: a ribbon-thin connection so tenuous that every second has become, quite simply, about whether or not it will snap.

That snowball is actually looking pretty good right now.

Abruptly, Claude's fingers release his hair, and the space they leave behind is cold.

"Claude." He tries to sound calmer than he feels.

"Got nothin' to say to you, rookie." A disembodied voice from a few paces to his right, and God, he doesn't remember Claude being able to move that stealthily.

Carefully, he says "I'm only asking you for a conversation."

Silence.

"I think you owe me that much."

He realises the mistake as soon as the words have left his mouth. Possible miscalculation. Make that certain miscalculation, damn it; probability isn't even in it, at this point.

Mathematics, in its own sadistic way, turns out to be on his side. Although he's pretty sure that being right used to be more fun.

"I don't owe you shit, mate." Disgust drips from the words, thick and bitter. "You shot me like it was nothin'. Left me there like fuckin' ... carrion. An experiment gone wrong - See if we can't get them to do our dirty work for us." Claude's sneer is a poisoned, vicious thing.

And that seems unfair. "I never thought of you as one of them."

A pause; the rasp of breath.

"Fuckin' liar."

"Claude— I'm not—"

"Shut it - just shut the fuck up. You might've managed to pretend to yourself, Bennet, but you stopped pretendin' to me the day you sold me out for the soddin' Company."

The pain, when it arrives, takes away speech for a little while (although he supposes that some of the noises he can't contain might have once passed for speech in some long extinct ur-culture.)

"You fucking bastard," Claude observes during an all-too-brief pause.

He knows. He's sorry, he really is, and if he could undo it, he would. God, he would.

But it's too much. Noah feels like part of him is breaking off, being burnt away.

"Please," he says, though he doesn't even know if he'll be heard.

"Fuck off," says Claude savagely, and shocks him again.

He'd like to look at Claude again before he dies. Can't seem to form the words for the clanging, burning pain that's painting his world such a harsh shade of red, but just once would be nice. For old times' sake.

He tries to ask it with his eyes, but Claude's gaze slides off him impatiently. "Sod you, Bennet. Just—"

White-hot needles stab into his back again, taking him with them. And it's not so bad, really. Familiar, though he's sure that realisation ought to be more disconcerting.

Everything's gone quieter, as though silenced by the brilliant warmth against his back.

He's not afraid, here at the end. He's just ...

Sorry.

*

"Sod you, Bennet. Just—" he presses the taser against Bennet's spine, because the bastard's tryin' to give him fuckin' puppy eyes, for Christ's sake—

He presses the trigger; watches Bennet's body spasm again and again, then lie still.

"Fuck you. You can rot in hell, for all I care."

Bastard doesn't even have the courtesy to acknowledge him.

But after a minute, Bennet still hasn't moved, and Claude realises, with a wild lurch of panic, that he doesn't even know if Bennet's breathing or not.

It'd be just like the rookie to take him literally, for fuck's sake.

He plasters fingertips against Bennet's neck; can't feel a beat. Presses deeper, panicked, and after several seconds, is rewarded with the faint, regular pressure of Bennet's pulse.

Bastard, and breath comes again: hot, sharp relief. "Suppose you think that's funny, you wanker."

Bennet remains mute on the subject.

Christ.

Claude crumples to the floor.

He has no idea how much time passes before there's a dry croaking sound, and Bennet's limbs shift a little, experimentally.

"Claude."

How the hell does the rookie always know when he's there?

He doesn't answer. Isn't ready to give himself away just yet. Besides, what is there to say? Sorry I nearly killed you, mate. And I've thought of bugger-all else, these last few years. Possibly followed up with You really know how to spoil my soddin' fun.

"I—" Bennet coughs; tries again. "I don't blame you."

Well, isn't that just fucking rich.

"Big of you, Bennet," he says, standing up before sliding into visibility again. Gratified to see Bennet's body twitch at the sound of his voice, and maybe the son of a bitch was just bluffing. Was always just bluffing.

From here, he can see the dark red marks, tiny burns speckled down Bennet's back to just above where the anonymous motel towel has come loose, revealing the smooth curve of Bennet's arse. And isn't that fantastically inappropriate - not that that ever stopped them before, mind.

Claude squats down next to Bennet's prone figure. "Thought about this moment a lot, y'know."

"I can't imagine why," says Bennet, dryly, from the floor.

"Yeah, well - you get to thinkin' about these things when you're bleedin' to death in a dried-out river bed."

"Touché," Bennet mutters.

A tentative hand snakes out and finds Claude's foot. He stares at it, unsure, but then sanity reasserts itself, and he stands, dragging his foot away from fingers still slow, still hesitant. "Don't." Just because he's not ready to kill Bennet, doesn't mean—

"Sandra wouldn't stop asking about you." Bennet's voice, sounding strangely fragile.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up." Silently cursing the tear running down his cheek. You don't have the right, rookie.

"No, I'm not going to shut up." Quiet, but firm. "I've spent every day since then wishing I could take it back."

Bit bloody late for that."Yeah, well - that's what happens, rookie. You make your bed, then you have to fuckin' lie in it."

Bennet rolls onto his back, evidently a heroic effort. "You know, Ivan would have said You've called yourself a mushroom, now get in the basket. " Heavy, rounded syllables still tinged with the unambiguous American twang that Bennet could never shake.

He can't help himself. "Your Russian's bloody awful, mate."

"Well, the hell with you," says Bennet, but it lacks any real punch.

Bennet's towel has lost all pretense of being interested in him, and Claude wishes he could say the same. "Still in good shape, for a soft old bastard."

Bennet shrugs, an implausible gesture for someone spreadeagled on the floor. "You look like shit," he says, economically.

Claude runs a self-conscious hand through the beard. "Didn't realise it was a fuckin' beauty contest."

"They must have taken you off the mailing-list," says Bennet, dryly.

Claude sighs and sits down next to him, and doesn't complain when Bennet rests a hand on his knee.

"So," says Claude, after a while, "who're those two goons in the next room?"

The look Bennet gives him tells him everything he needs to know.



(Sequel: Death and Taxes)


x-posted to brave_new_slash, heroes_fic, morallygrayfic, paper_pwns_all and rare_heroes