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x.

They've found him, they've found him. Leslie's not under but he might be soon, and he wishes (cowardly, selfishly) that it would just take over like it always did.

He's a bedraggled mess, curled in a corner, pendant clenched in his hand so tight it reopens the wounds there, red scabs that stem from doing the same thing over and over again. Holding. Hoping.

(Isn't it funny? Time and death and futility? Isn't it just, and kind, and perfect? If it took him, again, wouldn't it be perfect? He'd feel so much better. Aleria promised it'd be easier, the next time. The next time. The next.)

There are no tears left for him to cry, but Leslie shakes and shakes and shakes. Carlos finds him, weapon poised to strike, the axe for an executioner.

He's so tired. It's so welcome.

Leslie looks at the body, and for a moment, he is ravenously hungry, mouth watering at the violence-- but it snaps back with the same sort of revulsion that always comes with it. It's not his fault. It's not.

But there's someone there, and it's-- it's not one of them, it's not, it's.

A wordless wail, and pitifully, he edges closer to wrap his arms pitifully around Taym's leg, crying all over again with a shuddering violence. He's going to be okay, he's gonna be okay. Loud, hiccuping sobs.

"Ana," is all he can say, and Leslie struggles to his feet, fatigued and, "Ana, she's, Ana. Ana." He picks at his hands, yanks at his hair, and is so elated and sick he wants to vomit (again), and does not notice.

The lack of scars. A missing tattoo. A fuller face.

His eyes are wild and barely his own, heart thrumming. A hummingbird, but at least it's not war drums. (But if it was, if only it was--)

"Okay," he whispers, "okay, okay." Hands clenched tight, nails digging into palms, ragged breathing. He is not calm. "The red is coming. The red. The <********> red." One more time, he tries to get up. One more time after that, he succeeds. When Aleria is summoned, they are cool in his hands, pristine.

"Ana, Ana, the red, it's Ana..."

He follows where he is led, trusting. It's Taym. It's Thompson. The only time he'd ever hurt Leslie had been when he'd deserved it. He'd deserve it now.

Sometimes, he burst into small fits of laughter, or weeping, or snarling, or all three. Lost. Not entirely there, sleep deprived, and (mostly) starved.

But he followed, and followed, and followed. (Sometimes, he couldn't. Sometimes, he leaned on Taym, for a second, for just a second, laughing. Isn't it funny? Isn't it all? Grey eyes stay glassy.)

With a shaking hand, Leslie takes the cigarette, and ashes half of it with a single inhalation.

He listened for Ana, but she did not follow. There was no skip.

Leslie looks at him, and there is no understanding. He does not know who Tuesday is, minus a single picture that he has seen but once, swiftly ignored in favour of booze and cigarettes.

"Is it Tuesday?" he asks, and counts on his fingers to recall when he'd arrived.

Leslie, in a rare flash of clarity, realises that there is no scar around his neck.

Even so, he snakes a hand out to catch Taym's sleeve, voice small and wobbly again. He will remember this moment, in the future.

"Do you have to leave?"

But, then, he releases him, shivering from head to toe, scrubbing at his eyes with his palms. He turns, he flees, and the cuts on his palms ache as he holds the pendant so, so tight, and says the magic words. I do believe in fairies. Deus Ex Machina.