[Eminem's Without Me plays]

Guess who's back, back again

Shady's back, tell a friend
Guess who's back,
guess who's back,
guess who's back,
guess who's back
guess who's back

Guess who's back...

Yes! A slightly saner version of ol' Trollsey is back! -yes, I changed my username back- and she's here with another oneshot! Who would've thought?

So I was just going through my notes, and I stumbled across this half-finished thing I wrote a while back, and I just read and go 'holy shit. Niceee.' And basically astound myself with my talent *pauses as recorded audience laughs* which is also why parts are pretty shitty(tell me which ones). But I've been quite 'radio-silency' for a bit, and I'm pretty sorry about that. I wanted to post something. But just so y'all know, this doesn't really mean I'm back. I'm still on Mortis Mayhem, and PM-replying takes time, and I don't have time. I'm not supposed to use any gadgets (did I mention I'm still sorta-grounded) and well, it's a long story of which's details I can't really go into. And school. Has started. Did I mention?

Either way, this is based of of 'Running' by Adam Lambert, but the deeper-pitch or 'Jensen Ackles' version. It's not actually Jensen Ackles, but somebody changed the pitch or Covered it or whatever and I just adore that version. God, the voice. Deep and.. mmhm. Don't get me wrong, I like Adam, but he's just too high-pitched for me, you know?

No lyrics included, based on Skulduggery. I mean, it'd work just as well for Val, and I might do another one for her. So, each line break is another (what're they called? Stanzas? Paragraphs? Bits? I'm forgetting.) whatever of the song. Like, look up the lyrics, you'll get it. Italicised is human Skulduggery/Vile, bc I have a headcannon that Vile made Darquesse-like appearances while Skul was alive (Tenny mentions this in DB, I think). Only his appearances weren't as necessary as Darq's. Story, One-sided pining, I suppose. Vaguely.. well, wrong. Platonic, I guess? I was debating whether or not for him to tell Val, but my fingers twitched without my brain so...

WMN will be updated eventually. Don't forget to review!

Runnin'

He raised the glass slowly, up to his lips, hand trembling. He was shaking all over, drenched in blood. How has this happened? He'd.. He'd been angry. That's what had happened. How had it gotten this way? It had all been perfectly all right that evening. Now dead bodies were littered around him.

He sqeezed his eyes shut, throwing back the whole glass in one shot. He could feel it burn its way down his throat and settle in his stomach. His other hand's grip on the bottle loosened, and he set it down on the counter, or tried to. The force was too much, and the bottom of the bottle smashed to pieces when it collided heavily with the counter. The bartender would've had a fit.

The shrill crashing sound woke up the little voice in the back of his head, and he snapped. Furiously, he picked up the chair and flung it, destroying it entirely, closing his eyes as the splinters hit him too. He opened his eyes and briefly noted the blood on his cheek. And couldn't help a smile, as he grabbed the other stools and did the same. The bottles neatly arranged behind where the bartender would've been standing (but was lying ten feet away, dead dead dead) were all swept up onto the ground, in a hellus symphony of crashes and the dripping of liquid, drenching him in the sharp tang of alchohol.

He knew he was breaking, a part of him did. He was drowning, sinking deeper and deeper into a prison of his own making. He was going down, down and down.

•

His phantom heart thrummed inside his chest barren of flesh. He knew what he was after. Or had. Death and destruction. Winning wars. But maybe not. Maybe not this time. He'd been there, here, everywhere in his long, long life. He'd seen nearly everything. Nearly. More than once. In his own life, though, he'd only been in love once or twice. Now he thought back to the things he'd seen, twice or thrice or once. He'd had enough time, he needed to realize.

His life was a circle, and now it was back to the start of its cycle. It was spinning back around. He was crawling now, hoping for any sort of help, for someone to see. He was going -crawling, would be a better word- back down the road he had before, when he'd had flesh.

'Save me' he whispered to the air, to her phantom presence. Because he was falling, falling back down into the abyss he'd crawled out of centuries ago. He couldn't seem to breathe, couldn't seem to function. He couldn't seem to be right. Not without her.

Perhaps because he was running, as he'd always done. Running, running away from the memories. The nightmares. He had always run, and always would. Running away from one thing especially. His heart. Metaphorical, of course. He didn't possess a real one. Not anymore. But the feeling, that ache? That ache of a love which would and could never be returned? He wasn't able to run from that, despite him always, always, running away from his heart.

•

He'd go through the same routine. Round and round, same cycle. Kill people, torture people. Kill people, torture people. He'd become addicted to the numbness which washed over him when he did. It made people clearer, it seemed to give him back a sight which had blurred due to the living. He'd lived in a constant cold, the armor wasn't warm and had no reason to be. He didn't posses flesh, after all. Nor feel. And the armor itself reveled in death. Alongside him, of course.

Through the highs, where Lord Vile was at his greatest, at his deathliest. Then the lows, where the Lord had been starving, aching for something to kill. Needing to kill. The Necromancers had promised him death, and he wasn't getting it. He was getting tired. He was disgusted with the waiting. Soon, they'd said. We'll get to the Passage soon. They'd lied. He'd killed them. Killed them all.

Back to the highs. Mevolent. The killings. Oh, God they were as crisp and as wondrous as any drug. He was, as had been said, addicted. But Skulduggery had wanted another kind of fix, knowing the damage Lord Vile was doing to the tattered remains of his own soul. This damage was damning him to the eternal gates of hell, down, down and down.

•

His nonexistent heart continued to thunder as he stood in front of her door, as she opened it and he saw her. Her beautiful, beautiful face. Those onyx brown eyes. Oh, how he wanted to tell her. He'd been standing here for her, for five -nay, twelve?- years. He's been waiting for someone like her his whole damned life. He'd seen a lot of things repeatedly. Nearly everything. Love, though. That was another thing. He'd only been in love twice. Maybe it was time for him to realize.

It was happening again, the strangely twisted road of his life spinning him back around to its start. Now he was crawling on the path to her, crawling to her. The one person who could save him. Save him from falling. Valkyrie Cain. And she herself had been running, running running.

So had he. Running. Running. Running, from his feelings, his heart. It was wrong, of course. But fate has a way of spinning things back 'round.

She smiled. And God, did he feel so damned alive. He was coming alive. Waking up, from the haze of darkness during her absence. Living. A dead man finally living, all because of a girl who had been the cause of so much permanent death. Dead. Deaths. Oddly fitting.

The life he'd always considered a dream after his return? A life with the possibility of love. It was time. To wake up, and to live. He'd been standing right here on her doorstep for what seemed like his entire life. And she's launched herself on him, hugging him so tightly he thought his old, old bones had let out an audible creak. His heart -if he'd had one, that was- would've been beating in his chest so fast the movement might have caused a significant earthquake.

He'd seen it all, and now maybe it was time for her to realize. Fate had led him in a circle, and it was, just maybe, time. "I love you, too." he whispered under his breath-figuratively speaking-, just enough for her to hear. And she stiffened against him, and his insides lurched in horror and then it's like a blessing, a good omen from the universe or whatever gods rule it after years and years of the worst kind of omens, like the Person Upstairs was settling a personal score.

"Good. But, frankly, you're at least five years too late." A hug tightened.

And that's that, and that's it. Because, honestly, they both know they'll probably never talk about this again. It'll simply be an underlying aspect of their relationship, a fact known but not awkknowledged. Because they both were runners, and neither ever actually faced their heart. Or feelings.

That was what they were, and what they would always do. Run. Keep running, running, running running and running. Running from their hearts.

•