Here Comes The Son (Ghost Band / Papa Emeritus fic)

Siamo Con Il Nostro Dio Scuro

Wilson stalked up the steps from the crypt, slamming the door behind him. Both Brooks and Davis had heard the yelling and noise from down there but hadn't wanted to interfere. If Wilson was in so bad a mood, they both wanted Copia to get the brunt of it and not them. But when he walked back into the nave of the church, both men were aghast at the sight of him.

"Tell me that's your blood," Davis said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Wilson turned a furious sneer, still jubilant from his hollow victory against the defenceless man.

"All his," he grinned.
"He didn't get one hit in at all?" Brooks sounded unconvinced.
"Of course not," Wilson's sneer widened into a malicious grin. "I handcuffed him, he couldn't."

Both men stared at Wilson, disgusted by his pride. Neither Brooks nor Davis would consider themselves particularly decent or moral people by any measure but both held to a certain, even minimal, level of principle. The idea of Wilson attacking a man twenty years his senior while actively preventing him from even defending himself, sickened them to the core. Even above that, they had their livelihood to consider.

"He's alive though? Yeah?" Davis asked; of all their clients, he had never feared repercussions from anyone like he did from this man. "He wants him alive."

Heading to the bathroom to clean the blood off himself, Wilson gave a heavily exaggerated sigh, frustrated that they were pulling him down from his high.

"Yes, mother," he groaned, bored with their concern. "He's still alive. Well, last I looked anyway." He laughed.

Davis shook his head and turned to Brooks.

"Wilson's a fucking liability!" He muttered with irritation colouring his tone. "I'm going to check on him. I might need a hand to fix him up."

Brooks nodded.

"I'll see if I can find a first aid kit anywhere," he shrugged, doubting the possibility.

Davis headed towards the stairs with Wilson laughing at him in the background. Turning back, he shouted a warning.

"Trust me, Wilson. If he turns up and we've lost money, or there are threats of losing limbs or lives, we're gonna make sure he knows exactly who's responsible. We're not taking the flak for you!"
"I told you, he's alive!" Wilson scowled in response; his euphoria now well and truly crushed.

At the foot of the stairs, Davis could see the devastation left behind by Wilson and he barely knew where to begin.

"Fuck me!"

He shook his head as he listened and watched for a few seconds to see any sign of Copia breathing. Finally he exhaled with relief as he heard their prisoner groan in pain as he tried to move. Hastening to the gate, Davis turned the key in the lock and stepping into the cell he knelt at Copia's side. Barely daring to even lay a hand on him for fear of hurting him more, Davis tried to work out the best thing to do.

"Are you okay?" He asked finally.
"Why? Does he look okay to you?"

Davis whirled around, simultaneously rising to his feet at the sound of a voice that couldn't possibly be there. The man claiming to be Levin stood at the bottom of the stairs, the epitome of casual, leaning against the bannister with his arms folded across his chest.

"Who are you?" He asked, dashing the few feet back to the gate to make sure he couldn't be locked in.
"You know me as Levin," he replied.
"I don't know you at all," Davis replied. "Levin's dead."
"Yes, he is," the man smiled and nodded. "Do you know why he's dead?"

Davis frowned at the odd question.

"Because you killed him?"

Levin laughed at the response; he thought that was a given.