Chapter Text
“Do you think that your Green Lanterns would be proud to see you like this,” Sinestro asks from where he paces the length of your glorified cage, drawing nearer in angled pursuit, “Under my control like this?”
You struggle, but it’s useless. You’ll bleed your wrists ragged, rend the flesh from your ankles the more you try to fight against these cold, yellowed manacles that hold you steadfastly upright. Keeping you level, but at a subservient angle, to his liking. All you can do is watch, as he stalks the confines of your shadowy prison, let him jab these petty barbs at you, as he has done the countless days he’s held you here. Held you here as his captive.
“I think they’re going to have a lot of things to say when they finally get their hands on you.” You grit through your teeth, clenching your fists open and closed around the immaterial. The space where your ring used to settle on your middle finger lies dead phantomweight, vanished to parts unknown. And once again, for all the countless times you’ve cursed your overblown confidence, you damn yourself hundredfold.
Thinking you could ford out stalwartly alone into the darkness of uncharted territories, with nary but a blithe smile to those who watched your departure. Ignoring the face at the forefront, his jaw rigidly set, swallowing his concerns to you. Not that you would have paid it mind. And how you’ve found yourself rewarded for your bravery. With chains. With him.
“When.” He lets the syllable roll off his tongue, velvet in his enunciation. “A peculiar choice of words. As if they shall receive the chance.”
He looms closer and you stare up into those yellow eyes that shine bright in the shadows, finding visual purchase on you. Something trembles up you, a terrible, sinful feeling.
“What do you want with me, Sin? Why don’t you kill me now?” You ask hollowly. It feels foreign, to use a name revered a lifetime ago, now running foul obscenity on your lips. “Put my head on a pike, so they see it when they rock up to your doorstep?”
“Would you prefer I draw the screams from your throat?” There’s something markedly silken as he draws within a close pace of you. The heat seems to roll off of him white-hot as he appraises you, that angular face ruthless in its impassivity. “Twist the marrow from your bones to make you beg for release?”
There’s a lad, you think grimly. That’s what I’m looking for.
You make a bemused, dubious smile up at him as he continues to regard you. “I’m surprised you haven’t already. Wouldn’t you like to see me pinned under your boot, begging for death?”
The word begging seems to inspire an arch of that imperious brow, the rest of his face unmoving. “What a visual you illustrate—underneath me, pleas for mercy on your lips.”
“What?” You feel near-dazed at this statement, at the way that the image slinks down your spine, at something you refuse to acknowledge. Not here, with the enemy so close and escape so far.
He turns, letting you see the authoritative spread of his shoulders, as he ruminates on something beyond you.
“Do you wonder what Jordan thinks of this?” He proffers into the silence, his voice stark. His head angles back enough that you can all-but-feel the press of that assertive eye on you.
“Knowing that you’re mine—”—He continues, and you swallow at the way he says mine—“—And he has no idea how to find you.”
It’s vanity, you reassure yourself. Anything that Hal belongs to, is an extension of the man. You are his comrade-in-arms; thus your spiriting away to locations unknown is a mark against him, a gauntlet thrown. That’s what this statement entails—nothing more.
“What—what does Hal have to do with it?” You find yourself stumbling over the words, unable to articulate the way that something sticky and suffocating is settling over your heart. “He’s just a—colleague. Same as everyone else is.”
“Is that what you think of him?” Now there’s amusement, though it’s not specifically at you. He turns back to narrow the space between you and him once more. “How very droll.”
“I don’t—I don’t understand.” You say, because you don’t want to. Not here, not with the man who stalks sidelong, his eyes still fixated on you.
“Well, then it shall be interesting to see if he makes the dogged attempt to come find you.” Sinestro says, clasping his hands behind him in officious manner. What limited light there is winks off the ring proudly borne on his finger. “Imagine him, with his Terran ways, baring his teeth and puffed-up bravado.”
How odd he has yet to refer to you, a fellow Terran, in such condescending manner. You grin. “Takes one to know one, doesn’t it, Sin?”
“Yes, I suppose it does.” There’s finally a smile on that face, as shadows cast it into sharp relief—his eyes gleam—and you start to lose a battle you’ve been fighting.
He darts forward, suddenly, towards you—you recoil, but small mercies grant that you make no noise of surprise. His hands seize possessively over yours, and they are as tight as the manacles that bind you down. His fingers are burning and insistent, proprietary in their clutch as he stares you down, his face mere inches from you. You have to fight to keep your expression level, when such intensity bears itself open.
“What do you think he would do,” And his voice is a low snarl, some malicious intent effected upon it, “If he knew that I had laid claim—”—His fingers lance tighter and you grind your teeth to keep from voicing pain—“—To what he’s been dying to mark as his?”
You scowl at him, at his wicked proposals, at his twisted rumors. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re blind.” He returns—and that ferocity smooths over as quickly as it comes, composure returning to that commanding expression. His hands are slow to slide off you, leaving scouring tactile afterimage in his wake.
When he returns to full height, it’s as if the moment never occurred, though you’ll never forget.
“What did you say?” His voice is monotonous in its sarcasm—a rare gift on your behalf, it appears. “‘Takes one to know one?’ A Terran turn of phrase?"
“I have a few shorter ones if you’d like to hear them.” You send back his way, letting him know what you think of him, of this farce.
“Hmmm.” He says, and the noise rolls through you, rugged and obscene. “In what context, my dear?”
You draw back, your eyes reproachful, your only means of defense. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” His smile is predacious and brief, gone with the taunt he levies your way.
“Mess with me like that—like all the lies with Hal.” You affix him with a terrible glower—if all you have is this, then you’ll pour every ounce of nerve into it. Better this than to consider the effect his words have, than what they terribly imply. Than what they terribly inspire.
“If you’re going to hurt me, make me scream—”—You continue, and it’s only because he permits you to do so—“—Just do it already. End it.”
Sinestro smiles, in a manner that lets you know that it has only begun. When he speaks, it is a smooth note in the abyss. “All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”
He turns towards the door, to leave you to wallow alone. As means of farewell, he sets one final implicative look upon you.
“I look forward to conversing with you tomorrow.” He says, leaving you to be haunted by your thoughts in solitude, until his return.