Author's Note: This one-shot dates back to November 2009. It's one of the very first one-shots I ever wrote from Armatage Shanks' perspective— though it was written well after Shanks developed into a Saint and a strong character in his own right. This has always been one of my favorite one-shots, and one of the few things from my early years that I'm not embarrassed to post. The only thing I've changed about this one-shot is Shanks' play-by. In the early days, he was usually portrayed by Jared Leto; however, these days he's played by M Shadows.
He lay in bed, idly staring up at the ceiling. His dark green eyes traced out patterns and shapes in the popcorn finish, while his muscular arms, covered in tattoos, were folded behind his pounding head. He should be out on the streets, he knew, but he was hungover and really didn't give a damn.
Besides, who was there to berate him for shirking his duties? He was Armatage Shanks, for Christ's sake. Lord of the Underground, Patron Saint of the Forgotten, right-hand man of St. Jimmy, and all-around badass. He more or less controlled the Streets of Shame now that Jimmy had fallen into insanity. Of course, that was another reason why he should be up and at 'em; somebody had to keep an eye on the dealers. But he knew Jinx and her captains had it covered. He couldn't be bothered to get out of bed.
The reason behind his hangover and apathy was a memory. A memory of a goddess, the angel that had remade him, and who he in turn had utterly destroyed.
His patron goddess' name was Roxanne. She had been married to Jakob Adam Lee, the man he had once been.
It had been five years to the day since Roxie Lee had walked out of this house, their home. He couldn't really remember her exit; he'd been halfway to Pluto at the time, he was so strung out on smack. He couldn't remember exactly what she'd said; something about needing to find herself, that she was becoming someone else. But he'd never forget the look in her eyes when she'd said she was leaving. He'd known her for fifteen years at that point, ever since she was twelve years old; he knew her every expression, every shade of meaning in her voice. But he'd never until that moment seen that the fire that blazed from her blue-purple eyes had been extinguished. Her fire had gone out, and the sight of her empty, dead eyes had haunted him ever since.
He hadn't chased after her. He had realized, the moment he'd seen her eyes so lifeless, that he'd relinquished every claim to her. It was his fault she'd left; he didn't deserve to have her. Somehow, he'd stopped seeing her, content to take her presence for granted while he lost himself to heroin and power. He had abandoned her long before she'd left him; what right did he have to want to drag her back to this life?
But fuck, how he missed her. She was his soul mate, the only woman he'd ever loved. From the moment he met her, his life had completely changed, and for the better. The moment he'd realized he was in love with her, he'd stopped shooting heroin, gotten a house, started turning his life around. Everything he'd done, from ruling the Streets with Jimmy to learning to control his temper to making sure he fed himself, was done in the hope that someday he'd be half the man that Roxie deserved.
He'd never really planned to tell her about his love for her. After all, she was his best friend's little sister; there were rules about that sort of thing. Not to mention that Saint Jimmy was notoriously over-protective of his baby sister. And he knew damn well that he didn't deserve her. She deserved a prince, someone who would sweep her off her feet and give her so much better than he could. But of course she'd found out. He'd been venting to his own little sister, Whatsername [ironically, Jimmy's girlfriend; why Jimmy had been allowed to be with Whatsername while Armatage was forbidden from Roxie was a mystery he'd never been able to solve], one day, about how perfect Roxie was, how much he loved her. Then, ironically, Roxie herself had appeared in the doorway [he'd always blamed W for somehow engineering that]. She'd stared at him for a long moment, the stunned look in her bewitching purple eyes the only sign that she was surprised at his declarations. Then she'd walked over to him, pulled him down, and without saying a word, kissed him. And from that moment on, he was completely lost. She was the only thing in the world that mattered to him, the only one he wanted.
They'd had to keep their relationship a secret, for fear of Jimmy's wrath. After all, Roxie had only been fifteen at the time; if Jimmy had had a clue that the eighteen-year-old A was dating her— to say nothing of the fact that he was sleeping with her— he would've killed them both. Sneaking around had been amazing in its own way, though; exciting and dangerous, only fueling their love. They'd run away to the South Side, the part of the Bay that Roxie controlled, to get married as soon as she was eighteen. And they'd both known from that point on that Jimmy was bound to find out about them at some point; there was no way they wouldn't start a family together.
And indeed, she'd gotten pregnant very quickly thereafter, shortly after her nineteenth birthday. Roxie had hidden her pregnancy for as long as she could, but eventually there'd been no way to hide her belly. Jimmy had blown a gasket, of course, but his wife Whatsername had calmed him down in time for Judah Christian's birth. Two years later, Judah had been joined by Jacoby Rocco; four years after that had come little Lorelai Gloria. And if Shanks had thought he was happy when he married Roxie, that joy only grew by leaps and bounds when their children came along. They'd been the happiest days of his life; everything had been perfect.
And then he'd gone and fucked it all up. He'd gone to his brother-in-law's for a party, because several high-tier dealers from the outlying areas of the Bay were supposed to be there, and there were negotiations to be made while Jimmy partied. And somehow, in the midst of that meeting, someone had handed Shanks a syringe. He hadn't touched the stuff in years by that point, but his system hadn't forgotten how much it fucking loved heroin. From the moment the first few drops entered his veins, he was hooked again.
He'd managed to hide his addiction from Roxie for a full six months. She'd known something was wrong, and she'd started regressing, pulling away from him. But she hadn't figured out what was wrong until the day she walked in on him shooting up an ungodly amount of his favorite poison, shaking like a leaf. She'd taken one look into his bloodshot eyes, and the death of their relationship had been written in her gaze. But he'd been too high to see it. A week later, she was gone.
It had been five years since she walked out the door and left the Streets, left him, left everything. She'd taken their children with them, doing everything she could to hide from them the wreck their father had become. And in those five years, he hadn't seen them once. He knew without question that they were safe, and happy, and growing up well; Roxie had been the best mother in the world. But he'd gone five years without seeing his little imps, and it was driving him mad. Not to mention what was happening to him because he hadn't seen their mother.
He'd never even looked at another woman since Roxie left. How could he be interested in the opposite sex? They weren't her, so he didn't care. Abnormal, perhaps, but he'd always figured that going after other girls would be a sign that he was trying to forget her. And he could never, ever forget her. He also hadn't smiled once, or cut his hair, or even really spoken all that much unless it was necessary. He was a hollow shell of the man he'd been, damn near a ghost. Without her, his life had no meaning; without her, he was nothing.
Life— or existence, really, he couldn't call what he was doing living by any stretch of the imagination— had gone on after she left, of course; it had to. Days turned into weeks turned into months turned into years, and life had gone on for the people of the SOS. It never ceased to amaze him that the Streets could survive without its savior; Roxie was the Jesus of Suburbia, it was her magic that was supposed to keep this place going. Yet survive it did. There were changes, of course; Jimmy's anger at Shanks' behavior had caused him to snap, go insane. The great and mighty Saint Jimmy was schizophrenic now, unable to control his magic or his drug empire like he used to. Whatsername took care of him now, and A took care of the Streets. Whatsername had been plenty furious with her older brother after her best friend left with her niece and nephews, but she couldn't stay mad when she saw how completely and utterly destroyed Armatage was. Once, the three of them plus Roxie had ruled and thrived in their home. Now they all fought to merely survive.
He grimaced; he couldn't really call his current hangover surviving. He had gone to Roxie's flagship bar, Shenanigans, last night, needing to drink away his memories of her once again. This happened every year; the anniversary of Roxie's departure would find him drinking himself unconscious at one or another of her bars, simultaneously embracing and running away from all thought of her. Jinx had propelled him home at about 4 in the morning, deposited him on the bed only moments before he passed out, only to find her haunting his dreams.
He glanced at the clock; 2 pm. He probably wasn't gonna get back to sleep any time soon, he might as well get up and try to get through this hellish day. He stumbled into the bathroom, cursing as he tripped over his own feet, then shed his clothes and got into the shower, staring at his most important tattoos as the water washed over him. He had black and white portraits of his children on his left bicep, sparrows, the bird of fidelity, on his pecs for his wife. He stared at his children's faces until his vision blurred, and it took him a moment to realize that he was crying. Once they fell, the floodgates opened, and he spent the next fifteen minutes sagged against the wall, crying his heart out.
He'd lost his wife, his children, everything that mattered in the world. No, not lost; he had carelessly thrown it all away, as if it meant nothing. And for what? Nothing. Fucking nothing, except for booze and heroin and an empty void that couldn't be filled.
When he finally calmed down, he staggered out of the shower. After drying off, dressing, and popping some painkillers, he walked downstairs. He needed coffee above all else; his caffeine addiction was worse than his heroin addiction had ever been.
Forty-five minutes and three cups later, and he finally felt awake and calm enough to venture outside. He still refused to do anything that even remotely resembled work, but he needed to stretch his legs, and he needed cigarettes. So he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, and took off, making sure his aviators fully covered his still-light-sensitive eyes.
There's a saying; speak of the devil and he will appear. Now, Armatage could never even consider calling Roxie a devil… but he was positive that was her in the 7-Eleven parking lot. He froze on the corner, staring, not daring to move or even breathe for fear that if he blinked, the apparition would vanish. He stared as hard as he could, hardly daring to believe it was her. But those were her ridiculously long legs, and that was most definitely her painfully perfect ass… he would know that hourglass waist anywhere… and how could he ever forget the silky dark brown tresses that he used to bury his fingers in? It was her alright… but what the hell was she doing here?
And then she turned around, and she looked right at him, and time stopped. He stared at her, his heart feeling as if it were being pulverized. God, how was it possible that she'd gotten even more beautiful? She'd already been the most beautiful woman in the world, how had she topped herself? She looked damn good… she looked happy. Well, maybe not exactly happy at this precise moment, but he could tell she'd had a good life. God, even from here he could see her beautiful purple eyes, the eyes that revealed every last thing she thought or felt. There were her full red lips, the lips that he'd wanted to kiss every day and every night for the last five years. There was the face that had never once left him in peace. And on her left hand, winking in the sun, were the engagement and wedding rings he had put on her finger so many years ago.
He turned on his heel and fled, literally running away, all thoughts of cigarettes driven from his mind by the fact that Roxie was back. He couldn't understand that, couldn't fathom why she was home. What could possibly induce her to return to a place she hated?
He didn't stop running until he was home, until he'd slammed the front door behind him and thrown himself onto the couch. He lay there, panting, trying to make sense of a world that had just reversed itself.
He didn't pay attention when he heard the front door open; he was used to his dealers walking in and either taking whatever drugs they needed or coming to ask him for advice or news. But he shot straight up when he heard a little girl giggling, the pounding of several pairs of feet. He stared in shock as Judah, Jacoby and Lorelai tumbled into the living room, then sprung into action, leaping off the couch and holding them all tight as they attacked him, all laughing and talking at once. But if he'd been in shock before, he absolutely froze solid when a voice sounded behind him.
"Alright, stop attacking your father. Go upstairs and see if your rooms are still the same."
The children cheered and ran upstairs, still talking over each other and running like a herd of elephants. Shanks stayed where he was for a moment, not daring to turn around for fear of what he would or wouldn't see. But his curiosity overrode his terror, so he found himself standing and turning.
She stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, her arms folded. Her eyes were trained on him, and she was biting her lower lip— a sure sign that she was nervous. They just stood there for a moment, staring at each other, while he tried to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming.
"Hello, A," Roxie said, her voice only slightly strangled.
"Uh… hi…" he said, running a hand through his chin-length hair. "I, uh… what are you doing here?"
She flinched ever so slightly, and he could have kicked himself. He hadn't meant to imply that he didn't want her here. Now that he'd seen her, and knew it was her, he was absolutely positive he couldn't survive her leaving again. He was going to kill himself when she left, he was sure of it.
"Is it okay that I'm here?" she asked.
"Fuck, yeah, of course," he said, forcing the words out around the lump in his throat. "It's still your house, Izzy, I just… I didn't think I'd ever see you again."
"Yeah, about that…" she said, running a hand through her long hair and looking away.
He waited silently, no idea what was going to come out of her mouth. For a long moment she didn't speak; she seemed to be struggling against tears. He winced; he'd never been able to bear seeing her cry.
"I did mean what I said, when I left," she finally said, staring at the ground. "I couldn't stay in the Streets anymore, not with you falling into an abyss just as deep as Jimmy's, not when I had the kids to think about. But… I didn't want to leave you. Ever. I thought… I hoped that if I left, you'd straighten up and come with me. But you never followed me."
"I didn't know you wanted me to," he whispered. "I thought you hated me."
"Never," she whispered.
She looked up at him then, and the look in her eyes was so broken and vulnerable that it broke his heart. In two strides of his long legs he'd crossed the room and pinned her to the wall, crushing her to him as he crashed his lips on hers. A soft cry left her as she threw her arms around him, kissing him back with just as much passion. A low groan escaped him as he held her as close as he possibly could, as he felt whole and complete for the first time in years.
An eternity passed before he managed to pry his lips from hers. Even when he finally ended the kiss, he couldn't let her go; he still held her to him, rested his forehead on hers.
"Come home, Izzy," he whispered. "Come back to me."
A tear fell from beneath her closed lid. "I love you, Jake."
A long, low sigh of relief left him. "God, baby, I love you too."
He tilted her head up, and he kissed her again. He was going to leave the Streets with her, he knew it; leave the only home he'd ever known, give up his empire and all the power he'd commanded as a prince of the Streets. But it didn't matter. This place had never truly been home, he finally understood; home was wherever his wife was. He would go wherever she wanted to be, as long as he could remain with her and their children. That was the only home he needed, the only life he wanted.