Title: Until the End of the World
Author: mizface
Fandom: Harper’s Island
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 746
A/N: This nasty little AU also fills my “doppleganger” square for trope_bingo. For those who might wonder, this is not a part of my Linnet ‘verse. This Madison is screwed up in entirely different ways. Title from the graphic novel series “Preacher.”

I owe a thousand and one thanks to the wondrous hazelwho for looking this over more than once, and making incredible suggestions.



The first time she saw him, half-hidden in the shadows at the back of the library, hunched over and reading a book, her breath caught in her throat on a gasp. He couldn't have been more than fifteen, all arms and legs and gangly teenager, but she's seen enough pictures to know it was like seeing John reborn.

She didn't approach him that day, or any of the following weeks. But he was there, coming almost every day after school and heading straight for his spot. He stayed for hours each time, always alone, always reading. She did her best to quietly learn what she could about him, and found out that he was seventeen, though he didn't look it, and a senior at the local high school. The only child of a divorced family, he was rarely home and no one seemed to notice or care. He arrived at the library alone, and left that way as well, on foot, never a ride to or from, and she knew from her careful digging that it was miles from the library to his house. He was thin, too thin even if he was in the throes of teen growth spurts, in a way that said to her that he was undernourished, uncared for.

His hair always looked just a little greasy and he kept it too long, hanging down and covering his face while he read. She wondered if it was a deliberate choice, having that physical way to blot out a bit of the outside world. But every so often, if she watched carefully (and oh, she watched him carefully) she could see the line of his jaw, the fullness of his mouth or, if she was very lucky, the blue of his eyes, all so like John.

He was perfect. And he was going to be hers; she's been alone in this long enough. His solitude would make him more open to her gestures of friendship, but that he’d been allowed to languish like this was unacceptable. There would be a reckoning for those who caused her John any pain. She welcomed the chance to finally settle old debts.

It would take time, but that was something she had. She spent her nights planning, trying to decide the best course of action. She tapped into financial resources she barely touched over the years, hidden away under different names when she’d still been called Madison Allen, as part of her preparations. As soon as she been old enough, she’d discarded the hated guise, shed that horrible confining skin and become Joanna Wakefield.

It would be the same for John. John, who she watched by day, who she left books for, unobtrusively, scattered among the detritus of magazines and paperbacks left by lazy patrons. Catcher in the Rye didn’t hold his attention, but Preacher did, enough that she saw him search out the rest of the series of graphic novels after reading the one she’d left. She hid a smile as she shelved books nearby, and thought about what else she might leave, what messages would be best sent anonymously, to better ready him.

She knew that if she handled this just right she would get what she wanted, and John would be hers again. But this time on different footing; she no longer the child she had been as when they first met, he no longer the older and more experienced of them.

She wondered late at night if his transition would require the same blood sacrifice that hers had. The thought that it might thrilled her; it had been too long. She found her renewed desire for death awakening other desires as well and spent time in her bed bring herself to completion, with images of bright blue eyes hungrily watching and blood-covered hands touching her. The fingertips tracing her breasts and pinching her nipples were, in her mind, thicker and calloused. A stubbled cheek scratched over her skin, leaving it reddened, marking her. Sure, merciless hands moved over her body, gripping her tightly enough to bruise in spots, and fingers plunged in and out of her hard and fast, making her cry out, pain and pleasure mixed as she came.

She lay in her bed, sweat cooling on her skin, and dreamed of the future – their future. This boy, she was sure, knew nothing of his potential.

But she would show him. Teach him. Learn from him.

And together, they would be glorious.