King of Infinite Space (gen, PG-13)
Title: King of Infinite Space
Genre: Gen
Characters: Bobby, Rufus, Karen (well, dream!Karen)
Word Count: ~800
Warnings: Very minor gore, references to mental illness.
This fic was written for spnspringfling and mistalagan. I used the prompts of Bobby gen and I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams." (Hamlet)
It always starts with crying.
Then it’s dark and then there’s crying and then he’s in the kitchen. Sunlight streams in from the south-facing windows, and Karen is standing over the sink washing coffee mugs.
It’s a baby’s cry, that odd, almost mechanical sound that only the smallest of children make. Bobby hasn’t spent much time around children in his life, but even he knows what a baby crying sounds like.
“I’m thinking of making apple pie,” Karen says. “We got all those apples on the tree right now, better do something with them now.”
“Apple cider, maybe?” Bobby thinks aloud. He’s sitting at the breakfast table, holding a newspaper open that he isn’t reading. He can feel the softness of the paper, smell the ink.
The crying continues in the next room, or maybe from upstairs, but Karen doesn’t glance away from the shelf of cookbooks on the far wall of the kitchen.
“You want to try that, be my guest, but I’m not making it, and I’m not going to be the one to test it. I am not going to go blind from bad homemade alcohol, no way.” She pauses, her hand skimming over the shelf. “Have you seen my dessert cookbook? I think I put that recipe Sharon gave me in it. Remember those apple pies she made for the 4th of July barbecue a couple years ago?”
Bobby remembers.
The crying is coming from upstairs, he’s sure of it now. It’s quieter than it had been just a few minutes ago, but he doesn’t think he can ignore it anymore. He wants to, though. He just wants it to stop. He looks at Karen, thinks of what she looked like the day they met, how pretty she was and how badly he wanted to impress her.
“Do you want me to check?”
“Check on what?” Karen asks. She’s crouching down, looking at the lowest level of the bookshelf, and she cocks her head up and looks at him. “Oh, here it is. Thought I was losing my mind for a minute there.”
“Think you would even notice if you were losing your mind?” Bobby asks. The crying is louder again now.
Karen appears to think about it. She stands up, and leans back on the kitchen counter, the cookbook clasped against her side. A trickle of blood slides down her cheek. She doesn’t brush it away.
“Probably not, I guess. You’d just think everything was normal. If you started hearing things that weren’t there, how would you know it?” She shudders. “Terrible to think of.”
“Terrible,” Bobby echoes. He wants to say something else but he can’t remember what it is.
The crying is even louder now. Karen is talking to him, but Bobby doesn’t hear what she says, just watches her mouth moving. Blood drips down her neck, blooming across her white blouse. He’s stares at it, afraid to look up at her face.
“What?” he says. “What did you say?”
“Do you hear something?” she asks.
It’s the phone ringing.
The phone.
Bobby opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling. He’s in the living room, on the couch. A spring is poking into his back. The small glass of whiskey is still mostly full. The devil’s trap looking down at him is a pretty fucking impressive piece of art, if he does say so himself.
The phone is still ringing. It’s the regular phone, not one of the special lines.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he tells it with a grumpiness that he doesn’t really feel. The sound of his own voice, the feeling of his body moving, is a comfort. He knows what would have happened next if the phone hadn’t run. The blood, the pleading and crying.
His footsteps echo back to him in the empty house.
It’s Rufus.
“What took you so long?” he wants to know. Bobby can hear music faintly, probably Rufus’ car radio.
“I got other things to do in the world besides sitting around waiting for you to call,” Bobby tells him. He tries to sound annoyed, hoping it hides the sleepy weariness.
“Yeah, right,” Rufus scoffs. “You know some of us are out here actually fighting these monsters, not just hanging out at home, living the high life, taking naps whenever we want.”
It’s an old taunt, not something meant seriously. And Bobby knows he means no harm. He looks around the kitchen, dim in fading light of the afternoon.
“It’s not as easy as you think, Rufus.”
Genre: Gen
Characters: Bobby, Rufus, Karen (well, dream!Karen)
Word Count: ~800
Warnings: Very minor gore, references to mental illness.
This fic was written for spnspringfling and mistalagan. I used the prompts of Bobby gen and I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams." (Hamlet)
It always starts with crying.
Then it’s dark and then there’s crying and then he’s in the kitchen. Sunlight streams in from the south-facing windows, and Karen is standing over the sink washing coffee mugs.
It’s a baby’s cry, that odd, almost mechanical sound that only the smallest of children make. Bobby hasn’t spent much time around children in his life, but even he knows what a baby crying sounds like.
“I’m thinking of making apple pie,” Karen says. “We got all those apples on the tree right now, better do something with them now.”
“Apple cider, maybe?” Bobby thinks aloud. He’s sitting at the breakfast table, holding a newspaper open that he isn’t reading. He can feel the softness of the paper, smell the ink.
The crying continues in the next room, or maybe from upstairs, but Karen doesn’t glance away from the shelf of cookbooks on the far wall of the kitchen.
“You want to try that, be my guest, but I’m not making it, and I’m not going to be the one to test it. I am not going to go blind from bad homemade alcohol, no way.” She pauses, her hand skimming over the shelf. “Have you seen my dessert cookbook? I think I put that recipe Sharon gave me in it. Remember those apple pies she made for the 4th of July barbecue a couple years ago?”
Bobby remembers.
The crying is coming from upstairs, he’s sure of it now. It’s quieter than it had been just a few minutes ago, but he doesn’t think he can ignore it anymore. He wants to, though. He just wants it to stop. He looks at Karen, thinks of what she looked like the day they met, how pretty she was and how badly he wanted to impress her.
“Do you want me to check?”
“Check on what?” Karen asks. She’s crouching down, looking at the lowest level of the bookshelf, and she cocks her head up and looks at him. “Oh, here it is. Thought I was losing my mind for a minute there.”
“Think you would even notice if you were losing your mind?” Bobby asks. The crying is louder again now.
Karen appears to think about it. She stands up, and leans back on the kitchen counter, the cookbook clasped against her side. A trickle of blood slides down her cheek. She doesn’t brush it away.
“Probably not, I guess. You’d just think everything was normal. If you started hearing things that weren’t there, how would you know it?” She shudders. “Terrible to think of.”
“Terrible,” Bobby echoes. He wants to say something else but he can’t remember what it is.
The crying is even louder now. Karen is talking to him, but Bobby doesn’t hear what she says, just watches her mouth moving. Blood drips down her neck, blooming across her white blouse. He’s stares at it, afraid to look up at her face.
“What?” he says. “What did you say?”
“Do you hear something?” she asks.
It’s the phone ringing.
The phone.
Bobby opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling. He’s in the living room, on the couch. A spring is poking into his back. The small glass of whiskey is still mostly full. The devil’s trap looking down at him is a pretty fucking impressive piece of art, if he does say so himself.
The phone is still ringing. It’s the regular phone, not one of the special lines.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he tells it with a grumpiness that he doesn’t really feel. The sound of his own voice, the feeling of his body moving, is a comfort. He knows what would have happened next if the phone hadn’t run. The blood, the pleading and crying.
His footsteps echo back to him in the empty house.
It’s Rufus.
“What took you so long?” he wants to know. Bobby can hear music faintly, probably Rufus’ car radio.
“I got other things to do in the world besides sitting around waiting for you to call,” Bobby tells him. He tries to sound annoyed, hoping it hides the sleepy weariness.
“Yeah, right,” Rufus scoffs. “You know some of us are out here actually fighting these monsters, not just hanging out at home, living the high life, taking naps whenever we want.”
It’s an old taunt, not something meant seriously. And Bobby knows he means no harm. He looks around the kitchen, dim in fading light of the afternoon.
“It’s not as easy as you think, Rufus.”