Incomplete.
Who: Commodore Smoker & Giovanni.
What: Giovanni decides that, as a matter of fact, chatting with Smoker about this Heine business might be a fabulous idea. C': OH HIM AND HIS SAGE DECISIONS.
Where: Docks.
When: Some time after Heine infodump'd Smoker about Giovanni's bugfuckery.
No ammunition to replace what he had when it was gone. No-one that wouldn't be missed, and everyone he really wanted to be near, everyone he really wanted to sink his fingers into until he was grinding bone, he didn't have the freedom to touch.
He couldn't kill anything.
Giovanni stood at the end of the docks, looking out across the dark sea. From the back, he probably didn't look as though his body was coiled up tight as a spring inside, didn't look as though he was wrapped in razor wire and chewing on his bones to get out, but he felt it. Oh, he felt it. His breaths came shallow, his smile nonexistent - and it had been a while, hadn't it, since it'd been good and properly wiped from his face? This authority, this servitude - and it wasn't even for her. His teeth clenched so hard, it felt like grinding gristle, and his jaw ticked dangerously.
Mr. Rammsteiner is mine.
His nails gouged skin until it felt like it would split, and then it did, just a little, and the blood smeared along his nails and across the pads of his fingers, but it was slow, agonisingly slow, to tickle its way down to the first curved knuckles. Threaten to drip.
He could smell it in seconds, and slowly drew his hand from his pocket to stop it staining his suit.
Heine was nobody's but his. But hers. And he could tolerate claims to the contrary, usually, could ignore the ones who didn't realise, who didn't fucking see who Heine really was, because, really. Really. Who knew him like he did? Who ate, drank, breathed him in like he was all that was worth something in the world? They didn't have to realise. They didn't have to truly appreciate their ignorance, because he could do it for them, and he knew what haunted Heine in the dark spot behind his eyes, and. Nobody knew him like he did, and nobody could keep him away.
Until now.
Mr. Rammsteiner is
talking to him, telling him about him, telling him about them. He kept Heine's secrets. He'd always --
And now he was going to Smoker. Smoker, who was keeping him from Heine. Smoker, who was hearing secrets they'd held so close and discreet in their home world, her intimate little gift. Smoker, who was only hearing it because Heine was afraid, and while Heine's terror normally would've thrilled him, because it meant he was close to lashing out, because it meant he was cornered - this time, there was no victory.
He'd have to carve one out of whatever came out of the blue door. Just as well that, while Giovanni could hardly claim a vast intelligence, he knew how to survive.
The collar felt hot, felt sizzling. Just the nerves, he supposed, Just the tension in the muscles across his back, and the dog baying for blood.
He'd kill Smoker the moment his back was turned.
He thought it, and just as quickly dismissed it. Lies, pretty little lies, nice and comforting, but lies all the same. He couldn't kill him yet, couldn't do anything until she was there and then he wouldn't have to bide his time or call him Commodore or say yes, sir or do anything but look into his fearful eyes, sink the bullets in like teeth, clamping shut, ripping holes out of him.
He could wait for that.
His nostrils flared briefly, the sick, briney smell of the sea assaulting him. It lapped at the docks like a wound, so he knelt, dipping his hand into the salty water, and it lapped his wounds as well.
He listened, waiting for Smoker's door to open.
He couldn't kill him.
But he'd do something.
What: Giovanni decides that, as a matter of fact, chatting with Smoker about this Heine business might be a fabulous idea. C': OH HIM AND HIS SAGE DECISIONS.
Where: Docks.
When: Some time after Heine infodump'd Smoker about Giovanni's bugfuckery.
No ammunition to replace what he had when it was gone. No-one that wouldn't be missed, and everyone he really wanted to be near, everyone he really wanted to sink his fingers into until he was grinding bone, he didn't have the freedom to touch.
He couldn't kill anything.
Giovanni stood at the end of the docks, looking out across the dark sea. From the back, he probably didn't look as though his body was coiled up tight as a spring inside, didn't look as though he was wrapped in razor wire and chewing on his bones to get out, but he felt it. Oh, he felt it. His breaths came shallow, his smile nonexistent - and it had been a while, hadn't it, since it'd been good and properly wiped from his face? This authority, this servitude - and it wasn't even for her. His teeth clenched so hard, it felt like grinding gristle, and his jaw ticked dangerously.
Mr. Rammsteiner is mine.
His nails gouged skin until it felt like it would split, and then it did, just a little, and the blood smeared along his nails and across the pads of his fingers, but it was slow, agonisingly slow, to tickle its way down to the first curved knuckles. Threaten to drip.
He could smell it in seconds, and slowly drew his hand from his pocket to stop it staining his suit.
Heine was nobody's but his. But hers. And he could tolerate claims to the contrary, usually, could ignore the ones who didn't realise, who didn't fucking see who Heine really was, because, really. Really. Who knew him like he did? Who ate, drank, breathed him in like he was all that was worth something in the world? They didn't have to realise. They didn't have to truly appreciate their ignorance, because he could do it for them, and he knew what haunted Heine in the dark spot behind his eyes, and. Nobody knew him like he did, and nobody could keep him away.
Until now.
Mr. Rammsteiner is
talking to him, telling him about him, telling him about them. He kept Heine's secrets. He'd always --
And now he was going to Smoker. Smoker, who was keeping him from Heine. Smoker, who was hearing secrets they'd held so close and discreet in their home world, her intimate little gift. Smoker, who was only hearing it because Heine was afraid, and while Heine's terror normally would've thrilled him, because it meant he was close to lashing out, because it meant he was cornered - this time, there was no victory.
He'd have to carve one out of whatever came out of the blue door. Just as well that, while Giovanni could hardly claim a vast intelligence, he knew how to survive.
The collar felt hot, felt sizzling. Just the nerves, he supposed, Just the tension in the muscles across his back, and the dog baying for blood.
He'd kill Smoker the moment his back was turned.
He thought it, and just as quickly dismissed it. Lies, pretty little lies, nice and comforting, but lies all the same. He couldn't kill him yet, couldn't do anything until she was there and then he wouldn't have to bide his time or call him Commodore or say yes, sir or do anything but look into his fearful eyes, sink the bullets in like teeth, clamping shut, ripping holes out of him.
He could wait for that.
His nostrils flared briefly, the sick, briney smell of the sea assaulting him. It lapped at the docks like a wound, so he knelt, dipping his hand into the salty water, and it lapped his wounds as well.
He listened, waiting for Smoker's door to open.
He couldn't kill him.
But he'd do something.