Untitled
Title: Untitled
Author: fic_type_thing
Pairings: Pete/Ashlee (implied Pete/OFC)
Rating/warnings: Hard R. Warnings for graphic violence and graphic blood.
Words: ~2000
Summary: Ashlee doesn't like it when people are touching her things.
Disclaimer: This is fiction and I don't own any of it. If you have googled yourself or one of your friends, I suggest you go back.
Authors notes: For my creative writing class, I started writing something like this, based on some kind of Stockholm Syndrome. It ended up being Pete and Ashlee, and badam-bam, here we are. For ourfingerprints , because I can't wait for her Pete/Ashlee fic for Big Bang. Cut text credit goes to Taking Back Sunday.
Pete enjoys Ashlee's company in a way that not many other people do. Whether it's because they're not allowed to, or because they don't want to, it doesn't matter. There's just no one who appreciates her like he does and even so, they are more likely to fight than stay loving all the time. It keeps things interesting, but it's gotten to a point where Ashlee's other friends barely recognize her at times. Like when she's gotten off the phone with Pete, with a rejection to the request of hanging out. Or when she'll see him somewhere around town, arm around a woman who isn't herself. She starts doing, saying, hearing things that are so out of character that it makes her friends share inquisitive looks in silence. Suddenly, the "off" behavior developed into something new. Suddenly, Ashlee's jealousy had a life, a personality, but most importantly, access to knives.
Pete only occasionally picks up on it, since it isn't a personality trait that's been very evident in the strong, independent woman, but it's difficult to ignore when Ashlee standing in the middle of the living room like she is. He only sees the silhouette of her at first. Her legs look thin in skinny jeans, like they go on for days, leading up to a thinner waist. As Pete takes another step into his girlfriend's apartment, the light from lamp posts outside makes some liquid on her hands and forearms shimmer. It's red and he can't even pretend that it's water. For the record, Ashlee isn't his girlfriend, but he gets the feeling that the woman who holds that title is around here somewhere.
Ashlee's hair is pulled up into a messy bun, some long, red-brownish strands falling out, defying the rubber band that's holding it all together. The look is similar to what she looks like when she's been focusing; either it's during studies, to prepare something for work, figuring out how to deal with something that's happened. Pete's thudding heart catches in his throat, making it difficult for his breathing to come easy. Outside, the cars drive by in waves, the same sound of impending and departing with rusty motors and then the tap-tap-tap of rain hitting every free surface outside.
Or maybe the tap-tap-tap of drops falling inside the apartment, in the modern living room; Pete wonders if one person can actually bleed this much. He hasn't seen a body yet, but there has to be. There can't not be, not with the various pools of blood here and there. It's been smeared out in places, reminding him of some kind of ice skating. A morbid kind of ice skating.
"Ashlee?" She knows it's him, even before he speaks, because he's the only one who wouldn't have called the police by now. Even if Marci Gray's home phone is what caused the hole in the panoramic window facing down and out.
"Ashlee," Pete says again, less of a question this time, and he runs a hand through his dark, dark, dark brown hair. It's more of a habit than something he does because he's nervous. Dare I say it, the man even smiles when he says her name, like it's a relief that she's here, like it's a relief that his new girlfriend is laying somewhere in the apartment, maybe in parts. That it's Ashlee standing here, a large butcher-esque knife dangling from her sleek, delicate fingers. Like a child, they hold more strength than you'd think.
The woman turns her head to the side, eyes flickering open to look over her shoulder. It's almost smoldering, the way the corners of her lips tug upward, an eyebrow cocked, challenging everything he ever knew. The image of the Cheshire Cat comes to mind, even if she isn't smiling as wide.
"We're all mad somehow," she says, eyes focused on the gray air outside the apartment and outside of her reach. "Some part of everyone is always going to be insane." She lets her piercing green eyes slide up and down his body, sizing him up in a way that is more morbid than anything else. Not necessarily an explanation of any kind, definitely not an excuse or apology.
It's enough to draw him in closer, making his feet move automatically, still careful to not slip on the morose ice skating floor, and his calloused fingers reach out to touch once he's close enough, but at the last moment, he pulls his hand back, letting it flex by his side. To make up for not touching her, he takes a half step forward, moving his body closer but still not touching. He knows better than that, but it's definitely not what the crime scene reports will show that he keeps in mind. He knows Ashlee better than that.
As far as he can tell, she isn't hurt anywhere. Blood covers her hands like gloves, beautiful in its own tragic way (here's one of those times where Pete is the only one who enjoys Ashlee in the way she needs it). Her head turns back, making Pete have to take a tiny step to the left as to not start inhaling her smooth hair. Ashlee, Ashlee, Ashlee.
Marci is AB negative, not that you could tell from just looking around the room. The white couch has stains that dry cleaning can't fix. Not that anyone would want to; anything that comes from a crime scene is put in the hands of the closest relatives. Not only is Mrs. Gray a traditional woman, but seeing exactly where her baby was held down against the couch when the psychotic monster thrust a knife into her arm -making the demise even slower- isn't something she wants to keep in memory. Either she sells it or tells the officers to get it the hell out of her sight.
Pete isn't a psychic, and he's usually not even that observant, but Ashlee was probably waiting in the apartment when Marci arrived. Ashlee's always been one for shock value, anyone can tell with an index finger and a middle finger stuck in place of the two candles in the mini-chandelier at head-level on the wall. In the same way that the entire chi or Zen of the room is clean cut, with sharp edges and contrasts, she's cut up a woman, a human being, who did her best to escape.
Standing so close to Ashlee, Pete can look to the left, towards the kitchen, where the body is on her stomach. Without arms or legs, it's difficult to crawl and it's more than likely that Ashlee just stood here and enjoyed it. The sharp and rather bitter stench of blood mixed in with the scent of her her, Ashlee Ashlee, Ashlee, is almost overwhelming and he wishes that he'd been here with her. The fact that he came over to pick Marci up for their movie plus dinner date doesn't matter. Just standing this close to the dark angel of his dreams (nightmares, maybe) is better than he'd imagined and it's so good that he almost wants to laugh.
"Ashlee," he says, again, and he does add the laugh to it this time. The excitement over how relieved he is, and she's looking straight forward again, but not as focused as she was earlier. The knowing smirk is still present as she lifts the knife -it has to be relatively heavy- to her lips. Tongue flicks out over the blade, the smooth part as to not slice her tongue open, even if she isn't actively avoiding it. It's the most disgusting thing he's ever seen, the way she takes two tastes of AB negative blood before licking her lips, making it smear out. It's just too bad he can't look away, can't stop staring. He knows better, really, and he's a really good 24-year-old boy, but he reaches out. Touches.
It's only his fingers at first, brushing down the curve at the side of her back, gently through the fabric. His heart is beating even wilder, eyes focused on his fingers moving, and the tap-tap-tap beats harder, faster, not only outside and inside but it's in his head now, too. She's right there, right in front of him, the insane love of his life and it takes a split second for her to react before she's snapped around.
The sight of it is almost comical, even if Pete definitely doesn't feel the least bit amused. Maybe he's too close to the situation to understand it. He's got a an inch on her, especially when she's wearing her former white tennis shoes and not high heels. Red was always a nicer color on her anyway. She grabs the collar of his shirt with a tight fist, tugging down, and bringing the knife up to the same quick beat. Only stopping half a millimeter too late. The blade doesn't slice his skin, but against his pulse with a thin layer of skin in between, she's in the perfect situation to be able to.
Pete's knees nearly buckle. His crazy-assed woman, wild eyes that have turned midnight dark in a matter of minutes, has a large, sharp knife to his neck and Pete nearly whimpers and/or moans. How is this Pete's life? How has he gotten so lucky that the woman of his dreams kills to have him? His dangerous goddess, Queen of Misery. He's so god damn obsessed.
Ashlee has her teeth bared in a near snarl, her grip tightening, and pulling him down further. Their faces are mere inches away from each other, enough so he can see the stains of red on her lips.
"You killed her." Killed isn't enough, it doesn't come close to describing what Ashlee did. "Slaughtered," he whispers, corrects himself, his entire body just glowing in awe, with his eyes the size of the moon. Ashlee's expression tightens, doesn't relax, and on one of her front teeth, there's another red stain. How many times did she lick AB negative off that metal blade? Like a lioness stalking her prey, or perhaps a snake signaling for people to back off.
With a swift movement, her hand moving away from his throat, Ashlee shifts the knife in her hand so that when she starts pushing at Pete, it's her closed fists against his shoulders. She's well aware of what she's done, to what extent.
"I just don't like it-" And here it comes, an increased volume with the first syllables she finishes, and her hands push harder, gripping tighter around themselves, making her knuckles glow in white contrast against his dark blue shirt. She's so incredibly fierce like this, an angel hell-bent to getting her way through. "-when people are touching. My. Things." Ashlee's screaming by now, her voice toned in a fashion that gets her message across in a rather precise way. Every word is emphasized with another hard shove to his shoulders, forcing him back, back, back against one of the walls surrounding them.
Once he's back completely, won't budge further, Ashlee relaxes her snarl but stays close. Her chest rising up and down in quick succession, eyes open and inspecting, Ashlee's hands relax too. However, it's only to shift the knife around again, and it finds its place against Pete's pulse again.
"This is it," she breathes out, quietly but with potential of getting louder. The smile spreading over her thin lips makes lets his body relax more; tensions follow the trail the phone left out the window. "Life will never be better, not sweeter than this." The words come out in waves, too, silently reminding Pete to remember every single aspect of this. Every word, every breath, every thought. Pete does remember that. It's just the breathing that he needs to focus on now. The blade shimmers under the light from lamp posts, reminding both of them how close death is.
He tilts his head down and kisses her, can't stop kissing her blood-stained lips. Ignores the fact that she could slit his throat for real and his famous last words would be an apology for bleeding on her shirt.