(no subject)

Jun 17, 2007 12:09



I writted something. I might possibly be writing fics in order to avoid writing up an explainy state of me post.

So fic. HCL fic, post film, Hugh Dillon meets Joe Dick. It's a companion to this, and is inherently spoilery. Possibly disturbing- in my current state it's hard to tell. 562 words

Hugh sees Joe. Different times in his life- well, in his celluloid whateverthefuck. Different outcomes too. Sees him when he’s fifty, sitting on a rocking chair, sees him dirt poor, filthy rich, crying, laughing, but always there, bright, insistent, the harsh jarring of a quartertone clash, strobe light intensity. Joe never fades. Solid. Bulky, sometimes, blotchy skinned, carrying extra weight but always with the same hunger. Skinny, like some scrapyard mutt- a snaggletooth mongrel who doesn’t need to bark, cause that’d warn them. Joe fucking Dick would just sink his teeth in, worry at the flesh-

Maybe he’d growl then, in satisfaction, in ‘don’t fucking move, do you wanna find out what worse is?’

Joe’s got him by the fucking arm, and he ain’t letting go.

A scummy apartment, one roomed. Paint peeling off the wall. When he first gets there, Joe’s lying there, still, so still Hugh goes to look for the hole in his head, the creeping pooling blood. One step and Joe moves, suddenly, rapid animation, alive, laughing at him. He’s holding a gun.

“When is this?” Hugh asks, detachment easy after the shock, after the shift in reality. Whatever happens here, it hasn’t, won’t, isn’t.

“Between. Before. After. You should learn not to ask such fucking stupid questions, I’m alive, fucker. Billy’s not here. So it’s the time between. Asshole.”

Looking for anger. Joseph Mulgrew, wanting a fight with him. Mulgrew and Dick, really. Fuck it- they’re the same. He can’t change. He’s too much of a fixed point to bend-

It had to end like that.

He quells the surge of guilt, hot and painful, flushing. Joe’s close- whisky on his breath, cigarettes. Smells clean, though, under it all.

“You prettied yourself up? That’s too fucking cute,” he sneers, giving him something to be angry about that isn’t the ending, that isn’t murder- selbstmord or something in German- self killing. Better phrase that ‘suicide’. Connects better with what Joe did. What he made him do.

His back hits the door. Joe’s closer now, snarling right into his face. “Fucker,” he breathes, a caress, an endearment. Hugh grins at him, grabs his shoulders, spins them so it’s Joe up against the door, not even being that tiny bit of careful he is with Callum. He hates Joe, knows him, loves him, finds him a complete fucking mystery. But he doesn’t worry about hurting him, because the worst of it has already been done. Hard to tell who starts the kiss. Hard to care, when it’s Joe, hands gripping his back, one hand possessive on the back of his neck. Joe closes his eyes when they kiss- fucking pussy- moans when Hugh bites down on his lower lip, gently, harder till he hisses, pushes him away slightly and they go back to kissing, tasting each other. He keeps his eyes open, because…well, cause Joe’s not really alive, and he could turn into a skull or something, and singing about it ain’t the same as…yeah.

The thought makes him laugh a little. Skullfucker. Heh. He’ll tell Joe later, maybe. When he’s too fucked out to remember, just to remind him again. Remind him he has to live through till he dies. Harsh. It’s why Joe keeps dragging him back, though. They remind each other, remind in a situation where help’s impossible. Biting down on each other’s flesh, head eating tail.
Previous post Next post
Up