WRITE OR DIE. I FICCED!
Holy fucking shit, look what I wrote in 90 minutes. And it's complete, too!
I think I love the Write Or Die website.
Leverage, R for violence, gen. Mild spoilers for "The 12-Step Job".
Ain’t Been Sober Since Maybe October
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When Nate comes to, it’s more like returning to consciousness than actual awakening.
Something clearly died in his mouth and neglected to crawl out before doing so, and there are ice picks being driven into his skull through his eyeballs, and the last thing in the world he wants to hear is Eliot’s voice.
“I know you’re awake.”
Nate tries hard to pretend otherwise.
“Open your eyes or else I’ll pin ‘em open with toothpicks.”
Nate can’t help the instinctive flinch, and he sighs when he realizes that he’s given away the game. He squints in the direction he thinks he’ll find Eliot; startles inadvertently when the man seats himself on the other side of the bed instead.
Eliot is eating something. It sounds like chips, or something like that. When he exhales, Nate can smell Cheetos, and it makes his gorge rise.
He gags for a moment, and manages to force down the reflex.
“You puke on me, man, and I’m a-skin you alive,” Eliot informs Nate unhelpfully.
Nate swallows a few times and shakes his head. “I’m good,” he insists. “Gimme a whiskey.”
Eliot rustles a cellophane bag before he leans back on his hands and props his damned cowboy boots on Nate’s blankets. They smell like dirt and oil and God knows what-all else, and Nate musters up a feeble snarl. “Get your fucking feet off my bed,” he mutters, and it sounds weak even to his own ears. “And get me a fucking drink.”
“Now, see, that’s exactly the kind of attitude got you into the mess, ain’t it?” Eliot drawls. Nate hates that goddamned down-home accent of his.
Eliot waits for a beat, then continues, “See, the way I figure it, you’ve been havin’ yourself a real nice time, ain’t you?”
Nate yanks at a pillow and tries to smother himself. He always forgets, somehow, just how fast Eliot can move, though, and his pillow is stripped away and there is a huge motherfucking knife pressed to his throat before he has time to curse.
Eliot’s got that crazy glint in his eye, the one that just dares you to try him, because you both know that he can gut you like a landed fish and be cleaning his nails down the hall before you’ve even had time to scream.
Nate doesn’t much like being on the receiving end of that look.
The blade eases back a little, but Nate doesn’t make the mistake of thinking that Eliot’s taken pity on him or anything. He’s trying to keep calm, but his heart is racing and his breath wheezes in his throat. Eliot’s weight is surprisingly solid across his chest, knees pinning Nate’s elbows and the blankets effectively trapping his legs.
Nate’s stuck until Eliot has made his point, and they both know it.
“So,” Eliot says conversationally, as if he’s only paused to get a beer, not a giant motherfucking knife, “Sophie’s been real sweet to you, holding your hand, trying to convince herself that if you loved her enough, you’d quit drinkin’ for her. Made it real easy for you to yank her around, play on her emotions, screw with her head, didn’t it?”
Nate tries to shrug, rolls his eyes. Eliot just looks disgusted. “The others don’t know enough about addiction,” he continues. “They don’t get how you’re gonna keep fuckin’ us all over until you destroy everything. Too young, maybe, ain’t seen enough of the world yet-who knows?”
“Who . . . made you . . . their goddamn . . . babysitter,” Nate manages to gasp. He doesn’t feel the cut, only the coolness of blood seeping across his skin. He’s not stupid enough to think that Eliot was careless with the knife; he knew exactly what would happen when Nate spoke and flexed his throat against the blade. “Not . . . going back . . . to rehab.”
“I ain’t got patience for the fucking Twelve Steps,” Eliot sneers. “You got a choice, man, and you make it right now: you gonna keep on drinkin’?”
Considerately, Eliot moves the knife a hairsbreadth, so that Nate can reply. “Fuck off, Eliot, you’re not my mother, my wife, or my life coach,” he snarls viciously. “There’s only one thing you’re good at, and thinking isn’t it.”
Eliot grins as if that was exactly the answer he expected. “Yep, that’s right,” he agrees equably. “I’m real good at hurting people. And that’s what I’m gonna do to you, every time you fuck us over. So think about how much you like your body all in one piece, and I’ll ask you again: you gonna keep on drinkin’?”
Nate doesn’t even dignify that with a straight answer. “The others know what you’re up to?” he asks instead. “Who let you off the leash? You think they’re gonna back you up on whatever little intervention you’ve got going on in here?”
Eliot moves like lightning, and Nate is face down and trussed up like a hog for slaughter before he can finish the taunt. Unfortunately, it doesn’t sound as though the insult hit its mark, because Eliot is positively cheerful when he announces, “Every time you take a drink, you’re gonna lose a body part. I ain’t gonna lie to you; it’s gonna hurt like fuckin’ hell, not just when I make the cut but for weeks after.”
Nate is getting pissed off now. He insults Eliot’s parentage, personal hygiene, and sexual proclivities-all topics usually guaranteed to get a response-but Eliot just keeps on smiling as if Nate were complimenting him instead, and wrestles him into a sitting position at the edge of the bed.
It’s awkward to keep his balance with hands tied behind his back and bound feet just touching the floor, but Nate manages. If all he has left is his dignity, he sure as hell is going to hold on to it for as long as possible.
Eliot frowns, as if he’s noticed something aesthetically displeasing, and pulls free one of the blankets. He folds it over twice into a large square and carefully places it beneath Nate’s bare feet, sits back and eyes the arrangement critically. “Better,” he mutters. “Don’t want to ruin the hardwoods.”
Nate is starting to sweat. Eliot is completely focused, concentrating utterly on the task at hand, just like he is during a job, and abruptly, Nate realizes that he is the job. “Hey, this-whatever you think you’re doing, it’s working,” he tries. “No, seriously, Eliot, no problem! That’s it, I’m done drinking . . . never touch another drop, I swear it!”
Eliot sits back on his heels and gestures with the knife, as if it’s simply an extension of his finger, pointed at Nate’s chest. “See, that’s the problem with addicts,” he says regretfully. “They’re all liars.”
“Look who’s talking!” Nate’s trying to laugh it off, and his outburst is probably ill-advised, but he can’t help it. “Christ, Eliot, do you hear yourself? We’re all liars-it’s what we do for a goddamned living!”
“Mm,” Eliot acknowledges. “True. This whole Robin Hood thing we’ve got going is a good deal . . . lets us keep our hands in the jobs, lets us do what we’re best at and lets us dick over people even worse than we are. It’s a great thing. I’m not gonna let you fuck it up for us all. So let me ask you one more time: are you gonna keep on drinkin’?”
Nate can’t really believe that Eliot is acting like this. “This is bullshit, Eliot,” he shouts. “Total fucking bullshit!”
Eliot rocks a little in his crouch and grins that disturbing grin again. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that,” he admits cheerfully. “Hold still.”
The knife flashes, and Nate doesn’t feel anything at first. Then Eliot holds up something small and bloody and announces happily, “I started easy; just your little toe this time.”
Nate howls.
He yells until his throat is raw and tears clog his sinuses. They’re more than just tears of pain, although he doesn’t want to admit it. When he finally trails off into hiccupping sobs, Eliot rolls into a kneeling position from where he’s been sitting on the floor and says thoughtfully, “More blood than I thought. You must’ve been hittin’ the bottle pretty hard lately, thinnin’ out your blood.”
Nate glances down at the blood-sodden blanket-his blood, something in his mind whispers, that’s his blood-and barely turns his head to the side fast enough to avoid spattering Eliot with the thin stream of yellow bile that he vomits.
Eliot pats his knee and says approvingly, “You remembered not to puke on me. Good man.”
He snaps on surgical gloves and gets busy with what looks like sterile gauze and the suture kit, and Nate suffers his attention in a sort of daze. The pain is a vague sense of heat and pressure now, remote in an odd sort of way but feeling as if it could become imminent and overwhelming at any second.
The distinct cracking sound of a sealed bottle opening restores to him some sense of reality, and a moment later, he catches the faint aroma of whiskey. It makes his mouth water.
“This is gonna hurt,” Eliot warns, and he sets Nate’s foot on fire.
When Nate finishes screaming, Eliot is wrapping his whiskey-soaked foot in another layer of bandages. “You’ll have to use a cane for awhile,” he says calmly. “Losing the little toe fucks with your sense of balance.”
Nate opens his mouth and then shuts it without speaking.
Eliot rises to his feet, caps the bottle, and, very deliberately, sets it within arm’s reach on the nightstand. He cuts Nate's hands free, gathers up his supplies and walks to the door, his back to the room.
“So,” Eliot says, “are you gonna keep on drinkin’?”
The door opens and shuts before Nate can decide on an answer.
He sits and stares at the bottle for a very long time.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
finis
Unbetaed, so feel free to criticize, folks.
I think I love the Write Or Die website.
Leverage, R for violence, gen. Mild spoilers for "The 12-Step Job".
Ain’t Been Sober Since Maybe October
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When Nate comes to, it’s more like returning to consciousness than actual awakening.
Something clearly died in his mouth and neglected to crawl out before doing so, and there are ice picks being driven into his skull through his eyeballs, and the last thing in the world he wants to hear is Eliot’s voice.
“I know you’re awake.”
Nate tries hard to pretend otherwise.
“Open your eyes or else I’ll pin ‘em open with toothpicks.”
Nate can’t help the instinctive flinch, and he sighs when he realizes that he’s given away the game. He squints in the direction he thinks he’ll find Eliot; startles inadvertently when the man seats himself on the other side of the bed instead.
Eliot is eating something. It sounds like chips, or something like that. When he exhales, Nate can smell Cheetos, and it makes his gorge rise.
He gags for a moment, and manages to force down the reflex.
“You puke on me, man, and I’m a-skin you alive,” Eliot informs Nate unhelpfully.
Nate swallows a few times and shakes his head. “I’m good,” he insists. “Gimme a whiskey.”
Eliot rustles a cellophane bag before he leans back on his hands and props his damned cowboy boots on Nate’s blankets. They smell like dirt and oil and God knows what-all else, and Nate musters up a feeble snarl. “Get your fucking feet off my bed,” he mutters, and it sounds weak even to his own ears. “And get me a fucking drink.”
“Now, see, that’s exactly the kind of attitude got you into the mess, ain’t it?” Eliot drawls. Nate hates that goddamned down-home accent of his.
Eliot waits for a beat, then continues, “See, the way I figure it, you’ve been havin’ yourself a real nice time, ain’t you?”
Nate yanks at a pillow and tries to smother himself. He always forgets, somehow, just how fast Eliot can move, though, and his pillow is stripped away and there is a huge motherfucking knife pressed to his throat before he has time to curse.
Eliot’s got that crazy glint in his eye, the one that just dares you to try him, because you both know that he can gut you like a landed fish and be cleaning his nails down the hall before you’ve even had time to scream.
Nate doesn’t much like being on the receiving end of that look.
The blade eases back a little, but Nate doesn’t make the mistake of thinking that Eliot’s taken pity on him or anything. He’s trying to keep calm, but his heart is racing and his breath wheezes in his throat. Eliot’s weight is surprisingly solid across his chest, knees pinning Nate’s elbows and the blankets effectively trapping his legs.
Nate’s stuck until Eliot has made his point, and they both know it.
“So,” Eliot says conversationally, as if he’s only paused to get a beer, not a giant motherfucking knife, “Sophie’s been real sweet to you, holding your hand, trying to convince herself that if you loved her enough, you’d quit drinkin’ for her. Made it real easy for you to yank her around, play on her emotions, screw with her head, didn’t it?”
Nate tries to shrug, rolls his eyes. Eliot just looks disgusted. “The others don’t know enough about addiction,” he continues. “They don’t get how you’re gonna keep fuckin’ us all over until you destroy everything. Too young, maybe, ain’t seen enough of the world yet-who knows?”
“Who . . . made you . . . their goddamn . . . babysitter,” Nate manages to gasp. He doesn’t feel the cut, only the coolness of blood seeping across his skin. He’s not stupid enough to think that Eliot was careless with the knife; he knew exactly what would happen when Nate spoke and flexed his throat against the blade. “Not . . . going back . . . to rehab.”
“I ain’t got patience for the fucking Twelve Steps,” Eliot sneers. “You got a choice, man, and you make it right now: you gonna keep on drinkin’?”
Considerately, Eliot moves the knife a hairsbreadth, so that Nate can reply. “Fuck off, Eliot, you’re not my mother, my wife, or my life coach,” he snarls viciously. “There’s only one thing you’re good at, and thinking isn’t it.”
Eliot grins as if that was exactly the answer he expected. “Yep, that’s right,” he agrees equably. “I’m real good at hurting people. And that’s what I’m gonna do to you, every time you fuck us over. So think about how much you like your body all in one piece, and I’ll ask you again: you gonna keep on drinkin’?”
Nate doesn’t even dignify that with a straight answer. “The others know what you’re up to?” he asks instead. “Who let you off the leash? You think they’re gonna back you up on whatever little intervention you’ve got going on in here?”
Eliot moves like lightning, and Nate is face down and trussed up like a hog for slaughter before he can finish the taunt. Unfortunately, it doesn’t sound as though the insult hit its mark, because Eliot is positively cheerful when he announces, “Every time you take a drink, you’re gonna lose a body part. I ain’t gonna lie to you; it’s gonna hurt like fuckin’ hell, not just when I make the cut but for weeks after.”
Nate is getting pissed off now. He insults Eliot’s parentage, personal hygiene, and sexual proclivities-all topics usually guaranteed to get a response-but Eliot just keeps on smiling as if Nate were complimenting him instead, and wrestles him into a sitting position at the edge of the bed.
It’s awkward to keep his balance with hands tied behind his back and bound feet just touching the floor, but Nate manages. If all he has left is his dignity, he sure as hell is going to hold on to it for as long as possible.
Eliot frowns, as if he’s noticed something aesthetically displeasing, and pulls free one of the blankets. He folds it over twice into a large square and carefully places it beneath Nate’s bare feet, sits back and eyes the arrangement critically. “Better,” he mutters. “Don’t want to ruin the hardwoods.”
Nate is starting to sweat. Eliot is completely focused, concentrating utterly on the task at hand, just like he is during a job, and abruptly, Nate realizes that he is the job. “Hey, this-whatever you think you’re doing, it’s working,” he tries. “No, seriously, Eliot, no problem! That’s it, I’m done drinking . . . never touch another drop, I swear it!”
Eliot sits back on his heels and gestures with the knife, as if it’s simply an extension of his finger, pointed at Nate’s chest. “See, that’s the problem with addicts,” he says regretfully. “They’re all liars.”
“Look who’s talking!” Nate’s trying to laugh it off, and his outburst is probably ill-advised, but he can’t help it. “Christ, Eliot, do you hear yourself? We’re all liars-it’s what we do for a goddamned living!”
“Mm,” Eliot acknowledges. “True. This whole Robin Hood thing we’ve got going is a good deal . . . lets us keep our hands in the jobs, lets us do what we’re best at and lets us dick over people even worse than we are. It’s a great thing. I’m not gonna let you fuck it up for us all. So let me ask you one more time: are you gonna keep on drinkin’?”
Nate can’t really believe that Eliot is acting like this. “This is bullshit, Eliot,” he shouts. “Total fucking bullshit!”
Eliot rocks a little in his crouch and grins that disturbing grin again. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that,” he admits cheerfully. “Hold still.”
The knife flashes, and Nate doesn’t feel anything at first. Then Eliot holds up something small and bloody and announces happily, “I started easy; just your little toe this time.”
Nate howls.
He yells until his throat is raw and tears clog his sinuses. They’re more than just tears of pain, although he doesn’t want to admit it. When he finally trails off into hiccupping sobs, Eliot rolls into a kneeling position from where he’s been sitting on the floor and says thoughtfully, “More blood than I thought. You must’ve been hittin’ the bottle pretty hard lately, thinnin’ out your blood.”
Nate glances down at the blood-sodden blanket-his blood, something in his mind whispers, that’s his blood-and barely turns his head to the side fast enough to avoid spattering Eliot with the thin stream of yellow bile that he vomits.
Eliot pats his knee and says approvingly, “You remembered not to puke on me. Good man.”
He snaps on surgical gloves and gets busy with what looks like sterile gauze and the suture kit, and Nate suffers his attention in a sort of daze. The pain is a vague sense of heat and pressure now, remote in an odd sort of way but feeling as if it could become imminent and overwhelming at any second.
The distinct cracking sound of a sealed bottle opening restores to him some sense of reality, and a moment later, he catches the faint aroma of whiskey. It makes his mouth water.
“This is gonna hurt,” Eliot warns, and he sets Nate’s foot on fire.
When Nate finishes screaming, Eliot is wrapping his whiskey-soaked foot in another layer of bandages. “You’ll have to use a cane for awhile,” he says calmly. “Losing the little toe fucks with your sense of balance.”
Nate opens his mouth and then shuts it without speaking.
Eliot rises to his feet, caps the bottle, and, very deliberately, sets it within arm’s reach on the nightstand. He cuts Nate's hands free, gathers up his supplies and walks to the door, his back to the room.
“So,” Eliot says, “are you gonna keep on drinkin’?”
The door opens and shuts before Nate can decide on an answer.
He sits and stares at the bottle for a very long time.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
finis
Unbetaed, so feel free to criticize, folks.