For deadlyrabbit
Title: A Seduction in Nine Slow Steps
Recipient: deadlyrabbit
Author: countingmagpies
Pairing: Walter x Henry
I suspect this isn't quite what you wanted. I made it as cute as i could, i promise!
~~~~~
01. There’s movement behind him, and Henry tries his level best not to tense up when he hears footsteps moving stealthily towards him, when he feels pressure and heat against his back. Hands come up to grip his shoulders, warm and large, a chin tucks carefully against his neck.
“What do you want, Walter?” Henry is proud of how his voice doesn’t crack, how very, very brave he sounds, even if it’s just an act. He tries to keep his hands moving, constructing sandwiches with just a bit less precision than before, now that his hands have begun to tremble, just slightly. Not enough for a normal person to notice, so of course Walter does; trails his hands down Henry’s arms to grasp them. Pull them around to trap Henry in a hug.
“You’re shaking. Why?” Walter sounds as though he genuinely doesn’t know; voice low and lost, making shame and guilt curl hot in Henry’s chest. So Henry complies, leans back against Walter’s larger frame, and tilts his head to the side to allow Walter to kiss chastely along his jaw-line, the curve of his throat, his scars. Walter is always gentle, except when he isn’t.
02. He’s spent an eternity here already, glancing quick and shameful at his unchained door, tracing his fingers over scars perpetually hardly healed. He goes about his routine the same way he had for years before he’d ever gotten caught up in nightmares and killers and Walter, a perpetual recluse. Sometimes, he lets himself miss people: his mother and his father (he’d never liked them when he was still alive), Mr. Sunderland (who had always been so fair, had forgiven his late rent), Eileen (he knows now that they could never have had something).
03. Some things have changed, now that he’s not alive anymore. He doesn’t need to eat, sleep, shave, all the things he used to need to do. He still does them, more out of force of habit than anything else.
Some things have changed. He’s not capable of leaving the apartment without Walter to guide him, although Walter is always more than happy to drop everything and take Henry out if he asks. It’s almost like Walter enjoys showing off his world to Henry, playing at being the host (though Henry secretly doubts that Walter enjoys anything).
04. When they do go out, it’s unnervingly like a date (but then, everything Walter does is disturbingly romantic). Walter slips his hand into Henry’s, leads him to explore every corner of his tiny universe. Laughs like a child, bright and carefree. Henry watches him, feeling detached, vaguely jealous. Why is Walter, who killed so many, allowed to be so happy when Henry couldn’t be?
05. Henry doesn’t bleed, anymore. He knows this, because he just put his fist through the bathroom mirror, too filled up with impotent rage and cutting self-loathing to care. He thinks knows that if he had been better, stronger, smarter, he could have saved Eileen. He could have been a hero, if he was allowed.
Henry has accepted his eternity with Walter. It is his hell, his punishment for not being good enough.
06. Henry still looks back on the Mirror Incident with self-hatred and embarrassment. In the end, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. His hand had been cut up pretty badly, and although it didn’t bleed, it still hurt. He had bandaged it up as best he could, and settled down to watch some television, distracted by his black mood and his aching hand.
Walter had been in the bedroom, talking with his mother, as he was wont to do sometimes. When he came out, he seemed to immediately deduce that something was wrong. His eyes had moved unfailingly to the clumsy bandage, and, almost faster than Henry could track, he had moved to Henry’s side, settling warm and heavy against Henry on the small loveseat.
“Oh, my dear Receiver, what have you done?” He isn’t angry, like Henry would have expected him to be. Instead he is the perfect portrait of concern, carefully removing the bandages to assess the damage Henry had done to himself.
When Walter raises his gaze to meet Henry’s, Henry flinches. It’s too intense for him, being pinned in place by Walter electric grey-green eyes. He can’t look away.
Refusing to break eye-contact, Walter raises Henry’s knuckles to his mouth, presses a gentle kiss to the broken skin. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt, feels good, in point of fact. It makes his heart race, his breath come quicker, this combination of sinister eyes and gentle affection threatening to overwhelm him.
Letting Henry’s hand drop back into his lap, Walter rises smoothly off of the couch. He smiles apologetically, and takes his leave. Henry wants to call after him, make him explain himself, but he doesn’t. The moment passes.
07. “I love you.” Henry jerks away violently, falling half off of the loveseat. There are a lot of things that Henry lets Walter do (because he’s so, so afraid of him), but that is definitely not one of them. He’s already flushed with a strange mixture of shame and hunger, has already let Walter do whatever he wants, let him hold him, pet him, kiss him without complaint. He’s already flirted shamefully with ideas of being able to love touch somebody, anybody, even (especially) if it’s Walter. Those words will be the unraveling of his resolve, because here, in Henry’s hell, there isn’t anybody but Walter to say things like that to him.
08. “I love you.” Henry flinches, curls closer, tears threatening to humiliate him, trying desperately to hide his embarrassment. He clutches at Walter’s jacket, buries his face in the crook of Walter’s neck. He wants to touch someone, anyone, wants to cuddle in and drink up the heat of another person. He wants to feel something, after so very, very long as nothing but a corpse. Most of all, he wants to pretend that Walter didn’t just say that.
09. “I love you.” Henry lets out a half-sob, trying to compose himself before replying, “I love you too.”
Recipient: deadlyrabbit
Author: countingmagpies
Pairing: Walter x Henry
I suspect this isn't quite what you wanted. I made it as cute as i could, i promise!
~~~~~
01. There’s movement behind him, and Henry tries his level best not to tense up when he hears footsteps moving stealthily towards him, when he feels pressure and heat against his back. Hands come up to grip his shoulders, warm and large, a chin tucks carefully against his neck.
“What do you want, Walter?” Henry is proud of how his voice doesn’t crack, how very, very brave he sounds, even if it’s just an act. He tries to keep his hands moving, constructing sandwiches with just a bit less precision than before, now that his hands have begun to tremble, just slightly. Not enough for a normal person to notice, so of course Walter does; trails his hands down Henry’s arms to grasp them. Pull them around to trap Henry in a hug.
“You’re shaking. Why?” Walter sounds as though he genuinely doesn’t know; voice low and lost, making shame and guilt curl hot in Henry’s chest. So Henry complies, leans back against Walter’s larger frame, and tilts his head to the side to allow Walter to kiss chastely along his jaw-line, the curve of his throat, his scars. Walter is always gentle, except when he isn’t.
02. He’s spent an eternity here already, glancing quick and shameful at his unchained door, tracing his fingers over scars perpetually hardly healed. He goes about his routine the same way he had for years before he’d ever gotten caught up in nightmares and killers and Walter, a perpetual recluse. Sometimes, he lets himself miss people: his mother and his father (he’d never liked them when he was still alive), Mr. Sunderland (who had always been so fair, had forgiven his late rent), Eileen (he knows now that they could never have had something).
03. Some things have changed, now that he’s not alive anymore. He doesn’t need to eat, sleep, shave, all the things he used to need to do. He still does them, more out of force of habit than anything else.
Some things have changed. He’s not capable of leaving the apartment without Walter to guide him, although Walter is always more than happy to drop everything and take Henry out if he asks. It’s almost like Walter enjoys showing off his world to Henry, playing at being the host (though Henry secretly doubts that Walter enjoys anything).
04. When they do go out, it’s unnervingly like a date (but then, everything Walter does is disturbingly romantic). Walter slips his hand into Henry’s, leads him to explore every corner of his tiny universe. Laughs like a child, bright and carefree. Henry watches him, feeling detached, vaguely jealous. Why is Walter, who killed so many, allowed to be so happy when Henry couldn’t be?
05. Henry doesn’t bleed, anymore. He knows this, because he just put his fist through the bathroom mirror, too filled up with impotent rage and cutting self-loathing to care. He thinks knows that if he had been better, stronger, smarter, he could have saved Eileen. He could have been a hero, if he was allowed.
Henry has accepted his eternity with Walter. It is his hell, his punishment for not being good enough.
06. Henry still looks back on the Mirror Incident with self-hatred and embarrassment. In the end, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. His hand had been cut up pretty badly, and although it didn’t bleed, it still hurt. He had bandaged it up as best he could, and settled down to watch some television, distracted by his black mood and his aching hand.
Walter had been in the bedroom, talking with his mother, as he was wont to do sometimes. When he came out, he seemed to immediately deduce that something was wrong. His eyes had moved unfailingly to the clumsy bandage, and, almost faster than Henry could track, he had moved to Henry’s side, settling warm and heavy against Henry on the small loveseat.
“Oh, my dear Receiver, what have you done?” He isn’t angry, like Henry would have expected him to be. Instead he is the perfect portrait of concern, carefully removing the bandages to assess the damage Henry had done to himself.
When Walter raises his gaze to meet Henry’s, Henry flinches. It’s too intense for him, being pinned in place by Walter electric grey-green eyes. He can’t look away.
Refusing to break eye-contact, Walter raises Henry’s knuckles to his mouth, presses a gentle kiss to the broken skin. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt, feels good, in point of fact. It makes his heart race, his breath come quicker, this combination of sinister eyes and gentle affection threatening to overwhelm him.
Letting Henry’s hand drop back into his lap, Walter rises smoothly off of the couch. He smiles apologetically, and takes his leave. Henry wants to call after him, make him explain himself, but he doesn’t. The moment passes.
07. “I love you.” Henry jerks away violently, falling half off of the loveseat. There are a lot of things that Henry lets Walter do (because he’s so, so afraid of him), but that is definitely not one of them. He’s already flushed with a strange mixture of shame and hunger, has already let Walter do whatever he wants, let him hold him, pet him, kiss him without complaint. He’s already flirted shamefully with ideas of being able to love touch somebody, anybody, even (especially) if it’s Walter. Those words will be the unraveling of his resolve, because here, in Henry’s hell, there isn’t anybody but Walter to say things like that to him.
08. “I love you.” Henry flinches, curls closer, tears threatening to humiliate him, trying desperately to hide his embarrassment. He clutches at Walter’s jacket, buries his face in the crook of Walter’s neck. He wants to touch someone, anyone, wants to cuddle in and drink up the heat of another person. He wants to feel something, after so very, very long as nothing but a corpse. Most of all, he wants to pretend that Walter didn’t just say that.
09. “I love you.” Henry lets out a half-sob, trying to compose himself before replying, “I love you too.”