It's metatastic!
So jumpthesnark made the first brave step into the world of fanfic squared and then apiphile said I could play too and, look, I just really really really needed to write something in this freaky 'verse, okay? *flees*
Title: Creeps
Rating: PG, allegedly
Fandom: Bandom, Weekfight Hotel AU by apiphile and swear_jar. READ IT, GUYS.
Warnings: Blurd
Words: 1300
Pete likes things that scare the hell out of him.
He’s not an adrenaline junkie. That’s cheap thrills and safety harnesses, and Pete’s always been smart enough to understand the difference between real danger and just playing. Despite what you might hear from Patrick.
It’s the reason that he loves getting up in Patrick’s space, pressing and pressing right up to and past the final warning, finding Patrick’s limits and giving him a shove… That’s the dictionary definition of real fucking danger for you.
Real danger is climbing into the cage with dudes an entire foot bigger than him, all eyelinered up with his hair just perfect, hoping that the look of him gets them even more pissed off so that the part where he gets to take them to pieces is even sweeter. Even harder earned. Pete lives for that shit.
His body’s never been as finicky as his mind, and the feeling of ‘Oh fuck, I’m going to die’ is generally as good as sex, in a sideways kind of way. Heart thumping, knees gone tingly weak, adrenaline pounding through him…
(Okay, maybe he’s a little bit of an adrenaline junkie too.)
Anyway, Pete likes the intense do-or-die red-and-black things in life, and it’s the reason that he’s leaning in this particularly doorway, trying to ignore the rising smell and the muffled sounds (crunch-squelch) and mentally calculating how far into the room he can get before he’s noticed this time.
One step in, being careful with his sneakers on the tile floor, he imagines that he can feel his pupils dilate. Like hunting, like fighting, like sex. Two steps. Three steps in, a personal record, and he’s half hard already…
It’s Game Over if he gets his kneecaps shot off. He’s still undecided as to whether that would mean he’s won or lost though.
Four steps.
“Hey, Pete,” says Mikey, without looking up or turning around.
Well, fuck.
“Hi,” says Pete. “How’d you know it was me?”
“Um.” Mikey taps his gloved finger against the side of the specimen tray at his elbow, leaving a dark red print. “Reflection. You were really quiet though. Better than last time.”
Pete considers thanking him, but he’s lost Mikey’s attention already. (Crunch-squelch.) He wanders over, his muscles all weird and wobbly, as disappointed as he is with all that build up and no kaboom. He grimaces at Mikey’s current entertainment, which is drip-dripping from the side of the table and oozing towards the drain in the center of the floor.
“Wow. Having fun there?”
Mikey twitches his bony shoulders in a shrug. “I guess so. There wasn’t anything else to do around here.”
In any other circumstances, Pete would be right there with an innuendo, but Mikey’s bending close to remove an eye, and it seems a little inopportune. Even for him.
Outside of the hotel, it’s easy to forget that Mikey does this sort of thing for kicks. They’ll be driving to a job, or Patrick’ll be in a snit, or Pete will be stuck on recon again (bane of his fucking existence) and he’ll inevitably get chatting with Mikey on his phone, almost-flirting over text for a couple hours. And in a world of emoticons and 140-character interactions, sometimes Pete forgets that when it comes to Mikey, those sideways smilies aren’t attached to anything tangible.
“Who was he?” Pete asks, because the face is too far gone for Pete to tell and because Andy will probably want to know. Nobody can say that he hasn’t got his guys’ best interests in mind.
“Dunno. Nobody. Gee just said I could play.” Mikey sits back, rubbing his sticky fingers together. The latex gloves make small squeaky noises and nobody should look that fucking pretty with vitreous humor running down their wrist like a snail trail. “You know, I thought I was going to be a doctor when I was little. You know?”
“I wanted to be a soccer star,” Pete volunteers.
The index finger of the corpse’s right hand is torn off at the first knuckle, white nub of bone peeking through flaps of peeled-back flesh, but the remaining digits are untouched where Mikey evidently lost interest. Pete’s own hands ache and he has to look at Mikey instead.
“I lost my bone saw,” Mikey says by way of explanation, poking his lower lip out in a pout. (Pete has listened to Joe expound at length about the creepiness of Mikey’s lack of expressions. Frankly, Pete finds it more disturbing when the guy tries. He gets the impression Mikey practices in a mirror. His heart… among other parts… is going kind of hard again.)
“Maybe Santa’ll bring you a new one for Christmas,” Pete says, “If you’re really good.”
Mikey appears to give the matter serious consideration, forgetting to blink. “Maybe.” There’s a horizontal spattering of red cutting across the sharp angle of Mikey’s chin and up into his dangling hair where something has… sprayed.
“You’ve got blood on your chin,” Pete says, and reaches towards Mikey’s face in slow motion, making sure to telegraph the movement.
He pretty much fucking levitates when his phone buzzes suddenly and violently in his pocket. “Jesus fuck.”
“Phone,” Mikey offers helpfully, turning back to the steel table and picking up his scalpel again. (Sometimes Pete thinks maybe Mikey does have a sense of humor buried in there somewhere. Mind you, he also thinks he’s seen the guy smile at him, so maybe Pete just has an overactive imagination. )
“What the hell,” Patrick says in snappish greeting, “Where’d you go?”
“Were you worried, Pattycakes?” Pete croons. Even though, given the location, it isn’t exactly funny. There are more than a couple of people around here that Pete knows would just love to find him alone, for not-so-fun reasons. He probably should be more careful. “I just wanted to say hi to Mikey.”
Patrick manages to convey a disapproving frown right over the fuzzy phone connection. It’s a neat trick.
“We were going to stick together,” Patrick reminds him, his voice all bitchy with exasperated concern.
From the table, there’s the unmistakable rasp of blade on bone and a mumbled curse. Mikey would never ever have made it as a doctor. Pete’s not going to be the one to tell him that.
“Pete?” Patrick says in his ear, more alarm than annoyance now. Knowing Patrick, he probably thinks Mikey took advantage of his distraction and, like, ate his eyeballs or whatever. (But Pete also knows the different between danger and plain stupidity. It’s not like he’d try any of this shit if Mikey were bored.)
“I’ll be back up in five,” Pete assures him.
“Be careful. Don’t be a fucking dumbass,” Patrick grumbles, and hangs up on him. Aww. Patrick totally loves him.
“Guess I gotta run.” Pete shoves his phone back in his pocket. “See you around, Mikeyway?”
“Mmhm,” says Mikey, bent low over the table, hands busy. “At the fight tonight. You should come say hi again.”
“Sure I will,” lies Pete. (Frank’s not on the bill tonight, so he’ll be skulking around in the Ways’ vicinity and Pete doesn’t really feel like inflicting Eye-Ear-Oh’s nerve-grating grin on himself, not even for Mikey’s sake.) “Later, dude.”
In the hallway, Pete blows his bangs out of his eyes and snorts the thick animal stink out of his nose, starting to jog as he heads topside again, to Patrick and the guys and natural light. Running helps shake off the heebie-jeebies, the residual twisted arousal. Man, he’s got to help Mikey find some better hobbies. Maybe he could bring him some more comics next time, or a nice gory video game with buckets of blood of the pixilated variety…
But Patrick shouldn’t worry, not really. Pete knows what he’s doing here as much as he ever has.
Title: Creeps
Rating: PG, allegedly
Fandom: Bandom, Weekfight Hotel AU by apiphile and swear_jar. READ IT, GUYS.
Warnings: Blurd
Words: 1300
Pete likes things that scare the hell out of him.
He’s not an adrenaline junkie. That’s cheap thrills and safety harnesses, and Pete’s always been smart enough to understand the difference between real danger and just playing. Despite what you might hear from Patrick.
It’s the reason that he loves getting up in Patrick’s space, pressing and pressing right up to and past the final warning, finding Patrick’s limits and giving him a shove… That’s the dictionary definition of real fucking danger for you.
Real danger is climbing into the cage with dudes an entire foot bigger than him, all eyelinered up with his hair just perfect, hoping that the look of him gets them even more pissed off so that the part where he gets to take them to pieces is even sweeter. Even harder earned. Pete lives for that shit.
His body’s never been as finicky as his mind, and the feeling of ‘Oh fuck, I’m going to die’ is generally as good as sex, in a sideways kind of way. Heart thumping, knees gone tingly weak, adrenaline pounding through him…
(Okay, maybe he’s a little bit of an adrenaline junkie too.)
Anyway, Pete likes the intense do-or-die red-and-black things in life, and it’s the reason that he’s leaning in this particularly doorway, trying to ignore the rising smell and the muffled sounds (crunch-squelch) and mentally calculating how far into the room he can get before he’s noticed this time.
One step in, being careful with his sneakers on the tile floor, he imagines that he can feel his pupils dilate. Like hunting, like fighting, like sex. Two steps. Three steps in, a personal record, and he’s half hard already…
It’s Game Over if he gets his kneecaps shot off. He’s still undecided as to whether that would mean he’s won or lost though.
Four steps.
“Hey, Pete,” says Mikey, without looking up or turning around.
Well, fuck.
“Hi,” says Pete. “How’d you know it was me?”
“Um.” Mikey taps his gloved finger against the side of the specimen tray at his elbow, leaving a dark red print. “Reflection. You were really quiet though. Better than last time.”
Pete considers thanking him, but he’s lost Mikey’s attention already. (Crunch-squelch.) He wanders over, his muscles all weird and wobbly, as disappointed as he is with all that build up and no kaboom. He grimaces at Mikey’s current entertainment, which is drip-dripping from the side of the table and oozing towards the drain in the center of the floor.
“Wow. Having fun there?”
Mikey twitches his bony shoulders in a shrug. “I guess so. There wasn’t anything else to do around here.”
In any other circumstances, Pete would be right there with an innuendo, but Mikey’s bending close to remove an eye, and it seems a little inopportune. Even for him.
Outside of the hotel, it’s easy to forget that Mikey does this sort of thing for kicks. They’ll be driving to a job, or Patrick’ll be in a snit, or Pete will be stuck on recon again (bane of his fucking existence) and he’ll inevitably get chatting with Mikey on his phone, almost-flirting over text for a couple hours. And in a world of emoticons and 140-character interactions, sometimes Pete forgets that when it comes to Mikey, those sideways smilies aren’t attached to anything tangible.
“Who was he?” Pete asks, because the face is too far gone for Pete to tell and because Andy will probably want to know. Nobody can say that he hasn’t got his guys’ best interests in mind.
“Dunno. Nobody. Gee just said I could play.” Mikey sits back, rubbing his sticky fingers together. The latex gloves make small squeaky noises and nobody should look that fucking pretty with vitreous humor running down their wrist like a snail trail. “You know, I thought I was going to be a doctor when I was little. You know?”
“I wanted to be a soccer star,” Pete volunteers.
The index finger of the corpse’s right hand is torn off at the first knuckle, white nub of bone peeking through flaps of peeled-back flesh, but the remaining digits are untouched where Mikey evidently lost interest. Pete’s own hands ache and he has to look at Mikey instead.
“I lost my bone saw,” Mikey says by way of explanation, poking his lower lip out in a pout. (Pete has listened to Joe expound at length about the creepiness of Mikey’s lack of expressions. Frankly, Pete finds it more disturbing when the guy tries. He gets the impression Mikey practices in a mirror. His heart… among other parts… is going kind of hard again.)
“Maybe Santa’ll bring you a new one for Christmas,” Pete says, “If you’re really good.”
Mikey appears to give the matter serious consideration, forgetting to blink. “Maybe.” There’s a horizontal spattering of red cutting across the sharp angle of Mikey’s chin and up into his dangling hair where something has… sprayed.
“You’ve got blood on your chin,” Pete says, and reaches towards Mikey’s face in slow motion, making sure to telegraph the movement.
He pretty much fucking levitates when his phone buzzes suddenly and violently in his pocket. “Jesus fuck.”
“Phone,” Mikey offers helpfully, turning back to the steel table and picking up his scalpel again. (Sometimes Pete thinks maybe Mikey does have a sense of humor buried in there somewhere. Mind you, he also thinks he’s seen the guy smile at him, so maybe Pete just has an overactive imagination. )
“What the hell,” Patrick says in snappish greeting, “Where’d you go?”
“Were you worried, Pattycakes?” Pete croons. Even though, given the location, it isn’t exactly funny. There are more than a couple of people around here that Pete knows would just love to find him alone, for not-so-fun reasons. He probably should be more careful. “I just wanted to say hi to Mikey.”
Patrick manages to convey a disapproving frown right over the fuzzy phone connection. It’s a neat trick.
“We were going to stick together,” Patrick reminds him, his voice all bitchy with exasperated concern.
From the table, there’s the unmistakable rasp of blade on bone and a mumbled curse. Mikey would never ever have made it as a doctor. Pete’s not going to be the one to tell him that.
“Pete?” Patrick says in his ear, more alarm than annoyance now. Knowing Patrick, he probably thinks Mikey took advantage of his distraction and, like, ate his eyeballs or whatever. (But Pete also knows the different between danger and plain stupidity. It’s not like he’d try any of this shit if Mikey were bored.)
“I’ll be back up in five,” Pete assures him.
“Be careful. Don’t be a fucking dumbass,” Patrick grumbles, and hangs up on him. Aww. Patrick totally loves him.
“Guess I gotta run.” Pete shoves his phone back in his pocket. “See you around, Mikeyway?”
“Mmhm,” says Mikey, bent low over the table, hands busy. “At the fight tonight. You should come say hi again.”
“Sure I will,” lies Pete. (Frank’s not on the bill tonight, so he’ll be skulking around in the Ways’ vicinity and Pete doesn’t really feel like inflicting Eye-Ear-Oh’s nerve-grating grin on himself, not even for Mikey’s sake.) “Later, dude.”
In the hallway, Pete blows his bangs out of his eyes and snorts the thick animal stink out of his nose, starting to jog as he heads topside again, to Patrick and the guys and natural light. Running helps shake off the heebie-jeebies, the residual twisted arousal. Man, he’s got to help Mikey find some better hobbies. Maybe he could bring him some more comics next time, or a nice gory video game with buckets of blood of the pixilated variety…
But Patrick shouldn’t worry, not really. Pete knows what he’s doing here as much as he ever has.