I Only Dream of Thunder
Title: Don't Be Scared, Pet
Word Count: 1103
Note: This is an AU piece written from Crux's perspective. Spoiler for Goat's real name.
Exactly forty-seven seconds pass before I hear his footsteps on the stairs.
“The fuck are you doing here?” he snarls. I can smell blood on him, feel his eyes drill between my shoulders as I carefully center a white rook in front of me.
“Sit down,” I tell him. I can almost hear his blood boiling. “We need to talk.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” But he comes into the room. He circles the table, looks down at me. He’s got a length of blood-painted pipe in his hand, which explains the water dripping through the ceiling in the kitchen. We stare at each other a long moment. I don’t ask where the blood came from. The list is short, at this point.
“You’ve either got balls of steel, or you’re fucking stupid.” He’s grinning that Judas grin. “What do you want?”
“I want you to sit down.”
“Don’t need to sit to talk.”
“No, but you need to sit down to play.”
He’s irritating me, and he knows it. His smile is a challenge, a dare. I wonder how good his memory is, if he can recall those first days after the thunder. Probably not. Or if he does, he obviously doesn’t think it matters, now.
“Alright, pet, I’ll play with you,” he slurs, and drops into the seat across from me. The pipe thumps to the wet carpet, leaves blood across the plush fibres like paint. He twists the black figures, rubs his fingers across them, scratches his nails on the board. “What is this?” he asks, inspecting the crusted brown that comes back on his fingernails.
“Blood,” I reply.
“Oreo’s?”
I look up at him, smile. The expression feels so unfamiliar.
“So you did know,” I say. His smile falters, a rapid facial twitch, and he laughs.
“Maybe.” His eyes are peeling the skin from my face. “Don’t much matter now, though.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“That what this is all about? You pissed about Oreo?”
“No. What makes you think I’m angry?”
His smile falls away completely now, like a piece of art tumbling from the wall. His fists clench, knuckles pop. I can see his shoulders tense, feel the table shift slightly as his legs bump it.
“The kind of fucking game you playing?” he asks.
“Chess,” I tell him. “Or I would be, if you would make a move.”
It seems to flip a switch in him, the intentionally vague responses and the uncomfortable smile on my face.
“Fuck you!” His face flushes with rage and he shoves his chair back, making the table lurch and several of the pieces fall over. I have to lean to catch a black bishop before it hits the floor. “You and your fucking headgames!” He snatches the pipe from the carpet and lunges to his feet. “I should bash your fucking -”
“You should sit down,” I say softly, gently replacing the bishop and centering the jostled pieces, “before I lose my patience.”
“That so?” He’s bouncing from foot to foot now, eager for a fight. “Making you upset?” He kicks the table, his booted foot sending the wobbly piece of furniture flying across the room, chess pieces bouncing off the wall and sofa before raining to the floor. I’m left sitting at my chair, staring at the empty space in front of me until he butts my chin with the end of the pipe. “How’s your patience now, pet?”
“Suffering drastically,” I tell him.
“Get on your fucking feet.”
I obey out of an odd curiosity, a comical desire to see how it will play out. I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek and feel a ridge of scar tissue, nagging and distracting.
We’re almost the same height, now. I wonder if he notices.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” he says, already shaking from adrenaline. “Since that first day, I’ve been waiting, but you always had your fucking psycho boyfriend there to protect you.”
I start to laugh. I can’t help it. The buzzing in my skin has turned to a painful sting and it makes my vision swim, makes me feel dizzy and almost giddy, and the whole situation just suddenly feels completely hilarious. He’s standing not three feet away and fully intends to beat me to death and it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.
“You stupid fucking child,” I hear myself say through the laughter, my voice taking on the gruffness and uncomfortable rasp from the first day I set foot in this place. He doesn’t seem to notice that, either. “He was protecting you.”
The pipe parts the air a fraction of an inch from my face with such force that Goat’s thrown off balance by the swing, nearly falling to the floor.
“You missed,” I point out as he gains his feet, his bewildered eyes flicking from me to the pipe in his hand. He snarls and swings again, and I close my eyes out of reflex even though I already know he’ll miss. The surge of heat under my skin is like an internal victory cry. The corners of my mouth sting and I can taste blood on my lips.
“The fuck?!” he cries, confused. Another wide arc, this time aimed dead center at my ribs, skims my jacket. He takes a step back and scrubs his eyes with the back of one hand. “Why can’t I hit you?!” Frustration and the raw beginnings of fear. That didn’t take much.
“Don’t be scared, pet,” I tell him in the kindest voice I can muster. It comes out like sandpaper. “You can keep trying, if it makes you feel better.”
He keeps trying, and keeps missing. Every wide shot makes him stagger back in disbelief, and I pace his steps until he hits the wall.
“Get the fuck away from me!” he screams, dropping the pipe to flail at me with his bare hands. I step around his fists and press my hand to his mouth to silence him. With just the slightest pressure, my fingers open a wide trench in his lips and blood pours down his chin.
“Shh,” I soothe, the rasp in my throat fading. I bring my free hand up and curl my fingers into a gun shape, much the same as every night at dinner, sniping a giggling Tiny from across the table, and press the barrel into his temple. His eyes widen, tears pooling, but he’s too terrified to struggle, to even breathe.
They are always so beautiful when they’re like this.
“Time to go home, Philip,” I tell him, and pull the trigger.
Word Count: 1103
Note: This is an AU piece written from Crux's perspective. Spoiler for Goat's real name.
Exactly forty-seven seconds pass before I hear his footsteps on the stairs.
“The fuck are you doing here?” he snarls. I can smell blood on him, feel his eyes drill between my shoulders as I carefully center a white rook in front of me.
“Sit down,” I tell him. I can almost hear his blood boiling. “We need to talk.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” But he comes into the room. He circles the table, looks down at me. He’s got a length of blood-painted pipe in his hand, which explains the water dripping through the ceiling in the kitchen. We stare at each other a long moment. I don’t ask where the blood came from. The list is short, at this point.
“You’ve either got balls of steel, or you’re fucking stupid.” He’s grinning that Judas grin. “What do you want?”
“I want you to sit down.”
“Don’t need to sit to talk.”
“No, but you need to sit down to play.”
He’s irritating me, and he knows it. His smile is a challenge, a dare. I wonder how good his memory is, if he can recall those first days after the thunder. Probably not. Or if he does, he obviously doesn’t think it matters, now.
“Alright, pet, I’ll play with you,” he slurs, and drops into the seat across from me. The pipe thumps to the wet carpet, leaves blood across the plush fibres like paint. He twists the black figures, rubs his fingers across them, scratches his nails on the board. “What is this?” he asks, inspecting the crusted brown that comes back on his fingernails.
“Blood,” I reply.
“Oreo’s?”
I look up at him, smile. The expression feels so unfamiliar.
“So you did know,” I say. His smile falters, a rapid facial twitch, and he laughs.
“Maybe.” His eyes are peeling the skin from my face. “Don’t much matter now, though.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“That what this is all about? You pissed about Oreo?”
“No. What makes you think I’m angry?”
His smile falls away completely now, like a piece of art tumbling from the wall. His fists clench, knuckles pop. I can see his shoulders tense, feel the table shift slightly as his legs bump it.
“The kind of fucking game you playing?” he asks.
“Chess,” I tell him. “Or I would be, if you would make a move.”
It seems to flip a switch in him, the intentionally vague responses and the uncomfortable smile on my face.
“Fuck you!” His face flushes with rage and he shoves his chair back, making the table lurch and several of the pieces fall over. I have to lean to catch a black bishop before it hits the floor. “You and your fucking headgames!” He snatches the pipe from the carpet and lunges to his feet. “I should bash your fucking -”
“You should sit down,” I say softly, gently replacing the bishop and centering the jostled pieces, “before I lose my patience.”
“That so?” He’s bouncing from foot to foot now, eager for a fight. “Making you upset?” He kicks the table, his booted foot sending the wobbly piece of furniture flying across the room, chess pieces bouncing off the wall and sofa before raining to the floor. I’m left sitting at my chair, staring at the empty space in front of me until he butts my chin with the end of the pipe. “How’s your patience now, pet?”
“Suffering drastically,” I tell him.
“Get on your fucking feet.”
I obey out of an odd curiosity, a comical desire to see how it will play out. I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek and feel a ridge of scar tissue, nagging and distracting.
We’re almost the same height, now. I wonder if he notices.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” he says, already shaking from adrenaline. “Since that first day, I’ve been waiting, but you always had your fucking psycho boyfriend there to protect you.”
I start to laugh. I can’t help it. The buzzing in my skin has turned to a painful sting and it makes my vision swim, makes me feel dizzy and almost giddy, and the whole situation just suddenly feels completely hilarious. He’s standing not three feet away and fully intends to beat me to death and it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.
“You stupid fucking child,” I hear myself say through the laughter, my voice taking on the gruffness and uncomfortable rasp from the first day I set foot in this place. He doesn’t seem to notice that, either. “He was protecting you.”
The pipe parts the air a fraction of an inch from my face with such force that Goat’s thrown off balance by the swing, nearly falling to the floor.
“You missed,” I point out as he gains his feet, his bewildered eyes flicking from me to the pipe in his hand. He snarls and swings again, and I close my eyes out of reflex even though I already know he’ll miss. The surge of heat under my skin is like an internal victory cry. The corners of my mouth sting and I can taste blood on my lips.
“The fuck?!” he cries, confused. Another wide arc, this time aimed dead center at my ribs, skims my jacket. He takes a step back and scrubs his eyes with the back of one hand. “Why can’t I hit you?!” Frustration and the raw beginnings of fear. That didn’t take much.
“Don’t be scared, pet,” I tell him in the kindest voice I can muster. It comes out like sandpaper. “You can keep trying, if it makes you feel better.”
He keeps trying, and keeps missing. Every wide shot makes him stagger back in disbelief, and I pace his steps until he hits the wall.
“Get the fuck away from me!” he screams, dropping the pipe to flail at me with his bare hands. I step around his fists and press my hand to his mouth to silence him. With just the slightest pressure, my fingers open a wide trench in his lips and blood pours down his chin.
“Shh,” I soothe, the rasp in my throat fading. I bring my free hand up and curl my fingers into a gun shape, much the same as every night at dinner, sniping a giggling Tiny from across the table, and press the barrel into his temple. His eyes widen, tears pooling, but he’s too terrified to struggle, to even breathe.
They are always so beautiful when they’re like this.
“Time to go home, Philip,” I tell him, and pull the trigger.