A/N: So Dylan decided to take a leaf out of Norman's book and go a little crazy, and then Remo decided to get creepy. And this happened.
Warning for: Remo/Dylan, hate sex, mentions of past domestic/child abuse (and lightly implied PTSD), language, consent issues like whoa. Basically, Remo is a major creep and Dylan needs therapy.
Set at a somewhat ambiguous time after 1x09. Title comes from a line in 'Look Around' by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Working with Remo is as unpleasant as it usually is.
Today, at least, there aren't many barbed insults or veiled threats; the nastiest Remo gets is when he asks if Dylan is "fucking the Martin girl". Dylan doesn't dignify that with an answer, because a) he hasn't fucked Bradley yet and b) he doesn't want to give Remo anything else to hold over him. If Remo wants to think that Dylan's sleeping with Bradley, more power to him. Dylan will suffer in silence and let Remo have his little power trip if it means he won't say anything to Gil.
Still, just because Remo isn't openly harassing Dylan doesn't mean he's not giving Dylan dirty looks every five minutes or so. Dirty little looks that are a heated mixture of resentment and something else, something sort of primal; Dylan assumes it's anger, or jealousy, laced in Remo's murky hazel eyes. Dylan doesn't say anything, though, and he pretends that catching Remo staring at him doesn't make his own insides burn hot. He catches himself thinking back often to that night in California, when they'd fought in the bar – he remembers the frustration, the anger, the need to hurt and be hurt that had welled up in him as he'd wrestled with Remo on the floor. He feels flickers of that lust for violence every time their eyes meet, and he's not sure what the feeling means, but he knows he doesn't trust it one damn bit.
Dylan can't stand to be around Remo for any longer than he has to be, so he settles on the cot in the tent, leaving Remo to sit out near the field and mow through a six-pack while he watches the sun move in the sky, or whatever the hell he's looking at. It's times like this that Dylan misses Ethan – misses him with the kind of wistfulness that you miss your only actual friend with. They'd spend long days like this talking, or playing cards and drinking games. Remo just sits and stews in his own misery – unless he's bitching at Dylan, of course.
Dylan's avoiding Remo, and Remo's shit for company anyways – but that doesn't mean Dylan isn't bored. But there's nothing to do out here except stare at the pot plants or get drunk, and Dylan has no one to text or call to break up the monotony. He goes through half a pack of cigarettes in no time at all, chain-smoking and listlessly watching smoke drift through the air before fading into nothingness. It's not really a surprise that he ends up falling asleep, although he doesn't really mean to.
Sleep has never been Dylan's friend – there's been many a night when he's had to get wasted just to be able to black out for a while – so when he does manage to fall asleep, he crashes. He dreams a lot (of Norma and Norman and all the years he's wasted, mostly), but today is not one of those days. Dylan sleeps hard, but he still possesses the ability to snap awake at the drop of a hat; it's a habit he learned in childhood, when a slightly raised tone echoing down a hallway meant that all hell was about to break loose. That's another thing he dreams of a lot – he still wakes up sometimes covered in sweat, positive that Sam's choking Norma in the next room. It takes a long time after he wakes up from those dreams to remember that it's not real, and even longer to convince himself that he doesn't care (and that he never did.)
Sam is the first thing Dylan thinks of when he's jerked out of his sleep; it's a full on god-damn Pavlovian response. His body tenses and his face screws up before he's even fully conscious, and he's already expecting a blow, but none comes. It takes him a second, though, before he's capable of relaxing the muscles in his face well enough to open his eyes. When he does, he sees that it's Remo standing over him and gripping his arm hard enough to bruise – it's not Sam, because Sam is dead and that's fucking crazy, calm down, fuck, Jesus Christ.
"What?" Dylan sputters. "What the hell do you want, man?"
"You're an idiot," Remo tells him. Well, he more or less growls at Dylan, and that's nothing unusual – but he's still clutching Dylan's arm tightly. Dylan knows he should wrench away, but he's still trying to process what's going on.
"You fell asleep with a lit cigarette in your hand, dumbass," Remo continues. He moves his leg then, grinding out the cigarette, which Dylan had apparently dropped, with his boot. His gaze is boring into Dylan, and that look is back – Dylan feels like he's being burnt by it, like he's pinned under that look and it's searing him. "Hate to see you go up in flames, golden boy."
The implication in that is clear, crystal fucking clear, and finally Dylan jerks his arm from Remo's grip. Well, he tries to, at least – Remo's strong, and he maintains his hold, though only just. "Get the fuck off me," Dylan spits. He pushes himself up on his other elbow, trying to gain more leverage, but –
"I'm not even on you yet," Remo slurs, and then he's hauling Dylan up by the crook of his elbow. Dylan didn't expect that, and his first instinct is to let Remo drag him up or risk dislocating his fucking arm. His second instinct is to wrench away and punch Remo in his smug face, but he doesn't get the chance, because Remo's mouth smacks against Dylan's so hard that Dylan's teeth dig into his own lip. For one bizarre second, he's more aware of the smarting pain in his bottom lip and the coppery tang of blood in his mouth than he is of the fact that Remo – Remo, who wouldn't piss in a cup and hand it to Dylan – is kissing him.
It hits him after a moment, but he's still too stunned to do anything about it. He would have expected to be struck by lightning before he would have seen this coming. He still doesn't really get what's happening – he knows that Remo is kissing him, or maybe trying to bite his mouth off, but he's still not sure why the fuck this is happening. He tastes his own blood and spit and beer, and he figures that's got to be it – Remo's hammered, and came up here spoiling for a fight, and – that still doesn't explain why he's doing this.
Finally, Dylan manages to pull away. He's sitting up on the cot now, and Remo is still holding on to his arm like a vice. Remo's leaning down at an awkward angle, his face still too close to Dylan's for comfort. "What the fuck?" Dylan says. He's still too much in shock to yell, although he knows he probably should. Dylan should scream and curse at Remo, beat him to the ground and then kick him while he's down. He wants to do all of that – but not until he knows why. Not until he knows what sort of sick game Remo is playing, or if Remo's just a drunken old fool.
Remo, predictably, doesn't give him a straight answer. Or, really, an answer at all. "I'm sick and tired," Remo says, his breath hot and smelling of beer, "of you pulling stupid shit and getting away with it. What makes you so damn special?"
I don't know, Dylan wants to say. He wants to scream it in Remo's face. I don't know. This job is the first thing in my life that's ever worked out decently for me. And I'm not sure how long this whole thing is going to last, but when it ends, I'm going to be dead and I know it.
Instead, Dylan says, his tone low and as deadly as he can make it, "Let me go." He's giving Remo one chance, he decides. One last chance. "Or I'll kill you."
"You aren't going to do shit, pipsqueak," Remo says, sneering. Rage and hatred twist Dylan's insides – but he doesn't make a move for his gun, which is tucked securely into the waistband of his pants. He doesn't even get the chance to hit Remo, either, because Remo drags him into another kiss. This time, Remo does actually bite him, although Dylan doesn't know if it's intentional or not. But something about the sharp sting of Remo's teeth against Dylan's still smarting lip – it feeds the fire that's already licking against the insides of Dylan's ribcage. Dylan doesn't know what Remo's playing at, or why, but Dylan can fight dirty, too. This time, Dylan doesn't pull away; he pushes forward, against Remo's mouth. He's not quite kissing back, but the challenge is unspoken. Try me. You can bend me, but I won't break, old man. Not for you.
It's Remo who pulls back this time. His eyes, whiskey-hazed as they are, meet Dylan's evenly. Remo's expression is a mixture of vicious triumph and disgust; he's brought Dylan down to his level, and he's happy about it.
He jerks Dylan by the arm again, and says, "Get up, Massett."
Dylan gets to his feet on his own damn time, though he's not quite sure what Remo's planning to do from here. Then again, Remo is a bit of a mystery, especially now. But Remo's running on aggression and liquor at the moment, and Dylan knows what a heady combination that can be. It's enough to make a man do strange things when he's stuck somewhere with a person he hates.
Dylan figures out what's about to happen pretty damn quickly, because Remo's hands move to Dylan's waist. Dylan recoils instinctively, already expecting a blow to his stomach or crotch, but Remo's hands just follow the movement. Remo finds Dylan's belt buckle, and pushes the hem of Dylan's shirt out of the way with clumsy fingers. A moment later and Dylan's belt is undone, and then the button is practically ripped off of his jeans as Remo works on them, too.
Dylan is unsure of what to do or where to put his hands – he ends up simply letting Remo halfway undress him, his fists awkwardly clenched at his sides. His nerve has failed him somewhat, although he doesn't dare show it; he doesn't know how far this is going, and he isn't entirely sure if any part of him actually wants this, or if he's just angry and horny – but maybe, just maybe, if he lets Remo have this, Remo will shut the fuck up and leave Dylan alone for a while.
Or maybe he'll have yet another thing to hold over Dylan's head. Dylan should have shot Remo while he had the chance.
Remo yanks Dylan's pants down to mid-thigh then, and Dylan's gun falls to the ground. Remo looks at it and snorts.
It's as if he can read Dylan's mind – and isn't that an unsettling thought. "I thought you were gonna kill me."
Backtalk is Dylan's gut response to almost everything, so what comes out of him next is more out of habit than anything. "I still might, if you don't shut the hell up."
Remo laughs – a bitter, dirty little chuckle, complete with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You sure you want to mouth off now, boy? You're only going to make it worse for yourself."
You have no idea what I could fucking do to you, Dylan thinks, a little bit too murderously.
Remo jerks down Dylan's underwear then, and Dylan barely has time to feel exposed before Remo bodily forces him to turn around. Dylan flounders for a second, panicking – this is going far, farther than he'd expected it to, although he hadn't known what to expect in the first god-damn place – but he doesn't have time to lose his shit, because Remo practically shoves him over. Dylan catches himself on the edge of the cot, which is apparently what Remo'd wanted him to do, because he gives another raspy little laugh.
Dylan should yank his pants back up and beat Remo to a bloody pulp, but he just stays where he is – bent over in front of the cot, bare-assed. After all, this is a no-win situation. Let Remo use him and Remo will have that over him. Possibly lose to Remo in a fight and Remo will still have something to smirk about. And run away like a frightened child and Remo will never stop. Dylan's got nowhere to go from here and Remo knows it.
Dylan hears the sound of a bottle uncapping then, and a second later, he catches the mild, clean scent of generic hand lotion. Remo doesn't seem like the type to moisturize regularly, which means that he'd been planning this all along. To Dylan, that sort of preparation implies that Dylan's compliance had been a bonus for Remo, not a prerequisite. Dylan swallows hard at that thought, and then slick fingers are pressed against him, and then into him.
It's been a while since Dylan's been fucked – he mostly sticks to girls, though that hasn't always been the case – but he knows he's going to have to calm down or risk Remo ripping him apart. He breathes in and out, relaxes his muscles as best he can, and ignores the sound of Remo's own breathing behind him.
Remo gives yet another dark laugh, and it pisses Dylan off even more. "I knew it," Remo mutters. "I knew a pretty boy like you would have been fucked before."
"Shut the fuck up," Dylan says automatically, valiantly trying to pretend that there aren't fingers in him. "Shut up."
Remo's fingers twist, and Dylan pretends like that doesn't make his perceptions of pleasure and pain mix alarmingly for a second. "You shut up," Remo responds, leaning close enough that his breath is hot against Dylan's neck. "You just can't admit it, can you? Not even to yourself."
Dylan doesn't say anything, and stares hard at the fabric of the tent wall in front of him. Remo's fingers withdraw then, and now Dylan definitely knows what's coming.
"You can't admit that you want this," Remo continues, the sound of jeans unzipping punctuating his sentence. "If you didn't and you had any damn sense, you'd have killed me like you said you would. But no." Remo's voice is far too steady for someone who's drunk off their ass and is about to put their dick in someone. "The little golden boy wants this."
"Shut up," Dylan grits out as Remo presses in. This would be much easier to deal with if Remo would stop talking. But that's not what Remo wants; Remo wants to chip away at everything Dylan has – until Dylan snaps. Dylan doesn't know what will happen when Remo pushes too far, but part of him – a vicious, dark part of him – wants Remo to keep going. He wants Remo to test him one too many times, and he wants to see the look on Remo's face when he realizes what a mistake he's made.
There's a part of Dylan that clings to logic and to decency – a part of him that wants to be a good person. But Dylan is not a good person, and neither is Remo. One of them will end the other, and Dylan knows it. Remo does, too.
Remo isn't gentle, and Dylan had never expected him to be. It hurts like hell for a bit, but Dylan is no stranger to pain. It gets more bearable as it goes along, which is fortunate. Remo's filthy mutterings don't subside, however. Dylan closes his eyes and tries to block it out, but Remo pauses for a second to adjust his grip on Dylan's hips (his hands are going to leave bruises which Dylan will pointedly ignore until they fade away), and then when he pushes back in his angle is different, and Dylan is thrown back into focus because fuck. He doesn't make a sound, thank God, but he must tense up, because Remo is fucking laughing again. There's not much mirth in the sound, just bitter victory.
Remo fucks him viciously after that, and all Dylan can do is clench his jaw and ride it out. His dick is rubbing against the sheets on the cot with each thrust, and Remo's hitting the right angle now, but Dylan doesn't want to get off on this. He won't, because then Remo will win this. Dylan doesn't want him to win – Dylan just wants to be left alone. Or does he? He isn't so sure anymore, because this – this violence, this anger, this lust – it feeds something inside him, something that's altogether a bit alarming but goddamn it, it's good.
Remo's breathing is rough now, his insults coming at a less steady pace, but Dylan doesn't know if anything could calm the anger he feels right now. In fact, Dylan's so fucking pissed that his orgasm takes him completely by surprise. It's practically ripped out of him, and he gives an unwilling gasp. He knows Remo hears the noise that he makes, and feels him tense up, but for one second he doesn't give a shit. For that moment he feels like he's burning inside and out, and it's not entirely good, but it isn't entirely bad, either. It seems like everything in Dylan's life, even coming, has to be a fucking conflict.
Remo pulls out while Dylan is still trying to collect himself, and Dylan flinches when come hits the back of his thighs. Remo doesn't make a sound, but Dylan knows he must feel like he's won. Maybe he's still not better than Dylan, like he obviously wants to be – but now he has this. Dylan has given Remo this, and only time will tell how hard it's going to end up biting one of them on the ass.
Dylan straightens up, but doesn't turn around – he doesn't want Remo to see the way he's wincing. He's already aching, and the next few days are going to be a bitch. He hears Remo pull up his pants, and then abruptly, Remo says, "Here. Clean yourself up, for Christ's sakes."
Dylan turns and takes the handkerchief that Remo proffers without a word. Remo smirks and walks away, but doesn't leave the tent.
Dylan watches out of the corner of his eye as Remo lights a cigarette of his own. He stands in the entrance of the tent and smokes it, and Dylan hurries to get his shit together before Remo comes up with something to bitch about.
Sure enough, it only takes another minute of silence before Remo turns to look back at Dylan. That look is back – actually, it never really left. Hatred, resentment, jealousy, anger, lust. Dylan feels the same mixture of emotions echoing inside himself, and he doesn't know how long he can fight it off before he does something – bad. But then again, Dylan has known all along that this shit-show of a situation can only end badly.
"Don't think," Remo says, before pausing to take a drag off his cigarette, "that this changes anything, golden boy."
Dylan's jaw clenches. "Stop calling me that."
Remo's mouth twists into a vicious smile, and he's already turning to walk away as he says, "Alright, dumbass."
Dylan is left alone in a cloud of cigarette smoke, trying to swallow down the beast in him that's clawing to get out.