Scared Tough Guy

By Funkiechick

(Italics mean things that occurred in the past.)

Wait, I'm gonna give it a break.

I'm not you friend,

I never was.

- Automatic Stop (The Strokes)

He had to move eventually.

He'd been feeling as if he could function. Which was good, really fucking good, because he really fucking HAD to function. He didn't have time for this kind of shit. This kind of...feeling. If Spot couldn't have something, he either MADE it his, or he found something else that was far more interesting, and beneficial.

That was why this was a special case.

That was the only reason.

Spot ducked his head, as he walked past Bigger, Thorny and Reap, who were sitting on the dock with the bottoms of their trousers rolled up to the knee, dangling their feet over the side of the planks. They all watched him go by, but Spot ducked, ducked his head, and didn't give them a glance.

No wonder they were staring. Spot had been invisible for three days.

His mind had been elsewhere, and his body had been totally immobile.

For the moments where he hadn't been drifting off into blank, he thought of that stupid smirk, and that fucking cigar, and those fucking eyes. The damned noises he would make, and the height difference.

He thought of the way the little asshole talked, especially the way he had talked to him that night, a week ago, the way he had talked to HIM. Spot was a big shot, Spot was important; Spot was one fucking TOUGH guy.

That didn't matter to Racetrack. That didn't matter a bit.

"Spot, I don't like bein' around you."

Spot stared.

"You're just...not it, okay? You're just not it."

Spot looked away. Stared somewhere else.

"Okay? Skitt may be...well, Skittery may be kinda...kinda..."

"Real fucking skittery?"

"Yeah, he's that, but he's a good guy. And he enjoys, ya know, laughter? And not necessarily at the expense of someone else's pain, Spot? That may not sound too appealin' to you, but...well, it is to me."

Spot wasn't talking again.

"Besides. Judging from the way you're reactin' now...I don't think it'll take you too long to forget all about me."

Spot had looked at him again. Meaner this time, though. Much meaner.

"Ya don't have much of a heart, Spot. Both of us know that. You know that."

Spot narrowed his eyes.

Race hesitated. "I kinda love him. He's some kinda guy."

Then Spot drew back his fist and punched Racetrack hard, right in the jaw, and Racetrack, the fucker, had been expecting it. Another thing Spot hated. Racetrack could predict his movements. Could predict his words. Could predict his feelings. And he loved somebody else.

Still, Racetrack took the punch. He expected it, but took it anyway.

And Spot turned and left. Racetrack would have fought back if he stuck around. They would have just punched each other all night. Spot remembered how they used to spend nights, and he remembered that Racetrack had seemed so fucking sincere. It was stupid to think Racetrack was sincere. He was a gambler, the best gambler, and he had no face. He just had something fake, and if you believed it, that was your own damn fault.

So this was all Spot's damn fault.

Spot stood at the edge of the dock, and wondered if this was where clichés came from. Wondered if they came from some sad fucking sap standing on a dock staring out into the water, wanting to die because someone didn't love him.

Spot narrowed his eyes and stared down into the water. Which barely showed a reflection, really, it just showed a wavering him and dark, dark colors. He barely made out his own figure at all.

He thought about the first words Racetrack said to him, on that first night. 'Well look at this,' Racetrack had smiled at him. 'Someone finally got you a little bit scared.'

Yeah, someone had. He had.

Spot hated analyzing himself, and his feelings. He hated looking right into what exactly was wrong with him, and how dark his entire fucking world was, and why the hell should he have to come to terms with being miserable and alone and a terrible fucking person?

It was too bad he didn't enjoy a laugh now and then. It was too bad he had left behind those kinds of things a long time ago.

And there he had it. He was able to do this, he had a way to get Racetrack out of his head and out of...everything else. He just had to leave him behind. Leave him and the feeling and the memories and all that, all that, everything.

He looked away from his wavering. He looked up from the dark. Instead he stared off into what seemed to be absolutely nothing. And it probably was. So he chose that instead of an ugly reflection.

Spot looked back up, turned, and walked away from the water.