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A/N: I decided very last minute that I wanted to switch over to second person, so, my apologies if you read the previous chapter while it was in third. It is now in second.
How To Get Away With Mercy
Aubrey
You like the clean up after a kill – the smell of bleach as it burns your nostrils, the way rubber gloves stick to the sweat on your palms. It's a blessing for Beca, because she can't even clean up after herself – let alone figure out how to dump a body. And it's a waste of time to Stacie, because she likes to leave her bodies exactly where they fall – she likes to be known for her work. It's a reckless method for most, but Stacie is smart, practically a ghost – and, when she's in town, you're not necessarily needed. Neither is Beca, but she likes the change in target (and to shoot people), so she goes along for the ride. And you finally get to curl up with a Hallmark movie that doesn't include Beca's persistent bitching and snarky commentary. It's a win for everyone really – except maybe whoever ends up with a bullet in their head. But there are men out there who would pay to be shot by Stacie. Probably not by Beca, but no one dies with complete dignity.
Your phone rings, and you pop another veggie chip into your mouth as you lean over to grab it from the nightstand, not taking your eyes off the movie. The hotel bed creaks beneath you, and you internally groan, because Beca tosses and turns in her sleep, and that noise is going to be a pain in the ass tonight. The number is Beca's. You glance at the clock then hold the phone to your ear in silence – the way you have both agreed to answer in case it's not the other person calling.
"Uh, hey…" Beca says.
You relax back against the pillows again and grab another chip. "Hey, are you guys done?" You turn most of your attention back to the movie, smiling as the leading man confesses his love and hands the woman flowers. Movies are funny. Last time Beca seriously confessed her love, it was right after you stabbed a guy in the back (literally) then handed her the knife so she could double check your work. "How did it go?"
Beca sighs – a heavy, drawn out exhale. "Well, the guy is dead," she says, sounding overly optimistic about their hit, "Definitely dead."
You frown. "Not on the phone," you remind her.
"Right," Beca breathes.
There is a sound in the background, and you can't quite make out what it is. "Where are you?" you ask, "You said no to the clubs this time, right?"
"Uh, we're actually almost there," Beca says, "To you, not to a club."
"Good." Another chip. "Did you want something?" you ask, a little confused about the call. A simple text would have sufficed.
"Nope. Nope, just calling to tell you we are headed your way." Beca clears her throat. "But, uh, hey?"
"Mhm?" you hum, only half paying attention. The motel is cheaper than you're used to, and the blankets have wrinkles that you're just now seeing.
"Never mind," Beca says, "I'll tell you when we get there. We're pulling in. Dude, I love you so fucking much." You can hear Stacie laughing in the background. "Please don't be mad at me."
Mad at her? You open your mouth to ask her why you are no doubt about to be pissed off at her, but she hangs up on you – and that pre-fuels your anger. You look at your phone then at the window as headlights cause light to seep through the cheap drapes. That noise had better not have been a dog, because you told her no. Too many hotels don't allow them, and they bark. You roll up the bag of chips and mute the movie as car doors shut outside. Three of them, to be precise. Maybe it's someone else. You toss your phone at the end of the bed and turn to face the door, waiting.
The door clicks and unlocks, and Beca walks in first, mask still covering her face. You know it's her, because few other people are that short. "Okay," she says right off the bat, talking with her hands, something you've noticed she rarely does unless she's upset, "You just need to let me explain…"
You're on your feet in an instant, and you wonder if maybe you should have changed out of your pajamas and gotten dressed. "The police better not be coming here, Beca. Were you seen?"
"What?" Beca asks, her eyes wide, "No. Well, I mean…"
Stacie walks inside, pulling a third person along with her, and locks the door behind them – the deadbolt.
You notice the blood first. It's impossible not to, even for someone who sees buckets of it all the time. It's everywhere – in the girls hair, soaking her clothes on one side, splattered on her face. Tears mix with it and fall light red onto her t-shirt. She has her eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapped protectively around herself, and you're rendered immobile as you stare and wait for that explanation Beca claims to have. Silence, from Beca and Stacie. "Talk," you demand, "Now."
"Beca, here, didn't want a repeat of Tulsa," Stacie says, and your gaze snaps in her direction at the word, "So, she took someone as a hostage."
"Dude, would you shut the fuck up about Tulsa?!" Beca snaps.
"Is all of that her blood?" You ask, looking at it all. The fact that this girl knows at least Beca's name escalates the severity of the situation. The fact that there is a stranger in your hotel room, alive, who probably knows Beca killed someone deserves a tornado siren.
"I don't think so?" Beca answers, "We kinda shot the guy while he was on top of her. I mean, he was attacking her, what else were we supposed to do?"
You don't know, but this clearly isn't it.
"But some of it's probably hers," Stacie adds casually.
You walk swiftly across the room, your frown tugging at half your face as the woman tries to back away from you, but is held in place by Stacie's grip on her arm. "What the hell did you guys do to her?" You try to assess the damage – determine what blood is coming from her and what isn't.
"Us?" Beca asks and looks at Stacie.
You glance at them then decide they're not the priority right now. There will be plenty of opportunity to chew Beca out and get the answers you need later. Right now, their casualty is a bit more pressing. You reach out and take the woman by the upper arm and place your other hand on her back. She's shaking like a leaf – and it's no fucking wonder. "Let go of her," you command Stacie, looking at where her nails are pressing against the woman's skin.
"What if she runs?" Stacie asks.
You look at her for a moment, purposely drawing out the silence – because do these two ever think? "You're standing in front of the door," you point out, "Where is she going to go?"
"Right," Stacie whispers and releases her grip on her arm.
The woman chokes over a sob and slowly lifts her hand over the nail marks in her arm.
"It's okay," You try to assure her even though it isn't – and probably isn't going to be, and she looks at you for the first time. You give her a reassuring nod. "Let's get all of this blood sorted out. Okay?" You take a half step toward the bathroom, but don't try to drag her with you just yet – not after Beca and Stacie have already presented themselves as forces to be frightened of. "Come on."
She blinks away more tears and takes a step after you. It isn't as though she has a lot of choice, but her lack of trying to put up a fight is promising for all four of you.
You lead her into the bathroom and flip on the light. The room is too small for all of you to squeeze into, and Beca and Stacie hover in the doorway as you lower the toilet lid so she can sit down. "What's your name?" you ask.
"Her name is Chloe," Beca answers for her.
You squat down beside her as she sits and glare at Beca. "I didn't ask you," you point out. You don't want to hear anything from her or Stacie right now, unless it's a clear, detailed explanation of what is happening and why. "Call for more towels," you demand, "And take off that stupid mask. No wonder she's scared." God knows Beca without that thing looks about as terrifying as a puppy looks.
Beca pulls the ski mask off her face and tries to blow away some of the hair that falls in front her eyes. Her eyelids are rimmed red, not like she's been crying, but like she's pretty damn close to it. She glances at Stacie then leaves the room and picks up the phone.
You turn your attention back to Chloe and try to remain calm, although you're not feeling as panicked as you are enraged. "If you want to live," you tell her clearly, "You won't scream. Understand?"
Chloe nods and ducks her head, closing her eyes again.
You rub her back, a desperate attempt to comfort her, and look to make sure Stacie is still standing in the doorway. "Wet a towel."
Stacie grabs one of the towels from beside the shower and turns on the sink.
"With warm water," you add right before she can dip the fabric underneath the stream.
Stacie sighs and turns on the other faucet.
"I'm not going to tell if you just let me go." Chloe makes a snorting sound as she inhales and chokes over a sob at the time. "Please…"
"Okay. Let's figure out this blood and then we can talk about that." If there is a way you can just let her go, you can't think of it. "Are you hurt?" You look her over. There don't appear to be any injuries on her face or her arms.
Chloe hesitates for a moment then nods, her fingers noticeably tightening around the sides of her shirt. "My head…"
You stand up and look at her head. There is blood in her hair near the back, sticky like it's drying but hasn't quite gotten there yet. The rest of the blood may not be her own, but you have a sinking feeling that this belongs to her.
"She might also be sick," Stacie says and turns off the water, "She kind of, like, puked…"
Sick. You shake your head at her. "She isn't sick," you snap, "You guys hit her in the fucking head. She probably a concussion. She needs to go to a hospital."
"No," Beca says, reappearing in the doorway. "Dude, no. She was already like that when we got there."
"Is that true?" you ask Chloe for confirmation. Your blood boils less when she nods, but you aren't sure if you can believe her – not with Beca and Stacie in the room, no doubt providing little more than intimidation.
There is a knock on the door and Beca takes a step back, shutting the three of you in the uncomfortably claustrophobic restroom together.
"I'll cover her mouth," Stacie says and steps forward, and Chloe slides across the toilet seat so fast she would fall off if she doesn't accidentally crash into you instead. She shakes her head, lifts her hands to entangle her fingers in her head, and turns her entire body away from Stacie.
"Don't." You grab the towel out of Stacie's hand. It's risky, but trusting that Chloe won't scream might gain some of Chloe's trust and push them toward a more positive outcome – one that somehow doesn't end with her dead. You try to wipe some of the blood from her hair and scalp, cringing as she flinches. "What hit you?" You keep your voice low as Beca speaks to the person bringing them more towels.
"The ground," Chloe whispers, her voice raw from crying.
That makes sense. It looks like a bad scrape that just ended in a lot of blood. You're more worried about the impact than the source of the bleeding now. It's impossible to see if there is any bruising or swelling through the blood and her thick hair, which just so also happens to be red. You wipe as much blood as you can from the hair and skin on her head then kneel back down and wipe the droplets of whomever else's blood off her forehead.
Beca opens the bathroom door again, almost hitting Stacie with it. She tosses a stack of towels on the sink. "Everything good?"
"No, Beca," you answer, not looking up as you toss the bloody towel in the bathtub, "Everything is not good. She has a head injury. I need another towel." Ideally, you could just turn on the shower – but there is a window in the bathroom, and if Chloe doesn't want to strip off her clothes with you in the room, you aren't sure you can trust her to not escape. She can't stay in the clothes that she's wearing though…
Stacie backs into the doorway again, giving the two of you more space.
"Can you just, like, calm her down?" Beca asks as Chloe sobs again.
You blink, needing a moment to make sure you're processing what she's saying correctly. "She has every right to be crying right now." You place your hand on Chloe's back again. She doesn't bolt away from you like she doesn't from Stacie, but that can be chalked up to shock. "Get her some clean clothes. She'll fit in yours better than she will in mine."
"Really?" Beca asks reluctantly.
Your nostrils flare, because Beca and Stacie seem set on making a hard situation even harder, and Beca takes that as her cue not to argue further. You don't understand why they didn't just kill the poor girl and not tell you about it. This has to be Beca's doing, because Stacie makes it no secret that, while she has never had a casualty, they come as part of the job.
"Are you Aubrey?" Chloe asks suddenly, her voice quaking along with her body.
Not only does she know Beca's name, she somehow knows yours as well – along with your face and theirs. This is a waste – cleaning her up while she's still alive. Beca places a t-shirt and sweatpants next to the towels. You're going to have to kill her. Your expression turns pained and you neither confirm nor deny her question. You want no part in this. But you can't stop yourself from making the inevitable more comfortable, because she isn't a hit. She's just an innocent person. "You can either shower with us in here or I can keep trying to wipe off the blood, but either way, you can't stay in those clothes."
The way you evade the question doesn't go unnoticed. Chloe's features start to crumble all over again and she shifts around on the toilet seat, twisting her hair tighter around her fingers.
You're going to kill her anyway. Stacie is going to kill her anyway. "I'm Aubrey," you decide to confirm, "How did you know that?"
"In the car," Chloe mumbles, her words almost lost to tears, "They said you were going to take care of this." She draws in a sharp inhale. "I have finals in the morning. I'm not going to tell…" She dissolves, nearly folding into herself, and you slide your hand up and down the length of her back. Stacie can kill Beca too while she's at it.
You draw in a breath, wondering if you should just have Stacie end it for her now rather than prolong the suffering. But you can't bring yourself to turn and mouth to her to grab your knife. A few months ago, this might have been easier. "Like I said…" You put on your best calm face even though your stomach is churning like milk into butter. "Let's deal with the blood, and then we can talk."