Chapter Notes: Thanks for the kind and wonderful reviews so far. As long as I know at least one person here is enjoying this, I will continue updating here.
Chapter warnings: Um, yeah... There's violence of a nature that most people would call "torture" in this chapter. It's not too graphic (in this chapter), but be warned.
He was alive. That was the only thing Harry could be certain of at that moment. And the only reason he was sure of that was the hammering pain in his head. He must have had more to drink than he had thought.
And he must have passed out somewhere between that last bar and the Courtyard Inn. Or else Marriott's standards had dropped further, because the "bed" under his left cheek felt like cold, damp concrete. His nose twitched -- moldy concrete.
Harry half sighed, half groaned as he tried to wake himself up further. He tried to open his eyes only to realize they had been open -- it was just that dark. A slightly queasy feeling began in the pit of his stomach, as his eyes found not the slightest glimmer of light.
No place in L.A. was that dark -- not at any hour.
Definitely time to get up, he decided.
"What the fuck!?" he exclaimed, though it caused a sharp throbbing in his head. He was in handcuffs and those cuffs seemed to be attached to the floor. The sick sensation in his stomach increased and a tinge of panic throbbed in time with his headache as he realized he was also clad in nothing but his underwear.
Calm down, Lockhart. Captain Fucking Magic, remember? Cuffs are easy enough. Harry took deep breaths of the musty air and began exploring the cuffs with his fingers.
He was interrupted by a fluorescent light overhead suddenly blossoming to bright white life.
"Fuck," he groaned as he tried to hide his eyes in the crook of his arm. Daggers of pain stabbed all over his head and he nearly vomited.
"That is your favorite word, isn't it, Harold Lockhart?"
Harry froze. He had not heard a door... Had someone been in here with him the whole time?
"Sleep well?" The voice was soft and the tone was neutral. It was male, but not too deep. Not menacing in the least, but Harry still felt a thrill of fear shiver down his spine. "Speechless? So unlike you."
It was the sibilants, Harry realized. The man drew them out and hissed them ever so slightly. And he was talking as if he knew Harry very well.
Harry squinted in the direction of the voice, but he was still too dazzled to make out more than a dark-clad figure leaning against an indistinct gray wall. Fragments of questions tumbled around and around in his head. He chose, "Who the fuck are you?" He did not expect an answer, but asking it made him feel more in control.
"That's not the most pressing question on your mind now, I think. 'Why am I here?' and 'What do you want with me?' are what you really want to ask." There was a disgusted snort from the figure. "You positively radiate fear and weakness. How did such a useless, sniveling clod become Perry's partner?"
Harry's eyes widened at the name. Ignoring the pain in his head, he looked sharply at his captor. His eyes were beginning to adjust but they still told him little. The man was forgettably attractive in the way that half the people one met in Hollywood were. Average height and build, sleek dark hair, and even features -- nothing for eyes or memory to latch onto.
Only the voice stood out. Harry would have recalled that voice if he had ever heard it before.
"No, Harold, you don't know me," the snake's voice responded to Harry's unspoken question, "though I know you... And Perry. Yes, I know him very well."
Fucking drama queen, Harry thought, taking in the other man's affected mannerisms. "Well, then," he said, "just hand me my cell -- we can call up big P. and you two can have your gay little reunion without me."
Cobra Queen, as Harry decided to think of his captor, thinned his lips at this. Why could he never get grabbed by someone with a sense of fucking humor?
"Your feeble attempts at humor don't fool me anymore than they do yourself. You must know this is about--" Cobra Queen paused dramatically, "revenge."
"Then, why don't you call Perry out -- or whatever it is you guys do to settle bitch fights -- and leave me out of it?"
His captor lashed out suddenly, kicking Harry in the gut. Harry grunted and curled in on himself. "The only bitch here is you." Though in pain, Harry at least had the satisfaction of having cracked the pretentious facade. "Yes, I've been watching you for long enough to know that. Perry says jump and you ask how fucking high. Isn't that right, Lockhart?"
Harry's wit failed him. He could only stare up at the shadowed face of his captor, his eyes widening.
"What? Nothing to say to that, little bitch?" The man put his booted foot on Harry's shoulder, rolling the captive man onto his back. "Yes, I've been watching, learning, waiting." With each verb, he pressed his boot down into Harry. First his shoulder, then his chest, and finally his stomach. "And I figured out the best revenge." He scraped his boot across Harry's abdomen as Harry gritted his teeth. "Perry is a hard man to kill -- a hard man to even hurt... usually." He kneeled down, with a leg to either side of Harry's torso. "But, you..." He pulled a knife out from his breast pocket and flourished it in the light with a twist of the wrist. "You, Harold Lockhart, are very easy to hurt." Harry followed the knife with his eyes as it was brought slowly to his face. He hissed in pain as a tiny cut was made in his cheek. "And through you, I hurt Perry."
"You--" Harry's voice quavered out. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists above the cuffs. "You're more fucked up than you look if you think Perry van Shrike is gonna cry over his office bitch."
"Don't you fucking play coy with me, Lockhart! I've - been - watching - you." With each deliberate word, the knife nicked Harry's skin. "Maybe not in your house, but everywhere else. I've seen you together and I know that you're..." The next word was spat out, like bile. "...lovers."
"Jesus Fucking Christ! You are that fucked up!" He knew that would get him more cuts. He blocked out the pain and continued, "You need to get some fucking glasses, shithead."
"Don't fucking lie to me!" The man suddenly shifted his grip on the knife and stabbed it into Harry's arm. Harry could not hold back a howl of pain. "He let you into his house. He made you his partner in every fucking way." The snake's voice was filled with venom and his eyes, brought close to Harry's own by their current position, flashed with anger and something more.
"I'm not his partner! I'm a fucking stray dog he picked up out of pity."
"No..." breathed the other man, absently wiggling the knife in the open wound. "No, I've seen the way he looks at you." His gaze shifted upward, but he did not seem to be looking at anything in the small room. "Maybe you're too fucking stupid to notice, but I'm not. The way he looks at you."
Harry froze, body and mind, as the smoldering eyes of his captor shifted back to him. The mix of hate and madness in that gaze promised one thing, and they promised it solemnly.
Pain.
"Yes, Harold Lockhart, you will bleed here..." The unbalanced man jerked the knife out of Harry's arm and began wiping the blood on Harry's cheek. "And you will die here." The hissing was not there, but the voice was still inhuman. "And Perry's suffering will be... exquisite."
Harry closed his eyes. Perry, you fucking find me, and you fucking do it soon.
Please.
~to be continued~
Chapter disclaimer: No insult to Courtyard Inn or Marriott was intended by the author in this chapter. Only Harry intended it and that's only because Dabney spoiled him with that nice hotel in Hollywood.
