Author's Note: Probably one or two more chapters after this one, not exactly sure, but there will be at least one more.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Contains: Violence, profanity, emotional abuse, and stream-of-consciousness hallucinations.
Caught Off Guard: Chapter Eight
"Hey, baby, want a drink?" A bottle of Night Train flashed into Pickles's view, dangling by its neck from between Tony's fingers.
Pickles didn't answer or move from where he sat against the open bathroom door, hands between his knees, staring down at the tile floor.
"Hey, c'mon, move it," said Tony, prodding Pickles in the hip with his foot. "I didn't bring you here to sit around and look pretty—and hell, you're not even doing that." He uncapped the bottle, took a long drink, and belched, wiping his mouth. "Still don't like me yet? I thought you'd be all over me by now, now that we've broken the ice and got down to the lovemakin'."
"Let me go," said Pickles, distantly, half-surprised to hear himself voice the words.
Tony's head jerked down sharply as he stared at the drummer. "What now? Let you go? Why on earth would I do that?"
"Let me go," he repeated, pleading. "We…we can go for a ride, and you can drop me off somewhere. I don't even know where we're at now. I won't tell anybody about this. I'll say," he gestured to his face, "that I got in a fight."
Tony, whose face had slowly widened into an amused grin as Pickles had spoken, shook his head. "Huh-uh, babe. Not happening." He took another drink of wine. "Are you forgetting about your Scandinavian friend back there? He saw too much for that to work. Besides, what do I get out of letting you go with nothing to show for it, huh? Not that you ever think of how these things affect me," he growled, stooping to grab Pickles by the collar and drag him in close.
By this point, exhausted and broken, Pickles didn't even protest as Tony dragged him to his feet and into the bedroom, throwing him onto the bed. A hot, stinging pain stabbed through his injured shoulder, and he felt blood begin to seep into his shirt as the wound was torn open again. His wrist also stung as the coarse material of the motel's blankets rubbed across his most recent injury.
"You know, I shoulda grabbed Blondie back there, too. Lord knows what I could do to that tight little ass. More than you've done, I bet" he added. "Your dick's pretty small. Mine, on the other hand…"
Pickles turned out the other man's voice. He had resigned himself to his fate. He really was going to die here. He couldn't physically handle much more of Tony's treatment, and he was so very tired; anything that ended the pain and the constant fear of the next moment could only come as a relief. He curled up on the edge of the bed.
"Come on, Pickles, don't be like that," coaxed Tony, coming over to sit down next to him. When he began stroking Pickles's arm, the drummer felt cold revulsion rising within him, but couldn't find the energy or the will to brush Tony's hand away.
"Don't be like that, now," repeated Tony, his voice dangerous again as his hand snaked over toward Pickles's neck.
This was it, the drummer realized as he felt the other man's fingers tighten over his already-bruised throat. Once or twice more being choked, a few more blows to the face, and it'd all be over. He couldn't withstand any more. Dear God, please, please, just let it end—
A splintering crash, a swarm of masked black figures under a light that flickered like flame, shouting, struggling, fingers on his throat, tearing at him or being torn away, he couldn't tell, thumping kicks, screams, snarls of animal rage. Now, Charles's transparent disembodied face gazing down at him. Was this all a hallucination? Maybe none of it was real, Tony had killed him, and this was what you saw before you died, floated away, went on your way to wherever it was that bad little drummer boys went to, a land beyond the clouds, territory of darkness and flashing neon, where he'd float around with John Bonham and Keith Moon. Hands on him now, was it the great dead ones come to take him away there, to pull him out of his too-far-damaged body? He tried to offer them his wrists, to let them take him, but he couldn't see their faces, and now the sudden wet cold tangle of tentacles on his skin. He screamed then, tried to fight it, and there was an instant of freezing blackness.
Pickles blinked up at Charles and Skwisgaar with his one non-swollen eye, his hands going weakly to the sopping towel draped around his neck. Charles looked almost worried, which was as worried as anyone had ever seen him, and the sleeves of his suit jacket were dark with water. Skwisgaar, in comparison, looked utterly distraught, his eyes enormous yet far away as he stared half-seeing down at Pickles, twisting a lock of blonde hair absently in both hands.
"Pickles?" said Charles. "You're, ah, awake?"
Pickles tried to answer, and heard himself give an unintelligible rasping moan. A cup was pressed to his lips, and he welcomed the cool water that flowed into his mouth, even if swallowing was agony on his throat. Then he had to push the cup away, coughing, spitting up water and blood onto himself and the other men, fearing for a moment that he'd vomit again, but no, there was nothing left for his stomach to reject.
Charles, his face as impassive as he could keep it, exchanged a look with Skwisgaar, who nodded in return as the manager rose and started toward the group of various Klokateers who remained in the room, removing his soiled jacket and handing it off to one of his employees to discard.
"Pickle, what dids they do to you?" whispered Skwisgaar, his fingertips hovering above Pickles's face. He hesitated to touch him, fearing that he'd only hurt him further. "Pickle, please, don'ts be mads, I shoulds haves done somethings. I'm so sorries I let him takes you, but I ams here now." Skwisgaar reached out to take his hand, but Pickles shied away from his touch with a sob, bringing his knees up to his chest and hiding his face.
Skwisgaar felt as if his heart were being ripped out. He wanted nothing more than to hold Pickles and comfort him after whatever had happened, but it seemed that this was only causing the drummer more pain. Pickles stared unseeing at the chipped paint on the wall, tears coursing down his face and mingling with the dried blood to streak across his skin.
Skwisgaar tried again, trying to blink away the sting that had come to his own eyes. He'd never seen Pickles in such a state before, so completely destroyed, such raw misery. He would've been willing to do anything to make him stop feeling it, and at the same time, when he looked at Pickles's injuries, at his battered face and bloodied clothing, he wanted to hurt Tony more than he'd ever wanted to hurt anyone before in his life.
"Please, Pickle, comes backs," he heard himself begging. "Min älskling, please, I love you, please lets me do something. Ams it bads? He—he ams hurtings you bads?" Skwisgaar's voice broke, and he didn't care anymore, didn't care that he'd started to cry in front of Pickles and Charles and a dozen Klokateers. He couldn't hold back the rage and the feeling of impotence and the complete shock he felt at finding Pickles like this. He felt like the world was crumbling, and was barely aware that he'd reached out for Pickles again until their hands touched. Then Pickles was half-lying, half-sitting, but now in Skwisgaar's arms, sobbing against his chest, arms thrown about his waist with a strength borne of desperation.
"Pickle, my sweetheart, it ams okays, I will make everythings okays, I won'ts let him hurts you no more."
Skwisgaar didn't let go of him even as Charles made eye contact and gave a discreet cough of warning, or as he approached with the doctor in tow, or as the latter took out a hypodermic and told Pickles in a soothing tone what he was about to do before the needle plunged into his arm. Only once the sedative had taken effect and the black-clad paramedics stood waiting did he finally release the mercifully unconscious drummer from his grasp.
