Author's Note: You might not know it yet, but this is a BTVS related fanfic. Or, as I like to think of it, a story that happens to delve into the Buffyverse. I must warn any potential readers that the story really won't become Buffy related until chapter 4 or 5, but I'm hoping some people will be interested enough to stick with it regardless. This is my first time uploading to this site and I've had some troubles with spacing and formatting, but hopefully it's all still readable and sensible. Feedback is desired and craved due to my freakishly rampant neediness. The characters that are not my own belong to Mutant Enemy and the genius of Joss Whedon. Enjoy the story.
Ethan Singleton was one week from celebrating his twenty-first birthday, and he had never killed a man. He had never participated in serious target practice or run with a gang, though he had gone hunting a few times as a child while his father was still alive. He never felt a slight, internal thrill while delivering a bullet into an animal, nor did he grow up watching slasher movies while smoking pot in the basement. He'd never touched drugs, never owned a bb gun, never had a speeding ticket and believed that the police officers of his middle class Washington suburb were friendly and helpful. On the surface he had lived his life as a perfectly sane, well-adjusted young man. But then again, he'd never had a boyfriend either.
Ethan lifted his eyes over the vale of bushes in front of him, scanning the driveway of the house and searching for what he knew he would see. There it was. The cherry red, 1996 Ford Taurus, license plate number 675 AHJ. That's the car that didn't belong to Mark or any of his close friends. It was the vehicle Ethan intended to find the owner of.
He stood up in the darkness, walking across the driveway toward the front porch, his breath getting heavier with anticipation. He reached his hand under his shirt, making sure the pistol was still safely in the waistband of his jeans. It had been much easier to obtain than he had calculated when he originally planned the event. All it took was a trip to his mother's house, a quick search in the nightstand next to her bed, and voila, another random act of violence could now be committed.
He removed the key from his pocket -- the key Mark had handed him after their five-month anniversary -- and jiggled it into the door, unlocking and opening it in an instant. It was pitch black as he stepped inside, except for the small shred of light that was beaming from the bedroom upstairs.
An average criminal would never get away with this, Ethan thought to himself. They would need to turn on a light to navigate around the furniture and up the staircase. But I know exactly where to go. I could do it with my eyes closed. The typical vagrant would be caught by the police, or shot in some pathetic struggle with their own weapon. It won't happen that way for me.
He made his way to the steps, practically tiptoeing to keep quiet, all the while trying to get the heaving of his breath back to a normal level. He felt a twisting in his gut that he had never experienced, and sweat appeared to be forming on his temples in spite of the cool, air-conditioned climate. First one step, then two, and when the fifth was reached he knew to step on the right side, remembering that the left usually made a creaking sound. Then carefully all the way to the top, where Mark's bedroom door was visibly cracked open.
He walked slowly, his breathing finally calmed once he grabbed the smooth butt of the gun, removing it from his jeans and holding it by his side. The first -- and most important -- step was to remove the safety. This was something he had told himself over and over, time and again while studying the weapon in his bedroom at home.
I can't forget the safety. Too many poor excuses for murderers have fucked up their crimes because of one stupid procedure. One small finger movement between life and death. I have now crossed the line.
Moaning. There it was, the final say in the matter, flowing along with the light into the hallway. And not just Mark's moaning, but someone else's mixed right there in the middle. A stranger. The waves of sound danced forth, slamming into Ethan's ears and stopping him for a moment, dead in his tracks. It was all the proof he needed to continue. His deed had now evolved from a premeditated whim to an obvious mission that there was no turning back from. At least two lives would be ended tonight, maybe a third if things went exceptionally well.
Ethan shifted from his frozen stance, following the animalistic grunting and howling that he could hear originating a room away.
The asshole. The bastard. Fuck him. The first man I ever loved. The first man I ever gave myself to. After years of waiting for my Prince Charming I finally find him, only he decides he'd rather be fucking someone else. I love him so much. I love him so much that I hope the bullet enters his heart, that way I can watch it explode out behind him, maybe splattering that Eminem poster above his bed. I love him so much that I can hardly wait for the second bullet to enter my head. I can't wait for that pain to try to outdo what I'm already feeling standing here.
He pushed the door open slowly, listening carefully to whether or not the moaning showed any signs of stopping or slowing down. It didn't. Ethan stepped into the room, letting his body be completely bathed in the warm glow from the orange lava lamp in the corner. Such a romantic setting, he thought as he slowly turned his gaze toward the peep show being initiated on the bed.
There was Mark, naked, his eyes closed as he laid on his back across the mattress, the nameless, faceless stranger riding him. The owner of the mysterious Ford Taurus, obviously. Mark's hips started moving at a faster pace as Ethan moved closer to the spectacle, raising the gun up in front of him so it was pointed directly at the back of the studly John Doe.
What a perfect shot. I almost want to change my plan, just to see the look on Mark's…
"Holy shit!" Mark screamed, his eyes suddenly open and staring ahead at Ethan. Or more precisely, the pistol in his hand.
The stranger snapped his head around, suddenly disappointed that the thrusting had come to an untimely, unsatisfying conclusion. His expression quickly turned from disappointment to horror as he saw the weapon pointed precisely in his direction. He jumped from Mark's lap, landing on the floor and quickly grabbing his clothes, holding them in front of his quickly descending erection.
"Who the fuck are you?" John Doe bellowed, frantically trying to put on the first article of clothing he could get a hold of. First the socks, then the boxers.
"I'm his boyfriend," Ethan stated monotonously, moving his arm slightly downward so the pistol was now lined up with Mark's chest. The stud's demise was of no interest to him, but it would certainly be a bonus if that's what it came down to.
"Ethan, we can talk about this alright?" Mark muttered, a look of bewilderment passing over his face. He grabbed the sheets, covering himself as if he needed to be modest for the guests in the room. Or maybe it was for protection. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry! Put that thing down, please. Put it down."
"I love you," Ethan replied quietly, his eyes looking just as calm and serene as they ever had. He glanced over to John Doe. "Get out of here."
He certainly didn't need to be told twice. The young man buttoned up his pants and threw his shirt over his shoulder before bolting past Ethan and disappearing out the bedroom door. There wasn't a sound in the room now, but the silence was thick, almost to the point of being distracting.
"You're going to die in a minute," Ethan mumbled, holding the gun steady and still speaking with the same unanimated voice. "Is there anything you'd like to say?"
"He's going to call the police!" Mark screamed in retaliation. "Riley's going to call them the second he gets to his car. What are you doing? What are you DOING?" The cloud of shock was starting to wear from his mind and the instincts were kicking in. He was ready to run or retaliate at the first sign of movement in Ethan's hand.
I want to make sure to get his heart. And I have to aim for the Eminem poster. The splatter. I hope this range is close enough for the splatter. It looks right.
Ethan cocked the gun, the clicking sound deafening in the midst of the silence. His index finger moved directly to the smooth trigger, making him instantly aware that he was going to have to use more strength than the games at the video arcade made one believe. Mark didn't need anything but the clicking of the weapon to react, leaping to his feet on the mattress an instant after the sound filled the room. He lunged forward and dove off the bed, arms outstretched, directly toward Ethan, and directly toward the barrel of the weapon. It was a fast move, but not nearly fast enough.
Pull the trigger.
Now! Now! NOW!!
THWACK!
"Ouch! Jesus," Ethan mumbled as his head hit the floor, almost hard enough to bring him right out of his daze.
He opened his eyes slowly and jerked his head back and forth, taking in the room around him with intense fascination. He could feel his hands shaking, his forehead sweating. He looked down, realizing that his white tee shirt had also been dampened somewhere along the line.
"Thank god…thank god," he muttered to himself, making a futile attempt to get his breathing under control as he lay sprawled out on the floor. "A dream…"
He brought the back of his hand to his forehead, wiping away the cold sweat that had formed there, and immediately moved his palm to the back of his head. He pulled it away, staring at it in the dark room while his eyes adjusted. No blood. At least he wouldn't end up with a concussion from falling off the bed. He'd love to explain that one to Claudia.
Slowly he sat up, wrapping his arms around his legs and placing his forehead against his knees. He closed his eyes, running the dream over and over in his mind until it drifted further away, breaking in to smaller fragments as the seconds ticked by. He had never experienced anything quite like it. The reality of it all. The anxiety he swore he could feel as he crept into Mark's house. The coolness of the gun in his sweating palm. It was all there.
"I must be fucked up," he whispered to no one in particular.
He sat on the floor, rocking back and forth for a few more minutes and analyzing the experience he had just gone through. It seemed like an easier feat than attempting to conquer gravity and get back in his bed. He was still a bit dazed for that.
I'm just too paranoid, there's no way he'd actually be cheating on me. I just need to relax. Just calm down and go with the flow. Go with the flow Ethan or you'll drive yourself nuts.
He stood up from the floor, finally deciding to banish the experience to the corners of his mind. Sleep did have to return sometime after all, and it wasn't bound to happen if his brain wouldn't stop working overtime.
I do have that pistol that Mom owned. I wonder if it really feels like that.
He wiped the back of his head one last time to make sure he hadn't cut himself, realizing that there would still be a nice bump in the morning instead of the gash that he envisioned. Crawling back on the cool mattress he laid on his side, making sure not to disturb the newly sensitive area as his head hit the pillow.
"I'm definitely fucked up."
He closed his eyes and drifted back off into a dreamless slumber.
"So, what was that noise anyway?" Claudia asked, sitting at the counter with her ritualistic bowl of cereal in front of her.
"Don't ask," Ethan mumbled, reaching for the box of Grape Nuts and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
"Well it had to have been something," she pried. "I thought you might have died in there."
"Then why didn't you come check on me?" he asked with a laugh.
"Ah, but that would have required me to get out of bed, and you know that's not going to happen. Not unless I had heard screaming or smelled decaying flesh or something."
"Aww, it's nice to know you still care after all these years. If you imust/i know, I fell out of bed."
"You fell out of bed?!" The laughter couldn't be contained, which was to be expected. "Must have been some hot dream huh?"
"I wish." He hesitated for a moment. Long enough to pour the cereal. "Unfortunately there was no sign of Ashton Kutcher wearing nothing but a trucker cap. It was more like a nightmare. Pretty vivid one too."
"What happened?" She finished off her bowl, brushing past him to rinse it in the sink.
"Don't," he blurted, watching her leftover milk spiral down the drain.
"Don't what?"
"Leave that bowl in the sink."
"I wasn't planning on it Mammy, I've grasped the concept of the dishwasher."
"I was just checking. You have been well taught." He smiled, giving her a condescending pat on the head.
"Thanks, it's good to know your most anal traits are rubbing off. So, back to the dream."
He looked away. "I don't want to talk about it, but it basically stems from my typical suspicious delusions. I think Mark might be cheating on me."
"What? Why?" she asked, sounding shocked.
"Logically? No real reason. In my mind? Because he's been doing a lot of studying with a hot tutor for the past month." The tutor. Was that the guy who was in the dream? It was suddenly too hazy to remember.
"So, he spends time with the beautiful people. That's your proof?"
"I never said it was proof. It's just…" he paused for a moment, searching for the right term, "a possibility."
"Well, it's doubtful," she stated nonchalantly, not missing a beat while she placed the bowl in the dishwasher.
"You think so? I'm just being paranoid, right?"
"Well it's not like I know for sure, but Mark seems like a good guy. And as much as you'd like to keep him locked away in your bedroom until the end of time, he is bound to come in contact with attractive men on occasion."
"A valid point," he said with a smile, running his fingers through his hair. "Why can't I just handcuff him to my wrist? Maybe get him one of those ankle bracelets. 24/7 surveillance watch."
"Some men might enjoy that," she said dryly.
"Like yours maybe?"
"That information is confidential," she snapped back, smiling. "Just remember, we do tend to let our imaginations go into overdrive when it comes to our respective mates."
"Tell me about it. Like that time you convinced yourself that Kevin had run off with a Russian bride named Sophia that he ordered over the internet."
"Yeah," she laughed. "But it turned out that he didn't call because he was stuck working a double shift. That was a very nerve racking time you know."
"Yes, how can I forget that eight hours of hysterics? At least I can keep an eye on my guy…get ready to issue the smackdown if I have to."
"Exactly! Kevin is an entire state away. So when you want to talk real, Oliver Stone level paranoia, let's chat about that one."
"Yeah, you're right," he admitted, breathing a sigh of relief at having his worries disproved. "What would I do without you anyway?"
"Probably go Cuckoo's Nest. Just remember -- don't freak out until you have an actual reason to."
"Well…I guess I do kind of have a reason," Ethan mumbled between bites of his cereal.
"And that would be what?"
"Mark's just been kind of distant," he said, suddenly dropping the lighthearted tone. "He seems…ya know…different. He has for the past couple of weeks."
"Well…different how?" she asked, sounding slightly more concerned.
"I don't know. He hasn't been calling as much for one thing. He used to come visit me nearly every day at work, which he has been neglecting to do. And when we're together he just seems like he has an elsewhere he'd rather be. I'm tellin' ya, my boyfriend's intuition is picking up on some strange signals."
"And…" she paused, hesitating for a moment before letting the rest of her question escape. "You're sure it's him?"
"Meaning…what?" he asked, confused. "He doesn't have an evil twin as far as I know."
"I just mean…" she paused again, averting her eyes and staring at a random spot on the countertop. Something she often did while diving into uncomfortable topics. "You've been different over the past month. You know, considering everything that happened with your mom."
"Yeah, and considering everything that's happened with my mom, you'd think Mark would be around more, not less."
"I just mean, maybe he just doesn't know how to handle it. Or – or handle you I mean. Or, ya know…the whole thing."
"You can say it," Ethan smiled dimly. "The death thing."
"Yes, that – that thing. He's never lost anyone has he?"
"No…" he trailed off, rinsing out his cereal bowl and completing the morning routine of placing it in the dishwasher. "That could be it I guess. I've been trying to act as normal as possible around him though, I don't want to weird him out."
"Maybe he's just not sure how to act around you, or what he should do. I mean…I -- I'm your best friend and it's confusing for me sometimes. I never know if I should talk about it, or avoid the topic like it's one of those Mormon missionaries that goes door to door."
Ethan laughed. "Well, it's not that scary. You can talk about it. He can talk about it. We can all talk about it. I'm fine."
"Well good," she said, preparing to steer the subject in a less dire direction. "Or, that might not even be it. Maybe he's just been planning something big for your birthday next week. A big number twenty-one birthday extravaganza."
"Possibly." He let out a sigh, hopping up and taking a seat on the counter. "I should just talk to him about it."
"Yes. Finally, Logic Boy makes an appearance in the conversation."
"It doesn't happen often, enjoy it while it lasts," he cracked. "I'll just ask him what the what is next time I talk to him. We'll work it out."
"Good," Claudia exclaimed. "And if he actually is cheating on you, I give you permission to kill him."
He blinked quickly as he heard the words escape from her lips.
Kill him.
The flood of images suddenly came rushing back into Ethan's brain, like a fast motion slideshow of nightmares. 675 AHJ. The small shred of light. Remove the safety. Naked. Fucking. Riley. The trigger. The splatter. Now.
"A joke, Ethan. You can smile, it's okay." Claudia was staring at him, a perplexed look on her face.
"Right, sorry," he blurted, managing a tiny, forced grin. "You've got class."
"Uh…um -- thanks. You've got a lot of class too."
"No…I mean, I know I do. But college class. Psychology? Twenty minutes." He pointed to the clock on the microwave.
"Oh! And here I thought you were giving me a compliment." She disappeared into the other room, passing by in a blur not thirty seconds later with her backpack slung over her shoulder. "Remember your goal for today?"
"Uh…" he hesitated, thinking for a moment. "To give the movie theater patrons the most oversized, overpriced heaps of artery clogging snacks that they can handle?"
"Yes, there's that. And to pay the power bill. It's already overdue, you'll have to take it down to the payment place so we're not living like the Amish tomorrow."
"Oh, goodie," he muttered. "I didn't want that paycheck anyway."
"You still have my half that I gave you yesterday, right?" Her hand was already on the doorknob, just waiting for a response so she could hightail it to campus.
"Yeah, I do. I'll take care of it."
"Okay, I'll see ya tonight."
Before he could manage a friendly goodbye she was already out the door, heading to her car and preparing to go plow toward a degree in something or other. He glanced at the clock yet again. One hour until work. Also known as the extremely demeaning, soul sucking exercise for which he'd earn slightly more than minimum wage for successfully completing the tasks of timely popcorn scooping and proper soda selling. Oh, and don't forget the thrill a minute that comes while cleaning out the nacho cheese machine.
The excitement just doesn't end.
Ethan hopped down from the counter and walked into his bedroom, taking the movie theater uniform from the closet and laying it out on the bed. Black pants, white shirt, and a vest designed for the fashion impaired. He hardly glanced at it as he kneeled down on the floor, reaching into the dark vortex of the underneath and pulling out a long cardboard box from amidst the dust bunnies. The box he'd only had the courage to open once before.
It had two simple words scrawled on the top, obviously the product of a thick black marker: Mom's Stuff.
The box had come in the mail about a week after Ethan returned home from the funeral in Las Vegas. His older brother, always the king of organization, had gathered up a variety of things that seemed fit for the youngest son to hold on to. He had cut through the packing tape, opened the box, glanced through it for about five minutes and then put it out of sight and out of mind. Hiding it under the bed until a stroll down memory lane didn't seem like a painfully impossible adventure.
Now that it had been a few more weeks, the time had come. Ethan slowly opened the cardboard flaps and peered inside at the organized chaos, immediately noticing his mother's obituary sitting on top of the pile of photos and knick-knacks. He had tossed it in there after the initial opening, wondering why he had even needed to bring the announcement back home with him. He had stared at it during the entire flight back to Washington, realizing that it only took a few words typed on one small portion of a newspaper page to suddenly make the death real.
It was proof.
The manager at the movie theater had actually asked him to bring the clipping in when he returned to work a week later. Just to show that he had truly been missing from his important snack bar duties due to a death in the family, not just making it up so he could take a wild road trip down to Disneyland. It was like playing some sort of morbid version of show and tell.
I should have just sent for her ashes and tossed them all over Mr. Knox's desk, he thought to himself. That would have been proof enough.
He moved the obituary aside and pulled out a clump of random pictures, sifting through them slowly. There were images from his childhood frozen there, back when it used to be the kind of thing worth capturing on film…before his dad had died and his mom had lost her light. Little Ethan in the swimming pool. Riding a bike. Wearing his ninja pajamas. Opening Christmas presents. Playing with the family dog. And of course, the requisite naked in the bathtub picture that every parent had to take of their child. Then there were even older ones, marked with faded colors, folded corners and missing the glossy sheen of the newer memories. His parents were captured there, standing with their arms around each other on a dusty mountaintop, the sun setting in the distance behind them. His father had a bushy moustache and his mom's hair was its natural dark color, long before he was even born. Long before he was even thought of.
They looked happy together.
Ethan glanced at the picture for a moment longer before setting the pile off to the side. It was time to find what he was looking for. He dug through the random trinkets, lifting up more photos, pushing aside the jewelry box that held the wedding rings his parents had exchanged, taking out the guest book that had been signed by visitors at his mother's funeral. He kept digging until he could see the light brown cardboard at the bottom, with the item he had literally dreamt about resting on top of it.
The pistol.
He took it out and held it in his hand, his finger placed gently on the trigger just as it had been in his mind. He looked at the safety, noticing that it was still on. His mother had kept the gun in the drawer of her nightstand ever since his dad passed away, simply for protection in case of the worst possible scenario. She had thankfully never had to use it.
It feels heavy, Ethan thought to himself, aimlessly pointing the barrel toward the carpet. It feels exactly how I imagined it did. And I bet if I shot it I would feel the sensation run up my entire arm for a split second. But only for a second.
Of course, I'd have to remove the safety first. The most important step. The one that so many people forget while they're busy panicking.
Ethan stared down at the weapon for a moment longer, suddenly feeling confused as he wondered why on earth he'd felt an urge to look at it in the first place.
I'll never have any use for this thing.
He quickly broke his trance and set the gun back at the bottom of the box, being especially gentle since he had a terrible paranoia that it would manage to go off by itself. A minute later and the random heirlooms were back on top, leaving the pistol completely covered and out of sight. Ethan closed the cardboard flaps and shoved "Mom's Stuff" back underneath his bed, waiting for some day in the future when he would actually be up to the task of organizing it all.
I really should get a photo album for those pictures, he thought to himself. All of those frozen pieces of time, sitting in there, piled on top of one another so each one is indistinguishable from the next. Slowly gathering dust and fading ever so slightly. They deserve better than that.
Both of them do.