Wolf Creek Campgrounds, Wyoming
Kidnapping: Week Two
Be silent. They said. A hand clamped over his mouth when he cried out unable to keep it bottled inside, rattling like crushed glass in his throat. He tried to speak but the words cut him up as they fell out, pinpricks of small sharp agonies that pulsed, nerves sparking like livewires that snaked through his body.
Be still. They said. Rough hands raked over tanned skin, goosebumps raised along naked limbs; they painted his body with blood and bruises, blunt nails digging half-moon grooves into his hips. He became their bloodied canvas of living, breathing flesh - each night they added a new layer of red.
Connoisseurs of the little death, he was now more Picassian abstract than man as they rearranged his parts to suit their desires. If he looked into a mirror would he even recognize who stared back? Would it be him looking back or black, empty sockets with no eyes.
Stitched together strawman. They said. He pressed his hand over his ears to drown out the crashing, cackling, laughter as they said it again and again, shiny black-eyed crows pecking at open wounds. Whore. They said. Pressing bitter and salt into his mouth, he was sick with it, even as they touched with false-kindness moving him in ways he did not want to be moved. 'No' he thought, but what was one voice shouted into a storm? A penny dropped into the Atlantic seabed.
Be quiet. They said. In by inch cracking him open until everything that was meant to be secret and hidden below the surface was laid bare to open skies and prying eyes and grasping hands that took and took and took.
Fangs sank into the meat of his neck. Marking. Pink ragged edged wounds that would never heal. He gouged red weeping lines into his own flesh - aching to feel something besides the cold numbness filling his empty corners.
'Time, time is the great healer' he thought, but did not believe in the places where it might matter. His spirit was the last flickering of a dying fire, burning solely to spit in the eye of the storm that smothered. It was not enough. How could it be?
Be still. They said once more. Devouring him whole, wolves eating of the caribou as it still breathed, slowly dying in the dirt as life-blood stained the snow black. He was submerged, head forcibly driven below the surface of a Stygian river of violent death. He struggled to break the surface and they stole the breath from his lungs, rushing inside, taking him over.
Demons that he could not exorcise from his body.
'No more' he thought, as he fell backward into its violent embrace, the rushing of the river.
He was too tired to swim for that faraway shore, the gleaming mirage of golden sand and hope flickered before his eyes. His limbs were exhausted from thrashing and kicking against them as they tore at him, teeth and claws gouging deep below the skin.
Distantly he felt calloused fingers and a strong, familiar grip tugging at his wrist.
Was someone calling his name?
He knew that voice...surly, bullheaded, and loved.
'Henry? Don't you be dead, you hear?'
Henry did not speak, made voiceless by the water rushing over him, an invisible prison that caged his words deep inside. No matter, it was too late, he was too far under to break the surface. He surrendered - let the water take him where it will.
It lashed against him and he did not fight as he began to sink, down, down, down he fell into the soundless abyss.
He had no breath to cry out for help - there was no one here but him.
Who would come if he found the voice to call out?
There were only monsters, here in the murky dark.
Someone was reaching, a hand grasping into the black uncaring of the things that lurked below the surface. Did he not see the wreck they had made of him? A rusted knife with a blunted edge, a storyteller who had forgotten the words.
Useless...
No, he would not answer.
'Henry!'
He was too cold, all warmth that he had once known dwindled down to cinders and ash that would no longer burn.
He closed his eyes.
Henry came awake gasping his eyes rolling and wild as he struggled, restrained limbs thrashing as he fought to drag in huge lungs full of air. It had felt like thrashing inside an invisible prison until his will gave out and he no longer had the strength to try, bogged down by watery weights that pulled him into the deep. He could almost taste it on his tongue, the bitter tang of salt water gushing into his lungs, he wanted to wrap his arms around his stomach as phantom pain ricocheted down his ribs and torso. He lay there on the mattress half curled in on himself breathing hard through his mouth while he worked to calm the clamoring of his heart thunk-thunk it went, pounding against his breastbone as though it might break free its fleshy prison. He felt like he had been drowning; his chest aching, limbs tired from thrashing against an ocean of water that did not exist anywhere except in his head. Exhaling a ragged breath Henry dropped his head onto his arm.
"What the fuck," he muttered, cringing at the sweat beaded on his face. "Walt" he said, in answer to the vision dream, his voice cracking even as he whispered it into the silence of the room. His mouth shaped the word, a silent mouthing of the unspoken, again and again, but he did not speak it for fear that he might never stop.
He folded in on himself as much as he could, blinking the wet film of tears from his eyes. He hated that part of him wanted to curl up and just...sleep until all this became something lesser, as though it was some dream he could shake free of. He knew better, but still, the desire lingered. Every inch of him ached. Locked in permanent stasis, time ceased to have meaning; days passed in the blink of an eye, and moments became infinite. Had it only been two weeks? It was hard to tell, but he did not think it had been much more than that.
He knew he was growing far too used to it, this new pain, it was becoming more and more a part of him with each day that passed and yet the unpleasant shock of it remained as fresh as a wound newly cut.
'Lie still,' they said and he did.
'Open your mouth,' they said, and the pale gleam of a knife pressed to his jaw ensured compliance.
'Be quiet,' they snarled, pressing him down into the mattress that squeaked as much as his own bed at the Red Pony. He would need a new one, if he returned home. Every time he heard the metal springs screech he would become entangled in the memory of this.
He had a choice he supposed. It just was not a very good one.
He tried fighting and it had not worked, this was not a movie, the restraints did not miraculously begin to loosen no matter how hard he pulled, or how desperately he prayed that they might - the blood flaking his wrists were proof enough.
He had tried.
Short of a conveniently abandoned paper-clip the only other option was that of the trapped wolf who chewed through its own paw in a last bid for freedom. It was a choice, in a way, but it was not one he would act upon. He lived, he breathed, so long as there was that there existed the chance, however slim, that he might find a way to escape.
For each will, there was said to exist a way. He just had not found the door to it yet. Enough, he scolded, something hot and fiery rising, smothering the wellspring of pity.
As he calmed the mad racing of his heart he saw the pale slivers of sunlight breaking through the dim RV lightening on the bed in scattered rays of gold. It was such a small, pretty thing, light piercing the dark with bright sunshine that he could not resist turning his face into it. He leaned his body into the places it touched on the mattress; if he closed his eyes it left the soft impression of a light embrace, a lingering warmth, like a feather-soft caress trailed against skin that was now broken open and bloodied in places he did not wish to examine.
It was pleasant to feel the warm kiss of the midday sun.
Martha's hair had looked like that to him; strands of gold stolen from the sun that shone as vividly as her white-hot spirit. That woman had been full of life, right up to the end, and even as she parlayed with Death she had not let her inner self be dimmed by the cancer. She had been an admirable woman and he and Walt had been very lucky men. He did not know why he thought of her now, of all times, but he did not regret it.
Her memory settled over him like a balmy Summer's evening, the ghost of her lips against his cheek a welcome escape.
Wyoming had been buzzing with life, green sprig's popping up from the ground, little shoots struggling against the dirt in their quest for sunlight, red-throated hummingbirds hunting for nectar from purple budded lupin's, yellow zinnia's, and shell-pink bleeding heart's. It was possible he had picked up a few things from Martha's short lived attempt at gardening.
Martha stood behind him but he knew she was there, he always did, he could scent the faint lavender perfume he knew that she dabbed at the hollow of her neck and below the curve of her breasts. He spoke her name into the quiet hush of evening, his eyes still fixed on the setting sun that lit up the rolling hills of the Longmire property.
"Martha."
She snorted, ruining her perfect angel-of-the-house image, and Henry felt another tug of gentle fondness swell up in his chest.
She stood with her arms crossed, head tilted to the side as she studied him, in a way that was oddly familiar. It was the look he most often saw on Walt's face as the man tried to figure out a clue to a case, or sometimes, when the man was looking at him.
Why he should find him a great puzzle Henry did not know.
Martha had her blond hair pulled back in a messy bun and there was a spot of white flour on her forehead.
She had been baking a pie.
"What are you doing out here by yourself Henry?"
Henry smiled, softly brushing the flour from her skin. "I thought I would give you and Walt a moment alone."
She huffed, a soft breathy sound that had him turning to look over, curious. "Well, you don't need to do that Henry."
She stepped in close enough that the scent of lavender became stronger, filling his senses as they quietly stood on what would become the cabin porch. She reached out, her small hands, delicate but strong, resting over his absently drumming fingers, quelling his restless movement.
"Come inside, Henry. It's getting late."
Henry frowned. "Late? It is barely evening, Martha."
"Come on, handsome," Martha said, insistently pulling at his hand as she tried to lead him inside the cabin. He did not wish to go, it was peaceful standing here on the precipice balanced between the now and then.
"Henry, you can't stay out here. We - we both are always missing something if you're not there, you know? Besides, you know how he is - Walt is waiting on you Henry."
Henry hummed, staring out into the forest line thinking about how he wished Summer would never end. If he could just linger, living in this moment extended into an endless loop he would not mind.
Henry had everything he could have ever wanted right here, at his side, and a few feet away inside, salivating over baked sweets. He had them, it was only a greedy man who could desire more than his.
He was many things, but not that.
"We could not have that," Henry said, turning to Martha, his hand brushing a strand of blond hair from her cheek because he could, because he was allowed.
Martha nudged him along, not wanting him to be left alone even with all the beauty of nature lighting up the view. "No, we couldn't. Besides, Walt might eat all the pie! Best hurry up, it's apple, you know."
Martha smiled wryly at his look of surprise, as though she were disappointed that he thought she had not remembered.
Apple was his favorite.
Henry ducked his head, feeling like a gently chided school-boy, a smile breaking free across his face as he followed her into what would someday be their cabin.
Martha turned at the entrance, looking at Henry with sadness that felt out of place as she stretched out her hand, "Walt is still waiting on you, honey."
Martha was still holding onto his hand but they were no longer outside the cabin. Henry did not know where he was at all, but everything was white at the edges, somewhere behind her he could see smoke pillaring from a chimney. He wondered who lived in that cabin, so isolated and far from the many comforts of civilization.
Omar, Omar Rhodes lives there, Henry thought, he and Walt had tracked a thief down that way once, though Henry knew not why it mattered. Why was he shown such a thing now?
"Henry?" Martha said, squeezing his hand tightly. "Don't you give up. He's waiting, he's looking, I promise."
Henry jolted out of the memory and his body protested the sudden movement. That was not what she had said that night. Martha's voice, soft and haunting, echoed in his thoughts. 'Walt is still waiting.' He blew out an annoyed ppft, but could not bring himself to be angry with even the ghost of Martha. He was the one who was left out, waiting, trying to hold the pieces of Walt together, hoping that what lay between them was not gone; a bridge washed out by a tide of shared grief. And it was shared but Walt forgot these things when it suited him sometimes.
Henry never gave up on his friend because even if Walt was not a perfect man, he was a good one. He was worth it of course but fuck, sometimes it had hurt being shut out like the dog on the porch. For a second as Henry waded through the haze of memory he would swear he could see her, as bright and lovely as she had ever been in life. No translucent vision for Martha, she looked real enough to touch, to hold, her blue sundress illuminated in the pale glow of the midday sun.
He blinked and she was gone but he could not forget she had come into his waking dreams like a vision of gold that brought with her the all the warmth of a Summer's eve.
She had not said those words in this life, not that night or any other night after. Had it happened like that? What had really happened that night, if not that? He shivered, unsure what it was he felt, his throat becoming dry at the phantom press of Martha's lips at his cheek, her words a soft summer breeze ghosting across the shell of his ear. Henry closed his eyes tight, breathing in the scent of lavender that had permeated the room so strongly that for a moment it drowned out the musky smell of sex that he was now stuck with until one of the men came through the place with Febreeze or, fuck, bothered to clean the sheets. It lingered with him a spell, the welcome scent of lavender, the taste of apple pie, a gentle lull shrouding him where he lay. In the end it did not matter.
Had she really been here? Of course not that would have been impossible. Henry wrapped himself up in the memory of her all the same, stealing the warmth he could from her ghostly kiss, nothing more than a memory overlaying a reality he wanted no part of. It was not usually so warm but Henry did not question it taking his small pleasures where he could in the midst of this nightmare.
He soaked up the sun, shivers breaking out across his naked skin. He could not remember the last time anything had felt so nice.
He was alone for now. He could allow this small indulgence of pale warmth against his skin. A fleeting touch that held no weight. In a few hours time the light would shift, and he would be left to the bitter embrace of confining darkness. It would move and he would be unable to follow. He was the guest who could not leave.
They came and went with their camera and its red recording dot and Henry decided he was to disturbed by what happened within the thin walls of this RV to be bothered about what happened when they finally left him alone to stitch the pieces of himself back together again. He had fewer pieces with each parting.
I wish I had closed up the bar and stayed in bed that night. I wish I had not taken out the trash bin. I could have done it in the morning. I wish...I had called Walt. Maybe he would have even picked up for a change, Henry thought, finding it amusing in a grim way to imagine what he might have even said to Walt. He really did not know. He thought, 'how about we get very drunk and never speak of it again' might have been worth mentioning, even if it made his insides ache to even consider speaking. It was pointless wonderings because he had not done any of those things but he found it a comfort to think of Walt Longmire, living in the world beyond the confines of this RV doing his job and locking up the bad guys. It was something they could not take from him.
I have known him for over 30 years, I would have liked to have known him for 30 more. We were the quiet white-boy and the Indian from the Rez. Someday - someday we would have been the grumpy old Sheriff and his Indian friend from the Rez. Some things change, but not this. Whatever else might change, we are friends. Henry knew, if he could say one thing to Walt it would be that. No matter what, friends. It would have been enough.
Walt was a good man who was very good at his job but he was not Superman, he could not be everywhere, know everything at once. There was very little chance Walt would find him - alive - Henry had made his peace with that.
His body, perhaps.
The men, possibly.
He knew Walt would try, he would move the Methodist Heaven above and Hell below for the people he loved. It did not make Henry feel better to know this.
Walt would do his best, but he was only human.
Henry did not wish to be another dead love Walt had to bury; another dead love Walt felt he had to avenge.
It is what it is, oh how my words come back to bite me right on the ass, Henry thought to himself. How many times have I said that to Walt over the years - him hating it more with each telling. I think he knew, some was just baiting to make the old bear growl. Yes, he knows me well enough for that. Henry huffed quietly just thinking of Walt's face, the angry, bullheaded look of determination he got to prove Henry wrong whenever that subject was brought up in conversation. But it would seem Karma was a cunning bitch who beat them both in the end.
Walt might enjoy knowing that. Walt liked winning, whether it was an argument, or a fistfight. He could lose with grace, Henry had seen it done a time or two, if he had too. Karma had a leg up over both of them this round - nothing for it but to take it. In the end what would be would be.
Henry wriggled the restrains that tethered him to the RV just to hear them rattle. He kept at it even as red bloomed on his skin. At this point a few more marks did not matter terribly. He wondered how long his alone time would last. He could not hear Mitch or Trig puttering around in the front section of the RV, perhaps they were outside. Perhaps they had driven off never to return and some unfortunate camper would discover his rotting corpse, hands still tethered to the metal headboard. He was not sure why, but the idea of still being restrained even in death bothered him more than the death itself. It spoke of a tethered spirit forced to wander the mortal plane the Forked Path, haunting the shadows of the living.
Okay, that got a little dark, Henry thought blowing out a breath. He could not believe that he was stuck between wishing them dead and gone, leaving him to a slow death by starvation and exposure or simply out for a short period of undetermined time before returning and fucking him some more.
This was his life, such as it was, for now.
He had no real desire to shake hands with Death but each time they fucked him, leaving him smelling like sex and stale sweat, come slick on his body he felt like he did die, just a little. And not the happy joie de vivre, little death, the French extolled. No, the shards of glass in the gut and bleeding out with an ambulance nowhere in sight kind.
Deep down he could feel the splintering of self, his spirit wandering, loosely tethered as though by a frayed rope as he struggled to remember...to remember what? Tomorrow was another day? Time was the great healer? It was cold comfort to Henry, he did not know if he would live long enough for the wounds to close and the bruises to fade back into his skin.
Left to the mercy of the suffocating silence inside the RV it was becoming harder and harder to pull himself back from the black moods, the hollowed out numbness that overtook him when they would leave. He shuddered, shoulders hunching inward and it was only with a great force of will that he derailed his mind from its grim musings. Life, no one gets out alive, Henry thought, knowing Walt would not have found his gallows humor amusing. If the man were here, he would get his say, but he was not.
Henry consigned himself to waiting, as much as he hated them, and hated them he did - with a burning fury that kept him from sinking too far into the black. He was not ready to find out what came next when this life was over.
Henry was not ready for the Camp of the Dead, but he supposed who was, in the end? There was no preparing for death, it was not afternoon tea, or the prep before rush hour at the bar.
If he laid perfectly flat and craned his neck he could just make out a partial view outside this place through the small window. This fracture view allowed him a small measure of escape. A fleeting reminder that even if it felt like all was lost, stuck staring at this ugly mustard yellow paneling, hope remained.
Life went on and people lived their lives. Someone out there was having a good day, it just was not him.
A fine misting of snow covered the ground and the trees were heavy with white snow covering their branches, they bent low beneath the added weight and if he listened beyond the rabbit-fast thump of his heart he could hear the ripple of wind over water. He bent his whole mind to listening to the softer sounds of the wild, allowing the melody of nature to drown out the rising complaints of his body and ease the ache that resided in his spirit. It was his solace. He turned his face toward the lingering sunlight and it felt nice.
A small decent thing...
Henry was ripped from his thoughts when he heard the crunch of boots on crushed snow and the harsh squeak of the RV door opening. They were back.
He stifled his rising panic by wondering who and what it would be today.
He had a 33% chance of guessing correctly. Three men, three possibilities, the man with the cam-recorder was squeamish but still happy enough to take the Benjamins and Franklins greasing his palms for his editorial filming talents. Trig is in charge, he calls the shots on this operation and the Recorder does not get his hands dirty - he is in and out, taking his money with him. Mitch is impulsive. He lacks any self-restraint and possesses a libido that would make the Pope blush. Henry ground his teeth together, jaw clenching as he breathed through the hot rush of shame burning in his gut. He wished that was not something he knew so intimately.
He clenched and unclenched his fist scraping open half-healed wounds encircling his wrists, police restraints were not gentle, their edges hard and unbending, and the men were often over enthusiastic and uncaring as they pulled him about like an intimate blow-up doll. It hurt to pull at them like this but he found the sharp sting, a small starburst of pain that chased back the chasm of numbness that threatened to envelop him completely, useful. The pain was grounding, at least, and failing that, it was something he could control.
It was little enough, but it was something. Henry could hear the metal rattle and when no one shouted for him to 'shut the fuck up' he did it again. Seeing if perhaps today something would give way. He drew himself up to his knees and put his full weight into pulling backwards, the skin around his wrist breaking open, red blood slipping down to his elbows and the blue sheets covering the mattress.
Dammit, I have to sleep here! Henry sighed, but he did not stop. The dull edges of the restraints split through skin, wedging deeper into him the harder he tugged; he set aside the pain flaring up, starting at his wrist and zinging straight to his shoulders but he ignored it. Pain is just an illusory sensation that the mind can shut down if it needs to, he told himself.
Henry knew he needed to at least try. Sweat broke out, collecting at his neck, chest, and forehead as the muscles in his back strained against the metal fixed to the wall. He did not think that even at his best he could pry the metal from the wall and he was decidedly not at his best, his eyes darted towards the heavens, seeking inspiration, but all he saw was the inky darkness of the RV. His muscles screamed in silent protest, throbbing under the unremitting pressure he placed on them.
I cannot do it, I am not strong enough, Henry thought, his lips drawing back in a wordless snarl, tears of frustration gathering at the corner of his eye like rain on a dusty mesa.
It was no use, the metal would not give; the restraints held him just as surely as the hand that squeezed the back of his neck before bending him over the mattress. He was just as fucked now as he was going to be later when they decided to remember he was here.
Henry listed against the wall, his head bowed between his shoulders. He heard the heavy tread of boots and trembled, even as he hated himself for it, shaking like a kicked dog. They were ruining him, inch by inch, taking and taking and taking until there was nothing left inside. He smelled the snow, clean and bitter cold and all he thought was how much he wanted a shower, a freezing river to leap into, anything to wipe their stink from his skin.
He once loved watching the snowfall in winter how it muffled the usual bustle of the world to a tolerable stillness and near silence. He looked at it now, white and clean, and felt more deeply the stains that clung to him, on him, inside him. He longed to scrub until skin broke and peeled so a new layer could grow over it, new skin that they had not touched. Once he had loved a bit of rough with his bed-play.
Walt, throwing him onto the bed before following him down, eyes blue enough Henry could drown in them when they were pinned on him, dark with desire. Feeling the callouses on Walt's hands as they ran up the inside of his thighs. Blunt fingernails digging in at his waist; leaving pale bruises at the crease of his hips when they made love. It was proof of another thing they had taken, he was not sure he could ever bear another man's touch again and it hurt something inside Henry to recognize that fact.
Cracks were forming, fissures spider-walking through his spirit, he could feel it, doubts sliding in like a knife between the ribs. Not even his belief in Walter Longmire would hold these wolves at bay as they ripped and tore at the tapestry of his spirit. What more will they devour, what more is left? It was a question he did not want an answer for. Henry did not think he would like it.
Fingers grip his chin dragging his head up at an awkward angle. Henry felt his resolve crumble as he allowed the touch without complaint, the fight gone out of him leaving him hollowed out and empty. The ghost of Martha, lavender and zinnias, haunted his senses and he felt himself drift, curled up in a blanket of memory.
Trig smiled down at him and Henry shivered. He was a beautiful, fallen angel with the devil peering out from the back of his blue eyes. When Henry stared into his eyed all he saw was a predator - playing with its food before it went for the jugular. Mitch was the only one who could not see it.
Trig snorted, letting go of him. "Good. Thought you were dead for a second, nothing more useless than a dead whore." Trig laughed at his own joke.
"You're already on your knees, even better."
Henry averted his eyes. "No. I am not dead."
Henry could see that Trig had a new shiny, black Panasonic camcorder in his hand and his stomach lurched. The men's enterprise had begun to pay well enough for a more expensive upgrade. He was not sure if this should please or concern him, perhaps a little of both was the reasonable response. Mostly, he just felt very tired, the walls were closing in around him, and his mind kept playing tricks in the dark. If they did not kill him, he might well go insane. How else to explain the lucid dreaming, the blank spots in his memory when he would come back to...well, whatever it was he had tried to escape in the first place.
Perhaps death would be kinder, Henry mused.
He could hear Trig unzipping his pants, the clank of his gold embossed belt buckle as it hit the floor and Henry clenched his hand to still its quaking. Henry kept his face turned away, hidden, in the shield he had made of his arm so he would not have to see. As if it mattered what he could or could not see. Still, it kept the tears back behind his eyes and it was a small choice he could make for himself.
The silence was deafening, but his ears were ringing with the chaotic static of white-noise and Trig had his hand on him, shoving him until his face was bowed into the mattress, his hips snug against the other man's dick. Trig's hands were sliding up the side of his bare flanks, cold and impersonal like a seller checking stock. He leaned forward, away from the man, and Trig grunted in annoyance.
"Stop that, you hear."
Trig groaned approvingly, grabbing at his ass and squeezing. "Not bad, old man. Mitch sure can pick grade-A ass, I'll give the boy that."
Henry exercised restraint and said nothing but his mind was whirring, weighing the pro's and con's of any choice for action he could make. Was there even anything that could be done? Best not, last time Trig got his hands around my throat the room blacked out. I woke to Mitch. I remember, the fear, it had been bright in his hazel eyes, Henry thought to himself. Until that moment Henry had not known for sure if Mitch would care if he died and it was not the first time Henry wondered what might have happened if Mitch had not been so forceful in his demands.
If they had met under different terms. Well, Walt sure as hell had not been seeing him the past months. Perhaps, perhaps not, it did not matter, it was in the past now.
Henry grit his teeth as Trig continued to run his hands over his body, palming his ass, as his fingers, wet with saliva pressed inside him, doing a sloppy, cursory job of opening him up.
Spit was a poor substitute for lube but it was better than nothing.
He hated it, regardless, even if it made penetration hurt less. He hated how the man touched him like he owned him, his body, his fingers scissoring, the burning stretch of a clinical, expeditious prep. Trig just did not want to break him yet, Henry knew that. Beyond that the man did not care.
The restraints would not break, the metal frame would not break, but he might. Henry was still aching and burning from last night, and the night before that. Fuck, it hurt - he hurt in ways he had not experienced before. Two weeks of this and each time it is like the first, Henry thought as Trig rubbed his length against his ass, slipping it between his thighs, and thrust, once, twice, moaning loudly.
Buying time for the camera, putting on a show for whoever was paying that wanted to see two young, athletic white boys screw an Indian. Henry wished he was numb to it by now, perhaps that might have made it easier, but he was not.
Trig gets off on the struggle, thrives on pain, I can see it in the light that burns in his eyes, that dark gleam of satisfaction when...when I have no choice but to...cry out, Henry thought to himself as Trig rocked his hips forward, the friction of skin on skin making Henry's nerves spark, as the man at his back talked for the camera.
Henry did not need to be listening to know what he would be saying.
'Whore,' he might say, as he worked himself into hardness.
'Indian,' as though that was a brand of its own.
'He wants it, bad' spoken into the camera as he touched Henry.
'Smile for the camera,' as Trig worked himself inside, he was always cheap with the slick, barely enough to keep Henry from screaming. Or bleeding, for that matter. He felt a little bit more like dying every time one of these men lay with him, moving inside him hard enough that his head would bang against the wall or the muscles in his legs started throbbing from the strain.
No, he did not need to listen. Henry had heard it before.
He struggled to keep a wall between what went on here and anything to do with his nights with Longmire but they were beginning to bleed into one another, their marks seeping through to sully the canvas of much kinder memories. Walt had never been this rough - no one he had lain with had ever been this rough. He was not quite a young man anymore, it took longer than they allowed for him to recover.
But what could he do?
Police restraints were not known for being easily removed, it would defeat the purpose for which they were created.
Henry did not fight, trying to lessen the damage he tried to remain calm, his limbs pliant in surrender. It would be a waste of what reserves he had left to put on a pretense of a fight. He made a half-hearted attempt to split his mind from his body so what happened next would be tolerable. Bearable. It did not help much in the end when Trig pressed new bruises into the old ones bracketing Henry's waist; there would be a colorful overlapping patchwork of blue and lilac in the morning.
Do not think of Walt...Do not think…
Henry clutched at the bedding edge feeling the coarse texture of the blue sheets wrinkle, rubbing fractiously against his fingertips, every jostle sent ripples of pain through his body, tearing from him a low-pitched gasp, muffled by the cotton pillow half-suffocating his face. The taste of copper peppered his tongue as Henry tried to muzzle the sounds, tearing to escape, clawing their way up his throat as Trig worked himself inside, a dull aching throb, like sandpaper rubbing against skin.
Henry tried not to struggle but it still hurt badly enough that his vision swam, after that it was instinctive, pushing against the wall, against the man, which only served to push Trig further inside himself, and his mangled wrists throbbed terribly. Henry felt broken and burning, too hot and too cold all at once, and not any fistfight or sucker punch had ever hurt this much. Trig had a hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing, his nonverbal warning to 'keep it down' as he snapped his hips up hard.
Henry whined softly, but was otherwise silent. Head bowed between his shoulders, his skin tingling and sweaty as his pulse raced like a jack-rabbit, thud, thud, thud, but he kept quiet. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin, just drift off into the soft darkness and not return but he did not. Henry was too afraid he might lose his way back to sever that last, worn thread. Walt, the surly bastard, might never forgive him. Fuck, he was doing it again - thinking of Walt when he should not be. Stop, Henry thought to himself, striking the wall with his head, pain reverberated through his skull, he focused on that. Just stop, he thought again as his hands aimlessly pulled at the restraints.
Trig stopped moving and Henry inhaled sharply, taking the chance to reorient himself and calm his panicked breathing, it would not do to pass out. He was afraid to with Trig pressed against this back, his hands far too close to the nape of his neck.
"Don't move, you hear?" Trig warned, his hand slapping against Henry's thigh.
"Mitch, get in here dude!" Trig shouted.
Henry could hear the clatter of plastic forks being dropped and the smell of pan fried hot-dogs and canned beans wafted into the back room. Mitch sauntered into the doorway where he slouched in an indolent sprawl with his arm propped on the mustard yellow panels.
"What?" Mitch asked.
There were small lines at the corner of his eyes, and his mouth was pulled in a taut line of displeasure.
Henry could hear the waver, the brittle strain in his voice. Mitch's possessive streak was rising to the surface again.
Mitch does not like sharing. Either Trig does not notice, but it is more likely he does not care. He is the lion here, not Mitch. It is a pity, I might have been able to reason with Mitch...he enjoys the sex. Trig, he is...baiting his hunger, Henry thought to himself as he watched the two men square off from the corner of his eye while he himself was strung out like a lamb for slaughter.
It was deeply unsettling, being smothered under two-hundred-odd pounds of a man he did not trust, with another he did not like standing watch, buck-ass naked.
Fuck, he better not say anything stupid. Henry prayed.
Mitch sighed, visibly recalibrating his attitude to deference as he rubbed a hand over the stubble darkening his jaw. "I'm not into voyeurism, you freak. What you want, man?"
"Yeah, yeah," Trig muttered, a proprietary hand gripping Henry hard enough that his blunt fingers dig into his hip-bone. Henry could feel the burn of Mitch's hard stare flicking over Trig's hand but he said nothing.
He was not stupid after all then.
Trig shifted Henry's knees wider apart, pulling out and then sliding back inside in one long, slow push. "You screwed 'em this morning didn't you? Don't you lie either - I can tell, he's tight as a two dollar whore."
Mitch shrugged, his head canted to the side. "Heh, yes? He's fucking pretty."
"Dammit, Mitch!" Trig snarled. "Did you make a video? Fuck, we can get paid for that shit, or did you suddenly forget?"
Mitch had his hand out, palm up to pacify Trig. "I got carried away, you know? Sorry. I'll film the next session, okay? Deep Inside pays well for amateur videos - we're solid for the month."
Trig relented, rocking his hips a little, hitting the spot that made Henry bite his lip bloody, keeping his gasp of pleasure behind his teeth.
Trig groaned, his head tipping forward to rest against Henry's shoulder.
"Fu-ck, okay, you're right. Get the hell out, now."
It is good to be king, Henry thought as Mitch quickly backed out of the room. It was humiliating how they talked as though he were not even present, just the body they fucked, the Whore.
"Sh-it," Trig muttered, as he worked into Henry with quick, over-eager thrusts, spreading his thighs wider to allow the black camera a clear view of the pale dick moving roughly in his ass. Henry braced himself, his restrained hands tightening on the metal headboard to keep his face from being slammed into the wall.
Trig hissed out a guttural moan as he bottomed out.
"I didn't mean it, you know," he said, running a firm hand over Henry's ribs, which were more pronounced than they had been a week ago.
Who knew, kidnapping and rape lead to a diminished apatite. That, and neither of the men could cook worth shit. Never mind Jenny Craig, Henry had discovered the real secret.
Somehow, he did not think it would sell on the market.
"Always so fucking tight to start."
He was still talking. Henry grit his teeth wishing the man would just get on with it fuck him, finish, and get the fuck out. He was tired of listening to him, to both of them. If this was the man's idea of pillow talk no wonder he could not get laid without the necessity of restrains.
But then, Trig did not want willingness, he wanted this - rough, and hard, and too fast for anything to feel good.
Trig began moving inside him, grunting and groaning, and Henry took it in silence, face twisted with pain, but made no sound.
He focused on the diagonal scratch he etched into the wall instead, on the soft link of the restraints, and the gentle murmur of the river outside.
Henry turned his face away from the recording light - a bright red pinprick in the dark. He did not want to see it, the reminder that his humiliation did not amount to more than the price of a nice blue-collar house with a white picket fence. Blanketing the world in unseeing-dark was one thing but he could not block out the sounds. The jarring metallic clank of cuffs rattling, ragged exhales and hot breath ghosting the back of his neck. Teeth sank into the side of his neck and Henry surrendered, his body becoming limp in compliance.
Drifting in the black, he could no longer feel anything - heard nothing but the ringing in his ears, as his mind was hollowed of conscious thought - beginning to shut down and turn out everything around him.
Henry imagined a cabin far, far away.
He followed the scent of lavender and zinnias, a brisk summer's eve, and worn leather from a newly cleaned gun-holster. Anywhere but here, trapped beneath the weight of a man that stank of sweat and Marlboro cigarettes as ownership of his body was trespassed. Somewhere there stood a cabin bracketed by rolling hills buried in white powdered snow, an orange fire gently flickering, it was warm and safe, and on the mantle there sat a pile of classical books, and in the bedroom an old clock.
It's soft, rhythmic tick-tock's counted down the hours until sunrise.
Absaroka Police Station
Two Weeks Ago:
Walt startled from his doze at the loud clunk of a coffee mug landing hard on his desk. Shit! He'd been sleeping on the job. And it hadn't even been good sleep, what the hell was wrong with him lately? He kept getting pulled into chaotic, troubling dreams that left him with a bad feeling he couldn't shake. He could never hold on to much of it once he'd woken from the fog of sleep, just these flashing images, white snow turning black with cigarette ash, wolves tearing into sheep staked out in the woods, and a trapped bear.
Walt knows it doesn't mean shit but it bothered him that he kept dreaming of a bear with it's leg caught in a steel-trap, metal jaws grinding into fleshy paws. He had stood over it, looked it in the eyes, and that was always when he woke up feeling like he'd just kicked a whole litter of wriggling button nosed puppies and shot their mom. His job gave him enough shit when he was awake, he didn't need his mind tormenting him when he was asleep, too.
There was this nagging, pulling sensation that had him half-ready to stuff his Stetson on his head and stomp over to the Red Pony all hell for leather, but he couldn't figure what came next when he's shoved the swinging saloon doors open and he see's Henry standing behind the bar, alive and well, and looking far to handsome for Walt's liking as he wipes down the bar-top, playing up his role as imparter of great wisdom to fall down drunks. What then? Does he follow through striding forward until all that stood between them is a slab of wood as he looked the other man in the eye and...what.
This is where the dream fell apart. What is there that he can say with people at various stages of drunk looking on?
Not what needs to be said that's for damn sure. 'I'm sorry, can we try that again' is what he thought might be appropriate but Walt didn't want witnesses or the barrier of the bar counter between him and Henry when he said that. He wanted the mad crush of lips, teeth, and tongue, hands pulling at his belt, as his own ripped open checkered flannel, buttons flying like those bodice ripper novels some women enjoyed. He wanted the heady, white rush of friction and tight heat and nothing between, ever again, but skin. Words sometimes failed him but that would make for one hell of an apology.
Ruby frowned down at him, nudging the hot beverage closer. Walt yawned, stretching his hands wincing as various joints creaked ominously. He remained seated, clearing his throat as he looked at the woman pretending he hadn't just got lost in a swell of desire at the thought of what he wanted to do to Henry the next time he saw him, an inconvenient hard-on hidden under his mahogany desk.
"Looked like you were having some dream," she remarked, pulling out a chair on the other side of his desk and making herself right at home in the leather hard-backed chair most often occupied by criminals and suspects.
The 'do you want to talk about it' remained un-verbalized and Walt was grateful. He was not a child, he didn't need to talk about the monster under his bed or who he wanted in his bed, for that matter.
He suspected it would not shock Ruby terribly; she has always been a clever woman with an ear to the latest going ons. The best thing about her was she was a rare breed of gossip - she used her powers of gab for good. Walt is not sure he and Henry have been quite as clever as they have thought they were; having been doing this song and dance a long time it was possible she had cottoned on and never said. If she knew she had never let on and if she didn't, well, that was alright because Walt had no intention of airing his private affairs in public. What he chose to do off the clock in his own home was no one's business but his and the interested party he'd brought into his bed.
Walt took the coffee she kept nudging towards him, grateful to warm his hands against the hot ceramic. He studied the cup in his hand and smiled ruefully, wrapped around the side was the image of a black bear standing at a river bank. He squinted over at the older woman, frowning. There were a lot of mugs in the cabinet, well there were four, and this was the one she had selected?
He got the message, loud and clear.
"Are you suggesting I need a break?"
"You said it Walter, not me."
"Huh."
"Honey, you sure you don't need to talk about something?" Ruby asked, leaning forward. "You kept repeating something and Walt? You seemed...upset."
Walt took a long pull from his coffee and knew heading down to the Red Pony was completely out of the question. If Ruby could tell he was unsettled Henry would take one look at him and just know. That's what happened when you've known someone since you were twelve years old he supposed. They saw through the bullshit and all those little tells and shit you could hide from strangers who didn't know the real you from Adam.
Sometimes it was great, being known like that, and other times not so much.
No. He couldn't go too the Red Pony, too Henry like this. It was too confusing between them right now. His fault, this time, he knew that sure as he knew the scar on the back of his hand, and the thin raised while line above Henry's third rib.
Walt knew he needed some time to get his head on straight before he ought to go stepping a foot in his friend's bar. He'd started something he hadn't finished, he would though, he just needed a little more time to wrap his head around where this was all going first. Henry would understand and even if he didn't Walt knew he could talk him around when it came down to it - just not right now.
Walt was good at that when it came to Henry, bringing him around to his way of thinking. Usually, Walt added on because he could be damn pessimistic when things started looking too good to be true.
He wanted a break from these strange dreams and sleepless nights, he wanted to march down to the Red Pony and...there were a lot of things he wanted presently, but he couldn't. Not hyped up on coffee and nerves, tangled in the net of a bad dream like something out of Dante. He'd make a fool of himself in front of every drunk cognizant enough to realize and he didn't need that kind of press.
"I'm fine Ruby, really," he said, mentally shaking off the remnants of emotion that his dreams had left him with. Just thinking of them, of that damned bear bleeding out alone on a snow capped mountain left him with a muted horror, cold hands wrapping around his heart and squeezing.
"Okay, okay," Ruby said, throwing up her hands, "you say your fine then your fine."
Walt paused, looking down at the bearing standing at the river bank and felt uncommonly cold. His heart jack-hammering in his chest. Wolves. He'd dreamed of wolves and they had devoured Henry whole. No, not Henry, the bear dammit, Walt thought to himself. It was not hard for him to make the connection. Walt had been thinking of Henry a lot lately, it was only natural for his dreams to cry havoc.
Walt groaned, rubbing the heel of his hand across his face. Henry was fine, he was working the evening shift today at the Red Pony. His hand reached for the landline phone gathering dust on the corner of his desk. He wanted to call him, to hear him answer with the line his bar had become known for in two counties.
It is another beautiful day
and continual soiree
at the Red Pony. This is Henry
speaking.
Walt curled his hand and let it drop, the phone untouched, dust motes undisturbed. And then what? He wasn't some kind of lovesick boy, a creeping Edward Cullen ringing up his...best friend?...lover?...partner?...just to hear him speak.
No, to stalkery, Walt thought even as his hand itched to do it and to hell with it. He curled his hand into a fist and shook his head tiredly. He needed to refocus on the case right now. Mandy Hall's would-be-kidnapper was still on the loose in his county. Bad dreams could wait. He had time to figure out what the hell that had been about when he wasn't on the clock.
Walter scrubbed at his face feeling ever single one of his years. This thing with Henry could wait, he had a job so it would have to. They'd had fall outs before, they would surely have more in the future.
They had plenty of time to work it out. Whatever it was. Later.