Title: Shoot the Star
Rating: T
Pairing: Gamzee/John
Summary: Why is there purple paint in you backyard? AU
Notes: This is more like a filler chapter. Sorry for such a late update. School man. School.
You feel like crying.
Your dad's eyes are open so wide they're virtually bulging from their sockets, a hint of terror laced in his gaze as he continues to stare across the bathroom where Gamzee sits hunched over his knobby gray knees, strands of damp hair plastered to the sides of his face like thin wire tubing. The bathwater is dyed an ugly dark color and the floor is stained with droplets of purple and red, your blood and his, and for the first time you realize how utterly terrifying it all looks. No wonder your dad looks as if he's just seen a ghost.
"John."
You whimper and let your body sag against the hallway wall, shutting your eyes close when a particularly sharp stab of pain stems from the side of your face. At your feeble cry, your father tears his eyes away from Gamzee and shuffles closer to you, pressing a wide, warm hand to the uninjured part of your face.
"John, what the hell is going on here?" you hear your Dad croak from above you, his hand dropping to the swell of your shoulder. His fingers smear against the blood that has already accumulated there, rubbing small, soothing circles against you. Though he's trying to be reassuring, you can tell how apprehensive he is, as if he would suddenly scoop you into his arms and bolt right out the house. You hate yourself right there and then. You've never seen your dad this petrified before. Before you know it, your cheeks feel warm and moist and there are big fat tear drops streaming down your face and over your chapped lips, sticky and salty as you taste them on the tip of your tongue.
"I'm sorry," you sob, your chest heaving as you take in a deep gulp of breath. You can't think of anything else to say other than streaming out a garbled mess of apologies. You know you're in the wrong here for even thinking you could try to hide something as…something as strange and inhuman as Gamzee. You shouldn't have listened to him; you should have called the police as soon as you had found him! You really don't need Captain Hindsight to tell you all the things you should have done. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." You feel like you're 10 years old again, about to get scolded by your father and dreading every single second of it. You take deep breaths between your cries as a phlegmy membrane of mucus amasses in your throat.
"Who is he?" your dad asks you with an edge to his voice, fingers tightening around your shoulder. Of course he would sound like that—he has no idea who you've just brought into the house.
Gamzee lets out a loud raucous cough, splatters of purple blood ejecting from his mouth into the murky bath water. He lifts his head up, spluttering, hands coming up to rub away at the spittle that coats his mouth. It scares you when he suddenly turns his head and shifts the hair out of his face, staring at you and your dad with sedated purple eyes that are so much like a cat's. Your dad lets out a chaste gasp, subconsciously taking a step backward. He whips his head towards you, eyes even wider, mouth slightly agape.
"What is he?" he whispers. Gamzee coughs again, blood once more spurting from his mouth. Your dad inhales. "It's purple. Why is it purple?" He sound alarmed. You stare up at him with quivering eyes, trickles of blood still streaming down your face.
"I don't know!" you say precariously, trying to convey all the emotions you can't form into words through your eyes. Your dad looks down at you as if he's just had the epiphany of the century.
"All that blood out in the back…?" he trails off.
"Yeah," you breathe, feeling a slight bit delirious. You press the rag cloth even tighter to your face. "Dad, I don't feel so good."
Your father grunts under his breath, frustration evident in the way his whole body tenses up, the way you can see the muscles along his neck clench as he grits his teeth.
"I don't have time for this!" your father finally snaps, swiveling you around. "I have no idea what's going on here, but we'll deal with that later. Getting you to the ER is more important."
"B-but, he- dad! We can't just leave him here! " you stammer, panic starting to course through your body once more. You can't just leave Gamzee alone and unattended in your house! What if he tears the place up or runs away or attracts unwanted attention to himself?
"We're going to have to," your father interjects, a sense of finality to his tone. He then turns back towards the bathroom and warily eyes Gamzee, beads of sweat starting to form on his temples.
"But the house!" you say frantically.
"Forget the house John!" your Dad all but shouts. He bends down until his eyes are level with yours, grey irises serious and solemn. "The house and everything in it are just material things, stuff that can be replaced. I can't replace you son." You immediately close your mouth shut and go ram-rod straight, a thick clump of something that's not exactly mucus lodging in your throat. Your eyes water a bit, irritated and glossy, but you blink them away. You've never seen your dad this out of sorts, or this desperate, and the fact that he's so clearly in a state of distress strikes home . Even though you don't want to go to the hospital or leave Gamzee behind, you also don't want to worry your father by catching some kind of infection and keeling over. The doctors will be able to stitch you up and then you can go back home and deal with all this properly.
You feel your dad urgently push at your back, trying to get you moving towards the stairs again, and before you get any farther away, you peer over your shoulder and managed to yell, "Gamzee, stay here! Do not leave this house! STAY!"
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You're in the car holding the cloth to your face, the seat-belt just a little too tight around your chest. There's an unnerving and uncomfortable silence within the cabin of the car, you nor your father saying a word. His fingers are wound tight around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, his eyes trained solely on the quiet road ahead.
"John," he prompts you. You raise your head and lean back further into the passenger seat, dreading having to say anything.
"I don't know dad," you let out a pitiful whine, eyes glossing up.
"Okay then, he's wearing a costume,. He's one of your friends from school who happens to be in a rather unfortunate set of circumstances," he mutters to himself, although his voice sounds rather loud in the small vicinity of the car. He's lying to himself and you can hear it. "I can call CPS and get this all settled."
"No," you groan, shaking your head. The act makes you wince as you jostle your wound a little too roughly. Oh no, the word vomit is about to commence, you can feel it. Your tongue feels lose and your mouth doesn't want to close. "I found him in the back yard like that! He was just- he was just sitting there bleeding all over the grass and he looked like he was gonna' die!"
You turn to your father, a strange tingling sensation washing over your body. You tense up. "Dad, what kind of sick person does to that someone? To make them bleed like that? He was so bad that he wasn't moving or doing anything to get help, and that's something you would do in a near-death situation right? You'd call for help right? But he wasn't and he was still bleeding and he looked so fucking terrible! I'm sorry I took him in without your permission, but I had to!"
You're huffing and heaving as if you have just ran a marathon, goosebumps trailing down your back and arms as the image of Gamzee slumped against your white picket fence comes to mind. He had looked so incredibly vulnerable when you had found him slumped over himself, leaking bodily fluids and plastered head to toe in blood and mood. How could you have not done something?
"He looked alright to me," your father murmurs.
"You should have seen him before his bath," you respond, hunching your shoulders. "He looked horrible."
"You should have called the police," your dad rebukes, reaching out a hand to toggle with the radio. He hits the track button and presses it a few times, stopping at track number six. The music of The Ames Brothers trebles softly from the speakers, their harmonic voices having a sort of energizing effect on you. Despite the intense pain stemming from your wound, you find yourself tapping your foot along to the beat of "Rag Mop".
"He told me not to!" you bark out, fiddling with the strap of your seat belt.
"Dammit John, if he told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it? Doesn't it sound just a bit suspicious that he didn't want professional medical help when he clearly needed it? You're probably harboring a convicted felon, a psychopath for all you know!"
"I was scared! Shit like this doesn't happen every day!" you shout in defense.
"Watch your mouth young man!"
Your face flushes an angry red and looks even darker against the blood still running from your wound. You grit your teeth and turn away from him, your eyes settling on the outside world as it passes by in a blur.
"Besides," you whisper, sounding grave. "I…I don't think he's human."
Your dad continues driving, silence hanging thick and heavy in the air, impenetrable even, and when neither of you say anything for a good amount of time, he does a double take and finally looks at you as if he's just noticed your presence.
"You're being serious?" he asks you skeptically, an incredulous laugh to his voice.
"You saw his blood—it's purple!"
"Blood packet with a little food coloring, a classic prank," he retorts.
"You saw the blood outside and in my room and all over the bathroom. You smelled it dad. It smells just like blood."
Your dad clams up at this. "The horns?"
"Real."
"Claws?"
"Real."
"How do you know?" he questions suspiciously, not at all convinced. You solemnly turn your face towards him and lower the rag cloth, pointing towards the gash on the side of your face. Your dad gulps.
"He's real, I touched him," you say softly, rubbing your thumb over the course rag cloth that's nearly drenched in your blood. Your dad makes a grimace and you don't know if it was because of the blood or something else. "His eyes are weird and he has real fangs- he even bit me too!" You hold up your arm with the puncture marks that are still embedded in your flesh. They've probably turned darker by this point, but you're not too sure. You'll have to remove the soggy bandage and wrap it again. You could wait for the doctor to do that though. "I don't have any idea what he is or where he came from, but he did mention something about…"
Your father turns on his blinker and makes a left turn, your body shifting in the seat. "What?" he queries.
"..another planet."
He lets out a frustrated laugh, using one hand to wipe at his face in irritation. "This is absolutely ridiculous John. You can't tell me that you actually believe- ."
"I'll show you! When we get home, if he's still there, I'll show you okay?" you say, a little exasperated. "I'll talk to him. Let's talk to him. We'll both find out what the heck's happening here."
"I'm going to call the police when we get home," he mutters tersely.
"No! He isn't human! You've seen the movies, you've seen what happens!"
"Then Sector 7."
You can't believe your dad is joking at a time like this. Is this happening? Is this a thing that's happening right now? Is he really making a reference from Transformers of all movies? How can he remember that anyway; you only watched it with him one time! He's the kind of guy who'll only watch old TV shows and movies from the 40s to the 60s anyway, stuff like Harvey and Pandora and the Flying Dutchman.
His eyes shoot a quick glimpse at you and you notice that he starts to grow peeved when he sees that you're still staring at him as if he's grown two heads. He frowns at you.
"What are we going to tell the doctors?" you whisper. He remains silent for a second, then sighs.
"Just tell them what you told me. You were doing a science project and everything went terribly wrong. "
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Four hours later and the both of you are still in the car parked outside your garage sitting silence as you both stare at nothing in particular. Your face is newly stitched and very sore to the touch, and without that extra dose of morphine pumping through your system, you imagine you would be in a heck of a lot of pain right about now. You have a plastic Walgreens bag filled with Advil bottles, rolls of gauze, a heavy duty tube of Neosporin, and some other medical supplies that you convinced your dad on getting. You can never have too many medical supplies in the house.
"You realize we're going to have to take him to the hospital if his injuries turn out to be serious," your father breaks the silence, resting his fingers along his temple. He shoots you a glimpse.
"They're not too bad as far as I know," you respond slowly. "He's really banged up and he has scratches here and there, but I don't think anything's broken."
"We'll see. Well then, shall we?"
You nod at him and open the car door, sliding the plastic bag handle over you wrist. Your cheek throbs and aches faintly and it feels sort of heavy with the thick bandage over it.
Once both of you are out of the car and the vehicle is sealed and locked, you both shoot each other wary glances and move across the driveway, your steps meticulous and unhurried. Every step you take your heart beats just a bit faster, a bit louder, and the by the time you're both in front of the door with your dad's keys brandished out in front of him, you almost feel your knees start to buckle. You really, really hope that Gamzee's still in there. You hope he didn't go bat-shit insane while you guys were away and terrorized the house. You hope he didn't manage to hurt himself.
The sound of a quick, precise click brings you out of your thoughts. You turn your head to the side and find that your dad has a switchblade in his other hand, the sharpened metal gleaming in the last residual remnants of sunlight. In another hour, it would be completely dark out.
"Dad!" you hiss at him, pointing to the blade. "It's not like he's going to charge and attack!"
"You don't know that son," he quickly replies, thumbing the blade's handle. "On second thought, I want you to stay out here. Wait by the car; here are the keys just in case." He throws the car keys at you and you catch them against your chest, quickly stuffing them into your pocket. You make to protest, but he quickly silences you with a sweltering glare. You grumble and waddle your way towards the car, leaning your back against the passenger side door. Your dad peers over his shoulder and mouths the word "stay" and turns away, jamming the key into the lock and turning it. You watch with apprehension as he slowly pushes the door open, taking a moment to peer inside from his place on the front porch, before he holds the blade a little higher and takes a tentative step inside. His form is lost to you and you can feel yourself start to panic. You imagine scenarios where Gamzee thunders his way down the stairs lost in a delirious stupor, you imagine him hiding behind the couch and pouncing on your dad when he isn't looking, razor sharp talons tearing into your father's flesh as easily as they had torn into your own.
"Fuck this," you whisper frantically to yourself. You have to make sure your dad's okay. You can deal with scolding later. You peel yourself away from the car and begin twisting the plastic bag handles until it braids into a rope, hauling the sack of supplies over your shoulder. It was better than nothing. You step onto the porch and cautiously shuffle your way over the threshold, eyes immediately scanning the surrounding area. Everything appears to be normal. The living room looks intact, the kitchen a little messy scattered with empty cake molds and bowls of batter.
"Dad," you call out hesitantly, your voice weak sounding.
"Up here John, in your room, everything's fine," your father responds instantly, his voice distant and muffled while the low baritone reverberates off the house walls. You halt in your tracks, letting the bag drop to the floor. That was sort of anticlimactic, but you're not complaining. You rush over to the stairs and take your time scaling them, halting right before your doorway.
You eye the scene with wide eyes. Your dad stands close to you, near the doorway, staring across your room with a dubious expression. Gamzee is sprawled across your bed naked and dry. His hair is sprawled about your pillow and frames his face sparingly, eyes closed and bare chest slowly heaving up and down. His gray skin is littered with purple crusted cuts and dark bruises, and judging by your dad's expression, you can tell he's disturbed by the sheer amount of damage done to the lanky, wiry frame. Gamzee is asleep, low thrums and vibrations echoing from his throat as he breathes. His long limbs are also splayed along the bed, his feet hanging over the edge of your mattress—he's so tall. The only thing covering his body was a seashell-print yellow towel shielding his lower regions. You stare up at your dad and arch a brow.
"I threw a towel on him," he frowns, his expression on the borderline of either puzzlement or revulsion. "I think you may be right John. About him not being human."
"You believe me now?" you ask incredulously, leaning against the door frame. Your father gives you a quick nod. "What made you change your mind?"
"I'd rather not talk about it," he grimaces. You merely shrug your shoulders. As long as he believes you, you don't really care. You take a few steps forward, your father's hand shooting out in front of you to stop you from moving any further. You shoot him a wide-eyed stare.
"Don't go near him," he whispers down at you. "If he could do that to your face, he can do much more."
"But it was kind of my fault he scratched me," you blurt, staring across at Gamzee's slumbering form. "I accidentally got shampoo in his eyes and he kinda' wigged out on me."
"What about the bite mark?"
"Again, I got too close."
"Then we shouldn't keep him here," your father says as he takes a final glance at Gamzee, before turning around and stepping out into the hallway. You follow after him, shooting glances over your shoulder.
"He needs our help!" you protest.
"He's dangerous."
"But he's not human! They'll do stuff to him."
"John, please don't argue with me on this," your dad huffs through an aggravated sigh.
"No!" you taunt, stepping in front of your father. "He's clearly not from here and he's really hurt, how would you feel if you were suddenly thrown on a different planet while you're bleeding to death, and when you think you're going to get help from someone nice, they turn you into the police, or worse, scientists! They'll have a field day with him!"
Your dad doesn't say anything in response; he merely stares at you with a squint to his eyes. "You don't know if he's from a different planet."
"He could be! Jesus dad!" you grumble, throwing your hands in the air. "You've taught me all my life to be kind to people, to give them the benefit of the doubt, and dammit, that's what I'm trying to do." By this time, your chest is heaving and your face feels heated, your pulse rate skyrocketing as smalls flames of anger lick at your insides. You're frustrated and irritated and you just don't get why he can't understand you. He hadn't talked to Gamzee, so he doesn't know about the strange yet friendly personality he had. The way he talked to you as if you were a longtime friend.
Your father's heavy set sigh makes you calm down, refocusing your attention back on him. He looks defeated and tired and just a little bit miffed, but soon enough, a very small smile plays on his lips and he raises a hand to ruffle it through your messy black hair.
"I'm proud of you," he says softly, and even though you're still kind of mad, you smile back at him. The breath you've been holding whooshes out of you and you let your shoulders slump. "But we're going to keep him in your room until he wakes up and I don't want you going anywhere near him until I look him over myself."
You nod.
"In the meantime," he continues. "We're going to go downstairs and have something to eat, then we'll go set up the guest room."
By now, your smile is wide and your injured cheek kind of hurts, but you can't help it. You're relieved and happy and you're so, so glad that you managed to get your dad on your side.
"But listen John," he interrupts, looking down at you with a stern stair. Your smile falters and you go still. "We're going to have to keep this under wraps until we figure out who he is and where he comes from. Since you're so adamant about helping him, it's up to you not to breathe a word about this to anyone, not even your little online friends. And I don't want you going near him without me, you hear."
You nod enthusiastically. "I swear I won't say anything, my lips are sealed. Thank you, thank you dad." And you mean it. You want to thank him for being an amazing father, for being so understanding, for not blowing this way out of proportion, because you know for a fact that it could have gone way down south.
"I swear John, don't even go near you room unless I'm there," he stresses again. "We're going to avoid this floor for a while, at least until we're done eating." He turns around and closes your bedroom door and then grabs your arm and leads you back down the stairs. You watch his back as he climbs down. His shoulders are still hunched; his back stiff and tense and you know he still feels on edge, uncomfortable, as if at any moment, Gamzee would come rocketing out the room to kill you both. You have a feeling he's going to be stuffing all sorts of baking utensils and knives in his apron just so he could have some sort of weapons arsenal on him to make him feel safe. You won't be surprised if you find cans of shaving cream in there too.
You both head to the kitchen where you take a seat at the wooden mahogany table, practically draping yourself over the hard surface. Your dad looks into the fridge and rummages around through its contents.
"You still feel up for a burger?" he asks, taking out a bottle of ketchup and mayonnaise. You give him a weak thumbs up.
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Notes: Please review! Sorry for such a late update again. Go Gamzee/John! did you guys see dat update. hubba hubba