Title: Fearless

Rating: M for Language, Violence, Grotesquerie, and General Trippiness

Summary: A girl suffers trauma to her temporal lobe. The result: no fear. ~ Uh, I guess you don't have to squint for romance anymore. 1000 words per drabble.

Disclaimer & Important Notes: Don't own Freddy; don't own the rhymes. You know the drill.

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Frigid

(Night 75)

Freddy hasn't had a breath of fresh air in ages. The dreamworld is always stagnant and stifling to him, and he's pretty much gotten used to the burning in his lungs.

But then Ash enters the picture, pissing him off with her I'm-not-afraid schtick and her impossibly disinterested disposition. No anger, no fear—the girl is cold. It infuriates him.

It's also kind of…refreshing.

"What," Freddy asks, staring at the gleaming piece of jewelry dangling from her hand, "is that?"

He had been happily hunting piglets—two rare prizes who had stumbled in at almost the same time. He could feel their bright-hot oily fears brushing against his brain. They were about thirteen, he guessed. He'd thought he'd peel the face and scalp off one while the other watched.

But now she's gotten in the way again. Now she's leaning against the pipe next to him, playing with a glittering strand of metal. It shines like an icicle from her fingertips in the dim light.

"Birthday present," Ash says nonchalantly. She lifts her hand and the chain spins in the shadows, tossing blue-white light on the pipes and floor.

"It's a fucking heart," he says. He tries to concentrate on the little brats again, panicking in the periphery. He tries not to focus on the pendant that glows like an icecube in the red light, defying the heat of his world.

She gasps, seizing the pendant from her own hand, staring at it before turning her eyes up to him in a poor imitation of shock. He eyes her warily, and she says, "Well, holy cow. It is a heart."

Smartass, he thinks, but her face is so still, the expression so manufactured. So chilled. Her sarcasm is as quick as his own, but less eager. Calmer, cooler.

"You've forgotten how to look surprised," he growls, hoping the words hurt. His bladed fingers twitch with hunger. He wants to light her on fire. He wants to drink in some of that coolness. His throat is parched: cracked, scorching. And he hates how she is everything he's not. And at the same time, he wants it. "Must be the brain damage."

She smiles easily, unperturbed, and tosses the necklace at him. "Catch." He leaps back from it as though it is something dangerous, and the chain catches on the rough threads of his sweater. "It's not a crucifix," she says in that frost-filled, amused tone of hers. His lips curled back in a soundless snarl as he plucks it from his shirt and flicks it at her.

"Is it from that boy?" he asks nastily. "The one who wants to fuck you?"

A flicker of recognition shines in her eyes—and something else, something he can't place, but it gives him goosebumps. So cold.

"No," she says slowly, sounding momentarily distracted. "No—it's not from him." A pause, and her words bother him, but he doesn't know why—so he scowls instead. "It's from a friend, I guess." She sounds doubtful. "Someone who I guess doesn't know me very well," she adds as an afterthought, lightly.

"What?" he sneers. "You don't want a choke-chain with a symbol of love around your neck?" He says the word like it's a dirty joke. There is a scalding contempt in his voice, and laughter.

"Oh, I don't believe in love," she says indifferently.

He pauses midstep. Her voice is a finger of cold on the back of his neck, so disinterested and chilly that it prickles his burnt skin. She's unlike other stupid bitches. Still a stupid bitch, true; but different. Fresh and icy, a draught of cool water. He hates what she has, yes; and he wants it too.

I don't feel butterflies, she'd said once.

"Aren't you an icy bitch?" he grinds out, struggling to refocus his attention on the piglets twitching at the rim of his senses. He feels them flickering, and suddenly, they are gone—he nearly screams his frustration, swallowing it and biting his tongue hard enough to taste hot blood instead. He lifts his face to the sky to spew a mouthful of cursewords that Ash herself doesn't even recognize.

"Wow," she says mildly. "I think I'm impressed."

His chest heaves. "I could kill you," he seethes, though he knows the burning heat is a lie. He can't kill her, of course. Because she's so damn cold. He hates everything she is.

And he wants her, too.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleep my little baby.
When you awake, you shall have
all the pretty little horses.
Black and bay, dapple and grey,
Coach and six-a little horses.
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleep my little baby.
When you awake, you shall have
all the pretty little horses.

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This drabble is dedicated to fantasmeqrt for the prompt, "Frigid."

It is 739 words long and was a trial to write (but I think I'm happy with the way it turned out). I wanted first to write something whimsical and bonnie about Ash and her coldness (or at least, Freddy's perception of her), but then I wanted to write something more episodic. I tried to blend the two, but I am not sure if I was successful.

This drabble demanded to be written in present tense (versus classical past tense as used in most other chapters). Likewise, it demanded (these prompts are sometimes really bossy) a companion piece to follow: next installment, "Fire," prompted by Elf-warrior-13. Geez. Words. They think they're so entitled, you know?

Thanks again, fantasmeqrt, for your support and encouragement—I've enjoyed working with your prompts immensely!