Thanks everyone for the lovely words. It means so much to me and it's more than I have ever hoped for.
To be honest, I had some troubles with this chapter, head-wise, hopefully it didn't affect the quality (I can never tell). So, debating with myself whether to continue this fic or not. I don't want it to send the wrong messages. But I'll let you know when I've come to a conclusion.
Until then, enjoy this chapter and thanks everyone, you're all so amazing.
„How did that happen?"
Petty eyes the bump suspiciously. It's not that bad, Scud already forgot about it, but bad enough to light up the familiar's eyes in caution.
"Tripped", he says, adding a weak smile.
She nods, but Scud knows she doesn't believe him. Petty's been Deacon's assistant for almost two years now and she has seen some of his darker sides during that time, darker than Scud wants to imagine.
"How's your brother doing?" he asks between the bites. Today Petty brought him a pizza, together with a compassionate look when Scud realized it's vegetarian.
"Better", she says. The table is clean, no sheets sprawled out in front of her. Deacon must have noticed and told her not to work on business anymore because the young woman looks a little strained as she cracks her knuckles. A nervous habit, like Scud's lip chewing. "The doctors say it was probably just a food poisoning. I will never again tell someone to buy cheap sushi."
Petty's family comes from Alaska and it was only due to long pleadings and an almost-break-down from her side that Deacon agreed to leave that contact untouched.
"If they get killed, it's your fucking fault, Miss Bloom", he had growled.
Speaking of the devil, the door falls shut, startling them both.
"Good evening, Mr Frost", Petty says politely and stands up as Deacon approaches them. Scud doesn't turn around. He takes another bite of his pizza and makes a face when he tastes white mushroom.
"The phone in the hall is ringing repeatingly", Deacon says. "You're done here, Miss Bloom."
"Of course, sir."
Scud catches her look and nods as a goodbye. When Deacon is around she turns into the perfect secretary that she's supposed to be. It's nothing personal when Scud becomes thin air to her then, she's just doing her job.
He feels a finger brush over his temple.
"Did you put ice on it like I told you?"
Scud swallows half of the bite, words muffled by the rest. "..'s not tha' bad."
"Doesn't matter. I told you to do it."
'To calm your guilty conscience', Scud ads silently. He watches as Deacon takes off his coat and wanders through the darkened hall to his bedroom. It seems as if everything is back to normal again, like nothing happened the previous night. No long conversation, no spilled secrets and emotional outbursts, crowned with perfect fellatio and a weird moment of understanding between them.
It's not exactly awkward, Scud had expected it to be like this or even worse. But he had hoped it to be different this time.
When he finished his pizza, deliberately leaving parts of the rim because he knows how Deacon hates when things are wasted, the box gets carelessly trashed into the bin. It doesn't fit, more than the half is reaching out of it, but it wasn't Scud's idea to get pizza, so there's no reason to care. Which he does rarely as soon as he noticed his master's weird behavior. Like nothing happened.
Fucking coward.
When he bends down to give the box a last halfhearted push the shirt slips over his back.
"You've worn out your shirt again", Deacon says. Leaning against the counter he watches Scud through sharp eyes.
"I don't like them tight", he says, pushing the thin fabric back. He visibly pulls at the hem and Deacon's eyes darken.
It's not like he's not afraid of being screwed over again, the bump is a silent reminder of his subdued position, it's just that he doesn't care anymore. While a side of him still pleads to be careful because the fact doesn't change he's dealing with a short-tolerance vampire here, the other is weirdly joyful about the idea of pestering his master, and see what comes out of it.
They stare at each other for a moment, both unblinking and waiting for the other one to slip. Deacon is the first one to break the contest and turn around with a frustrated huff.
"Whatever", he mumbles, strutting away with visibly taut shoulders. Scud almost sighs in relief, but swallows the sound down just in time. Whatever, that's at least something.
He doesn't care that Deacon hates him or scorns his humanity with the passion of a thousand burning hells. There's nothing else to expect of a vampire, they're all the same.
xXxXx
Everything went differently from what he planned it to. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong and now they've reached a point where Deacon just doesn't know what to do. Nothing of what he encountered the past decades had prepared him for something like this. His nature would be to repel Scud, to negate everything that happened. Which he does, just that it doesn't work as smoothly as hoped. The pet isn't stupid, he knows perfectly well what Deacon is trying to achieve and answers with a sudden averseness to his master and environment.
As the elevator glides down the floors his thoughts get interrupted by the music wavering through the air. Whoever invented this should be set on fire.
"I'm going out, don't let anyone in", he says as he walks past Petty. The young familiar nods and smiles while she takes the latest delivery from the mail man.
A thought crosses his mind that his pet and secretary found a quick bound to each other, and that he maybe should eliminate this. No information about Scud must slip through to the outside world, especially now since the rumors about him having a pet are making their round.
The night is slightly chilled. Autumn is approaching. It doesn't change a thing, for Deacon every season's the same. It's only that he has less time to be annoyed by the world in summer.
The way from his apartment to Missouri's tentative underground hospital gives him enough time to think his plan through. But he is settled, after everything that happened he has to sort out his thoughts, with someone, preferably someone who has the balls to actually talk to him. And Missouri is everything but a fine lady, so it comes close.
The hospital is indeed a hospital, consisting of a handful of rooms for patients, all familiars of his, small halls illuminated by sickly green light. He cringes his nose at the antiseptic smell.
"I'm busy, get out."
The usual snarling tone lessens the strain for a moment.
"Thought you might have time for your favorite employer", he purrs, unceremoniously pushing the thin curtain aside. Missouri looks up from her work, her eyes three times their size through the magnifier goggles crowning her nose.
She snorts and turns back to draw a bloody needle through the flesh of a bulky man sitting next to her on an operating table. Deacon tilts his head at the large cut through the man's shoulder.
"Looks nasty", he comments.
"Smells even worse", Missouri mumbles, ignoring the scowl from the familiar. It's one of Deacon's, every human down in this parody of a clinic is his. He doesn't know them by name, the way a farmer doesn't name his cattle. They're all same smelling and acting like dumb gorillas.
"I need help." The words are out without a thought and now he gets Missouri's attention. The needle stops halfway through the bleeding flesh and she gives him an investigating glance over the frame of her goggles. "It's about the pet."
"Color me surprised", she mutters, although it sounds less honest than her eyes would let shine through. "Still I'm busy, so wait outside."
Ignoring the last comment Deacon pulls a rusty looking chair near and sits down on it. The needle stops again, but she only sighs. It's not that easy to shake Deacon Frost off. Without looking he can feel the familiar turn his head a little.
"I thought it would be easier", he starts, leaning forward with his elbows settling on the knees, hands massaging each other in turn. "But it's not. In fact, he drives me bloody crazy. You have no idea, it's just... it's a big fucking mess."
"Big fucking mess", Missouri repeats, leaning in closer to the flesh to push the needle through an especially thick part. Drops of blood fall to the ground, distracting Deacon for a second.
"The one moment he flinches from my touch like a cornered animal, the next he's almost begging me to ride his ass. And the way he looks at me, the way he looks. The worst of all is I don't even know why he has so much control over me. Yeah, control, like little strings on a puppet. He pulls and I react. I don't know if he does it on purpose or, maybe, if he's just completely off the beaten track."
"You talk like he's an actual person to you. Is he?"
"No", Deacon croaks and stares at her unflinching. "He's just... a human, he's a pet."
With a sigh Missouri presses her fingers against a spot on the open wound and pushes something back in. Maybe a bone, or a vein.
"You know, Frost", she ponders, "if that is your only explanation, then you really are the dumb brat everyone's calling you. Because he is a human? That is your explanation? You're like the skinhead of vampires."
"That has nothing to do with individual opinion, it's just the way it is", he growls darkly, shifting back on his chair when the iron smell fills his nostrils.
"Yeah, and that's the thing. Since I know you, you've been hating the humans for the mere reason of them being humans. The closest of an explanation you had was because they're weak. And now you listen to me or you can get right the fuck out, I tell you. Got better things to do than play headshrinker. Since when do you walk over this twisted, rotten earth, Frost? And since when did your poor little mind circle around this one truth, that your race is superior and everyone else sucks. Figuratively speaking, okay?"
She makes a pause to pick a piece of glass out of the wound.
"Look, Frost – have you ever thought about making a change of view in all those years? You're an adventurous guy. Why not try this one? Your prestige is already down the drain, so what could go wrong?"
Deacon catches her look, lightly compassionate and even more annoyed. "It's that easy", she adds. "Most things are easy, you just keep yourself from seeing the solution."
"But he's my pet, I'm not supposed to-"
With a wild whirl of her arm she cuts him off.
"Did I fucking stutter? No. What's your fucking problem, Frost? Did you at some point in your life make the promise to be an ignorant twat for the rest of your unholy existence?"
With a curse under her breath she makes the last stitches, Deacon watching her in silence.
"It's no one but you who has sure control over what you believe and what you want to believe. If anyone's making it hard for you, it's yourself. There", she sighs and cuts off the surplus thread. "Try to beat up people with your other arm for the next weeks."
Just when the familiar stands up to leave, Deacon holds up his hand.
"Wait a moment", he says, rising from the chair. Curiously he investigates the stitches. "Good work, as always."
Missouri shrugs. He smiles at her, then turns back – only to grab the familiar in the neck, slamming his head one, two, three times against the operating table's surface until a cracking sound echoes through the tiled room. Missouri yelps and stumbles a foot back as blood splatters over her cheetah printed overall. The now breathless body of the man sinks to the floor when Deacon releases his grip. He flicks disapprovingly with a look to the buckled table's edge.
"I'm going to pay for that", he reassures.
With a slow controlled movement Missouri takes off her goggles.
"What was that for?" she asks, her voice slightly pitched.
"He heard me", Deacon explains as if it's the most natural thing. "Do you know how many enemies I have? A conversation like that could cost us both our lives. I did you a favor."
"Yeah, right, I'm so thankful I could vomit into your face. Next time tell me if you want to kill my patients before I waste good thread on them. Now, please get out, gotta clean up that mess you made."
Deacon waves her good bye, adding a cheerful "Thanks for the help" and strides through the corridors with the sickly green light back to the exit.
xXxXx
The phone glides through his fingers, the surface so smooth it reflects his face. Tired, worn out. Not even the black of the cover able to hide the dark rings under his eyes. Scud hasn't slept more than three hours the last days and it's starting to affect his body. Sometimes he believes to see a shadow out of the corner of his eye or hear a distant whisper from somewhere in the apartment. When he has the courage to look for the source he finds nothing. One time he was sure to hear someone talk in the bathroom, only to discover it empty and silent. As he turned to leave, the mirror caught his eyes and Scud almost jumped at his own sight.
He doesn't look like himself anymore.
Nothing resembles himself anymore. What's left of the shadow that used to be him is skinny, scarred and afraid.
Even when Deacon isn't in the apartment, when Scud knows he isn't there, he feels those sharp eyes on him, watching his every step, every movement, every breath. It's not much of a help for his sanity, together with the undeniable sleep deprivation.
It even happened that he caught himself talking to no one, muttering words under his breath he didn't realize were coming out of his mouth.
Carefully he sets the little tool in his hands aside and rubs over his face. His hands feel cold, his heart is beating slower than usual... his whole body screams to let him sleep. But Scud refuses to.
He can't – he's not strong enough to face those images. The angry voice of his father, Sharon's face with the dead eyes, a hundred glistening pairs of sharp fangs. He will never forget one single of them, he remembers every one of them.
What did he tell Deacon again? That he's more than what people did to him? Well, clearly he's not. In that moment, when it was just him and the vampire, he had felt the need to prove how strong he is. That he is not one of those humans who give up easily. What a fake. With each passing day the realization of a freedom that drips through his fingers like water, something he was never meant to hold nor possess, steps deeper into his mind and his heart. Scud knows he will never leave. He will die here, possibly at the hand of his master or some other bloodthirsty vampire in an outrage.
Hopefully sooner than later.
Scud won't kill himself. But if it happens, he won't fight either.
The sound of the door falling shut doesn't even startle him. The sponge in his head tells him to turn around and at least see who it is. But what does that matter? What does it all matter.
"I'm back."
"I know", Scud mutters. "Welcome home."
"What's that?"
Deacon reaches for a small packet on the table. Scud lazily lets his gaze glide over. Oh, right. The packet.
"Petty was here", he says, words slurring. "Said it came with the other mail stuff. There's no sender on it, but it's safe. The guards checked."
Deacon hums, turning and investigating the packet. It's light, can't be too much in it.
"Weird, can't remember to have ordered anything", he murmurs.
Scud shrugs, head too heavy to think of a more appropriate way to react to his master's scruple.
"Hey, do you mind if I go outside a bit? Could need a smoke."
He's regarded with a pensive look, the way this psychiatrist chick looked at him back in the orphanage. God, he had hated that bitch so much. But differently than her Deacon doesn't try to crack open his skull to take a closer look at the soup that is his brain. He lets him be, this one time.
"Sure."
Scud nods and rises with wobbly legs from his chair. His right foot fell asleep and now pins and needles are shooting up his leg as he teeters over to the balcony. When did the door become so heavy? He pushes and presses for an excruciatingly long moment before an arm reaches over his shoulder, and pulls. The door opens instantly and Scud stands in front of it, sheepish and tries to blend out the rising awkwardness.
Whatever.
The night is clear, a little colder than the last nights have been, but at least it doesn't rain. Not like that would bother Scud, but it's easier to light a cigarette without a monsoon tearing at the tip.
He searches his pocket, always the back pockets first, out of habit, before he realizes that the one lighter he possessed for longer than two weeks had been taken from him along with all the other stuff in his bag, including the bag itself, the night he was corned and put into a cage. Ready to be sold as a slave.
Not even a slave, a pet.
And apparently, he doesn't even have a cigarette.
Dimly, slightly blended by the light from the opposite building – does it have to be this crude, jeez? - he feels a cigarette being shoved between his fingertips and then there's a flame flickering next to it.
"When was the last time you slept?"
"Today", Scud lies. It comes automatically, like a lot of other things. He can say a lot of things without feeling them, or wanting to feel them.
The stub feels warm against his lips. There are goosebumps on his arms from the cold wind pulling at his clothes, driving under the thin fabric of his shirt and clawing at his skin like hungry hands.
"Are you still mad at me?"
"Why would I be mad at you?"
Yeah, why would he. Deacon did nothing wrong. He couldn't, he's the master. If Scud's mood really displeased him he would have changed it to his willing. Dumb question.
The nicotine doesn't clear his head, but that's not what Scud was aiming for. The first drag is always the best, the way the smoke burns down and into the lungs, filling them and clouding his mind with nothing but lightheaded bliss for a split second. Then the body's fear of suffocating forces him to exhale, inhale, exhale. Take another drag, let it slide down the throat. Let it burn him up.
"Watch this."
He tips his head back a little, opening his mouth to dart out his tongue. A small bubble is hanging on it, wildly twitching around like an ADHD kid on a sugar high before it sets free to dangle off into the sky in a wild zigzag.
His eyes try to follow it's path, but they quickly lose track of it. He has seen that plenty of times already. Nothing new.
Deacon is fairly interested, going by the expression of surprise and mild disgust on his face.
"Nice", he comments slowly. Even in the dim light of the balcony his eyes are clear and of a summer day blue. They would be pretty, if they weren't so dead.
They spend the next minutes in silence, both of them trailing their own thoughts. Every time the tip of Deacon's cigarette lights up it catches Scud's eyes for a second, but then his mind drifts off again. Sinks back into pleasant numbness, weird thoughts scraping at the inside of his skull without awakening any feeling in him.
The wince runs through the whole of his body, like an electric jolt, when a hand lands on his shoulder.
"Go to bed, Scud. You're falling asleep on your feet."
A picture forms in front of his eyes. Blurry though, but he can make out the living room in the small flat of his parents. He looks over someone's shoulder with his nose nestled against dark short hair. An acetous smell fills his memory.
"Come on."
He lets the hand guide him back into the apartment, distantly noticing the missing of a stub between his fingers. It feels much warmer inside now. His skin shivers against the change of climate and he almost stumbles. But the grip around his arm, careful and firm, keeps him from falling face-first to greet the floor.
Petty did get him a bed. It's only small since the room itself isn't that big, but it's comfortable, with a mattress that slightly gives in to Scud's weight. He blinks and then he's standing in front of his door.
"Goodnight, Scud."
"Night", he mumbles hoarsely.
xXxXx
When the door closes Deacon lets out a small sigh. If Scud keeps on ignoring his body's needs then he won't have to worry about their delicate situation that much longer. The human is still too thin, too pale, his movements uncoordinated. A few days ago he had knocked over a glass and it exploded into sharp crystals, sliding over the floor and circling his bare feet. Scud had looked as if he was about to faint. Mostly from the panic kicking his heart pace up until even Deacon felt it tug at his chest.
He suppresses the urge to take a look and see if Scud made it to his bed.
Since he left the clinic, Missouri's words were chasing around in his head. The way she explained it to him... it sounded too easy. Too simple. Just, ignoring the fact he's a human. Or more why it's a bad thing that Scud is a human. But why is it a bad thing? Something inside him goes rigid at the question.
It's nothing Deacon Frost should think about.
A little lost feeling he shuffles through the apartment, picking up random things, examining them before putting them back. It's just when he rounds the table that he remembers the mail from earlier.
They're mostly bills, some invitations to parties he wouldn't even attend if his fangs depended on it. And the packet. It's really not that big, but it makes Deacon curious and cautious at the same time.
Just because the guards said it was safe, doesn't mean it had to be safe. He engages a pack of untalented gorillas who hope for him to eventually sink his canines into their flesh to make them one of his kind. Up to this day that has never happened and Deacon doesn't plan on keeping his part of the contract anyway.
The wrapping crackles painfully loud in the otherwise silent apartment. He opens the brown paper, tilts it – and a CD slides into his hand.
For one moment Deacon just stands and stares at the little thing.
When he turns it, there's a small note sticking to the back.
Nothing compares to the first.
The handwriting is slightly familiar to him, the way the letters are stretched upwards and leaning forward just a little. It sends a shiver slowly creeping down his spine.
The next moment goes by in a kind of blur. He walks over to the TV, kneels down in front of the DVD player and carefully slides the little thing in. Then he stands, the drizzling sound of the TV reaching through the sudden fog in his head and Deacon stares at the image that starts to enlighten in front of his eyes.
xXxXx
They stumble down the short way from the kitchen to the bedroom of his parents.
„Quick, quick!"
She opens the wardrobe and pushes him in, shutting the wooden doors behind him just in time before Josh hears the blustering steps of his father coming closer.
"Elizabeth!"
His voice is full of anger, even more than usual now that he discovered what Josh did to his latest attempt of a flash bomb. Josh doesn't know what a flash bomb is, only that he shouldn't have tried to use it as a bouncing ball.
It hadn't bounced at all, only made that cracking sound that sent the hairs in his neck stand on edge immediately.
"Where is he?"
"No, you can't do that. He didn't mean to-"
The end of her sentence breaks in a falling stutter. His own heart beats so loudly in his chest that it almost drowns out the growl of his father.
"Didn't mean to what? Destroy everything as soon as he touches it, as he did with our lives? You can't keep on spoiling him like this, Elizabeth. He has to learn to deal with the consequences of his doing!"
"You'd hurt him, I can't let you do that!"
"Hurt him?"
There's a pause after that.
Josh scrambles over the dusty floor until his heels hit the wall. Trying to escape the noise.
"What would it matter, really? I didn't want this child. You, you forced it upon me, so don't you tell me how to treat the little brat!"
"God, Peter, please", his mother begs and her voice topples over in sheer panic. "How can you say something like that?"
"Because that's how it is!" The yell of his father rings through the closed doors, hitting something inside of Josh he can't name. But it wakes a thought in him. His father doesn't love him. It's not a realization, just a feeling that popped up like an exploding corn in a too hot pan.
"This child, this- I told you we cannot have kids, I said it would be irresponsible. Have you ever listened to me, just one time, Elizabeth? I said, I told you... and then he was there and it was expected of me to love him. This is your fault, not mine. This is your child, not mine!"
The response of his mother is mumbled, but Josh can hear the hiccup in her voice. The one she always gets when she's close to crying. He swallows hard and the knot in his chest pains with every new breath.
"We're done here."
The fading sound of steps releases a wave of relief inside of him, still Josh doesn't dare to call out to his mother yet. The door would open when she thinks everything is fine again. As fine as it could ever be.
And when the doors open, she smiles her sad smile, reaches out for him and pulls him close into a embrace that cracks this spot inside of him wider open each time. He slings his arms around her neck and mumbles into her golden curls.
She nods and the wetness against his ear doesn't startle Josh.
xXxXx
Deacon has seen a lot of things.
He has seen the rising and falling of empires, the birth of kings, the death of the good and the crowning of the bad. He has seen some of the most important people in history, shared a chat about philosophy, spoke his name in thirty languages and let it be written down by men of all over the world.
Deacon has seen everything.
And now he sees Scud.
He recognized him immediately, the way someone would recognize an old friend in the middle of a crowd from afar, after not having seen him for a long time. And this is Scud, his Scud, although he looks differently. Not as pale as now, not as famished and there's a light in his eyes Deacon hasn't seen until this day, until this very moment. He's crying, silently, like he always does and it's a guilty moment of relief for Deacon when he realizes it's not his fault Scud tends to shush himself, but at the same time it makes him uncomfortable, because it feels like interrupting a very intimate moment. What moment he really stumbled into, Deacon doesn't know yet.
"Please."
The word is all too familiar to him, the way small lips form around the letters and let it drop in a breath at the end.
"Please."
"What do you want, my little pet?"
Deacon's face darkens. He knows that voice, knows the sick sound that makes his insides wrench in disgust and poke at the ferocious animal inside of him. His whole form gets rigid, and that's when he notices the bruise under Scud's left eye, the visible print of fingers around the throat and a barely healed pair of puncture points.
"Please let me go, please. I- I'll do anything you want, but... don't do this."
The room is bright enough to show the bed Scud sits on and how he hunches his shoulders, arms tightly clutched around the chest, naked body angled to shield himself from any looks.
"Oh, you will do anything I want, pet. But I don't have to let you go for that."
Scud whimpers, and something inside of Deacon rears up in pain.
Another presence steps in front of the picture. He feels physically sick at the sight of Anton MacHorvath's form sinking down next to Scud, every muscle in his arms bunching when a pale hand explores the human surface.
The next words go down in a mumble, just like Scud himself as he is pushed back and down. It's a constant flow of begging and faint pleads. When Scud turns his head to the side, eyes glassy with horror and the realization that it's over the camera shakes a little.
And the disgust turns to wrath.
Someone, someone is filming this. Someone is standing in the same room, breathing the same air and just watching.
He shuts them out, all the ugly words Anton says and the sounds blur into a background music as Deacon watches, takes in the pictures. He sees Scud fall and break when he hits the hard ground.
It goes by, one scene after the other, and he doesn't know how long he's already standing there when the pleading turns into shouts, turns into screaming and yelling, a fight Scud could never win. The sound echoes in the space of the living room and hits Deacon right back. It sinks deep, bores into a spot inside of him.
It sinks deep.
xXxXx
The dream rips like a soft spider web and he wakes into darkness. The sky is covered and the moon's light only sheepishly shining into his room. Scud tries to breath the knot in his chest away.
He doesn't like darkness.
With stiff movements he rises, sits up and it's like he's pulling his head from the bedding of old memories and dives back into reality. It's no difference, the sick feeling inside of him remains.
There are sounds outside of his room, muffled by the door but clear enough to catch his attention. Through the fog inside his head Scud feels like he maybe should lie down again, just lie down and pretend he didn't hear anything. But his feet are moving and then his hand is on the door knob, turning it slowly.
The apartment is dimly lit, strange shadows cast along the floor before his door. They flicker restlessly, like a candle's soft light.
He doesn't have to make many steps, then he stands in the hall. And everything goes numb at the sight. At the sound. At the memories gushing to the surface like ice cold water. Waves crashing around him, pulling him down and it feels like he never left.
The noises fill his head and they sound so familiar. He has listened to those screams for a long time, had tasted the blood in the back of his mouth and how his throat had gone raw after a while. He can taste it now, the blood.
Hands are shaking, feet barely able to hold up the sudden heavy weight. His own shadow turns to a quivering mess when he backs to stumble away, away from the scene displaying in front of him.
Scud wants to run but there is no way out, there never was.
His hands find a surface that gives in and shoulder first he slams into the door, opening and closing it with a dispatch that leaves him breathless.
Everything else closes around him, and he lies down, distantly recognizing the bowl of cold as the bathroom's tub. The ceramic feels weirdly hot against his cheek, and wet.
His eyes flutter and the tears collecting at the tips of his lashes sprinkle onto his skin. The white walls turn to a blur. Arms reaching up, hands drawing through hair, to cover his ears. To drown out all noises.
In the back of his head Scud can hear him screaming.
xXxXx
After some time his voice had died out. Now he is silent, no sound coming from him anymore. It's even more horrific.
"Look at me."
Deacon's gaze flickers up and he sees them, both of them. They don't look at him. They're occupied. He is just a watcher, a silent participant. Like the one holding the camera and catching every second of the scene.
He watches it all fall apart.
Scud opens his eyes. He had kept them shut for the past minutes, now all life has left them. It's like there never has been something behind the blue.
Deacon sees the fangs which glister in the light.
"Say you love me, and maybe I won't bite you then."
Scud blinks. His mouth is a slack line, no showing of anything. Like nothing happened. Like he never lived.
It feels like Deacon's heart is ripped right out of him and leaving a vacuum inside of his chest.
The words are raspy, catching, tripping over his tongue. "I love you."
When Anton sinks his canines into his throat, Scud whimpers.
The scene explodes into a thousand sparkles, shatters of plastic, metal and a wild tangle of cable and plaster flying through the air when the wooden table crashes into the TV. It's loud, it's violent and it's just what Deacon needed.
He stares at the hole in the wall and fixates a swinging cable. His hands are shaking and the remote nothing but a pile of shattered plastic to his feet.
Suddenly the room feels small, way too small. Without wasting any time on grabbing a jacket Deacon heads for the door. Just in time to almost run into Petty.
"Mr. Frost. I have some sheets for you to sign, sir, it's about-"
"Not now, Miss Bloom."
He is surprised at how stable his voice sounds.
The doors of the elevator slide open.
"But, Mr. Frost..."
With a sigh he turns to face the young familiar.
"Go home, Petty", he says tersely. "You have free for the night. Go and meet someone, drink something, have fun."
"And-and where do you go, sir?"
He pauses a moment.
"Killing something."
The doors close and the last thing he sees is the slipping expression of his familiar and a mumbled "Good night, Mr. Frost".
xXxXx
The sun is sending her first shy beams when Deacon returns.
It had been a good night, his clothes are ready to be shredded because those stains would probably never wash out. The bodies were safely hidden, what was left of them at least and his hunger had been satisfied.
But not his anger.
All he can do is try and let those thoughts not corrupt his mind further. He had done a terrible mistake by just letting them hit him in the wrong side. As soon as he's back in the apartment he grabs the CD to destroy it, once and forever, and never think about what he saw again.
He changes into new clothes, but isn't quite satisfied with the way it feels against his skin. It reeks of humans and death. Maybe he should take a shower before heading to lay down for the day and hope that sleep will turn out as the ultimate solution for everything.
His mind feels like a heavy weight inside of his head, unmoving and silent, yet at the same time racing and chasing different thoughts and pictures before his eyes. But all Deacon feels is the spreading nothingness, the pitch black spot in his chest that starts to spread through flesh and veins like deathly cancer.
The bathroom is unpleasantly bright, even with the light turned off.
Still his fingers find their way to the switch, out of habit. Out of imitated human behavior.
A movement to his left catches his attention and for a very paranoid second Deacon fears something worse than just a play of his eyes.
And maybe it is worse, but he wouldn't admit that.
Admit that the sight of Scud curled together as much as the tiny space in the tub would allow it, fingers digging into the layers of clothes covering his slim body and shivering in what must be a soul-tearing nightmare, haunted by the same pictures ghosting before his own eyes, hurts.
With careful steps he approaches the scene. Unsure of what to do Deacon crouches down and slowly reaches out with a hand.
Scud jumps awake as soon as his fingertips brush over his shoulder. With reddened, sleep-hazed eyes he stares up at him. For a moment no one says anything. They just look, both just as confused as the other one is.
"Hey", Deacon mumbles.
"Hey", Scud croaks and turns a little.
"What are you doing here? Why aren't you in your bed?"
"I'm not?" Scud asks, sounding honestly surprised. His head drops and he looks at the walls of the tub, seemingly confused by his residence.
His mouth opens and closes again. Deacon watches him, feeling the frown start to shadow his expression.
When he turns and looks at him with a lost gaze Deacon knows the spot gapes further.
"It's already late... or early, but, uhm, I'm going... I'm going now."
He stands up. But doesn't get far as a hand wraps around his forearm. Scud stares up at him and his eyes are round in plead. Halfheartedly Deacon tries to shake his hand off, but it seems more like an unintended twitch. Scud doesn't let go of him.
"Please stay", he says, his voice only a low rumble.
Deacon looks at him, making another weak attempt at freeing his sleeve. But Scud's grip only tightens.
"Please", he whispers. His cheeks and nose are reddened, some strands, wet by tears, clinging to his forehead. He looks utterly exhausted, and helpless.
The ache inside of him grows through his whole body, and, silently, Deacon nods. With some shifting they both fit into the bathtub, Deacon carefully pressing against Scud's back and gently, like he could somehow hurt those shattered remains, wraps his arm around the pet's slim waist. Scud lets him be and squeezes his hand lightly. A wordless thank.
He doesn't know how long they laid like this when Scud begins to shiver next to him, shiver turning into tremble until a small keen wrenches free from the human's throat. Dimly he sees his own hand reach up to brush some strands of dark hazel behind a ridiculously round ear and lean forward to ghost over the exposed skin with his lips.
He whispers into Scud's ear, and the pet relaxes under his touch, slumping back against him like a puppet cut free from it's strings.
The other body is a warm pressure against his own and, for the first time in his unholy existence, Deacon doesn't think at all.