II. ADVERSE INCISIONS
aka 'Gaslighting'
RATING M
"He will have his vengeance. Piece by bloody piece."
(This was originally titled 'Adverse Perversions', but I decided not to go in that direction. Again, I apologize to any RottixNathan fans.)
Rotti's too close, too smug, too loud when he says, "I bet you liked it." And then, with a tone that disgusts Nathan, "When you felt her pathetic life leak out between your fingers." He can almost imagine Rotti lick his lips as he says it, and he keeps his eyes closed just in case. The man moves away from his shoulder, and Nathan opens his eyes a little. He doesn't have his glasses, but he can make out some of the words on the transparency. Words like "obligated" and "confidential" and "necessary measures". Words that make him sick.
"No," he starts to protest. No to what Rotti's saying, no to the job.
"This job, Nathan," he still has that tone, "is perfect for you."
It's almost like a purr, and the air is thrumming with that relaxed energy. Surrounding him until it's suffocating. He can feel the chair slide a bit closer to the table as Rotti leans on it, whispering, "Killing things is what you do best."
"Shut up."
He laughs. Exaggerated, fake, and biting, and Nathan brings his hands to his head. He runs them over his face, and they're a bit damp. Sweat or tears, no matter. If he lets Rotti get to him—
"You've got the skill." Nathan drops one hand from his face, looks it over. Wrist still red from the handcuffs. And his gaze drifts across the desk, to the manacles left on the table. Rotti suddenly grabs his hand, too tight to be friendly, but he's smiling. "You know you can do it."
Rotti releases his hand, and Nathan grabs the edge of the desk, holding on. Rotti's still talking. Words. And he glances over the contract. He can't quite read the whole thing without his glances, but Rotti's filling in the blurs.
"A practice is out of the question… that Hippocratic oath bullshit," Rotti chuckles and shakes his head, walking around the desk. Then he's dead serious again. "Silly fucking rules made by stupid people. Ethics and sentimental sewage, Nathan. I'll fix that up soon." The last words, almost muttered to himself.
Under his breath, Nathan's murmuring, "Above all, do no harm." Nathan can't remember the rest, but the small phrase is all he needs to get Rotti to shut up. And it's dead quiet, then. Tomb silence and he remembers—Marni's there, under that sheet. He chokes a little, then, half-throttled sob that ruptures the silence.
Rotti makes a sound behind him. Disgusted and amused. Then he walks around the desk again. The smile, it belongs to the Cheshire cat, and then he disappears just like the feline. The smile remains in Nathan's head, chilling him, and he slumps forward onto the desk a little, a hand on either side of his head. Rotti reappears, then, and he's leaning on the chair again. Too close, over him. He takes one of Nathan's hands, almost gently, only Rotti isn't a gentle person, so it can't be that. Nathan doesn't look at him.
"Nathan." Rotti almost sounds empathetic, only he's not that kind of person. Is he? Nathan feels a faint pressure on his hand, a gentle squeeze only not. Not really.
A handcuff snaps around his wrist, too tight. That's what kind of person Rotti is.
And Nathan, right now he's only able to look up stupidly for a second before Rotti drags him out of the chair by his collar. For an older man, he's strong, and Nathan feebly uses his free hand to push at the vice grip on his neck. Rotti hits a pressure point, or damn close to one, and Nathan stumbles.
Blood slick on the floor makes him fall.
Click of handcuffs, and he doesn't have to look, shouldn't, but he does. Watches in mute horror as Rotti rips the bloody sheet away. A thin spray of blood hits the man in the face, and this time Nathan isn't imagining things as Rotti runs his tongue over his lips.
"It's not much of a career change," he's tossing the sheet into a corner, out of reach. "But I think you should discuss it with your wife." Rotti's bent over a little, so he can look Nathan in the eye. Nathan reaches up to the table, pulling himself up a little. Hardly thinking, he spits at Rotti. Hits him in the mouth, the eye. Fucker.
Rotti barely flinches, but before Nathan can blink his blurry eyes, Rotti's whacked him in the back of the head. That doesn't hurt, but it sends his forehead straight into the metal edge of the table. "Damnit!" Skin breaks somewhere above his eye, and his head suddenly feels like a hurricane.
Rotti, with that forced gentleness, tips Nathan's head up, a finger under his chin. Nathan can see double, and seeing the two Rottis makes him feel sick. The older man growls a little. Angry kitty. And then he laughs again, and it sounds like thunder. He straightens up, gently patting Nathan's cheek.
"You talk with your wife, Nathan."
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"Marni?"
She's being so quiet. Listening. Patient. He's making her understand. And then he looks at her. For a second, she really looks beautiful. The cut in her stomach, it's perfect. No shaking hands here. For a second, he's proud of his work. Then he pushes himself away in disgust, only he nearly drags the whole table on top of him. The handcuff cuts deeper into his wrist.
And so he stops struggling, remains kneeling there, trying not to look at Marni.
"Rotti!"
He doesn't answer, and Nathan can't see him.
"Talk to me!" Not really sure who he's talking to. Nobody answers, anyways.
"I'll do it," he murmurs. "I'll sign the damn contract." Nathan half-heartedly tugs his arm.
You could cut your hand off. Yes, he could. He could do that.
Do no harm.
A bit late for that. He grimaces, and steals a glance at Marni. She doesn't really look dead, if you don't see the blood. The eyes still shine a little. With his free hand, Nathan reaches out. His hand doesn't tremble, even as he gently traces her jawline with one finger. Without thinking, he presses two fingers into her throat.
What are you looking for?
And there's nothing but cold, dead flesh. Soft and pliable dead skin that makes his hand feel dirty.
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He doesn't remember falling asleep, but at some point he wakes up. He's still in the same spot, still chained to—to Marni, apparently. Against her delicate wrist, the cuff looks like jewelry.
Her head's tilted a bit, and Nathan can see the empty eyes. They aren't shining any more. The air's leeched the moisture form them. Blood is caked along her cheeks, and her mouth. On his wrist, and on his forehead. On the floor, there's a pool of blood. Still sticky.
Leaning his head against the cool metal of the table, he bites back a wince. The gash is scabbing over, and it feels like there's a bruise there too. He pulls back from the table, starting a little as Marni's hand moves. It's just the handcuffs.
The eyes, dead dry eyes, are watching him do this.
"What?" he snaps. She's quiet, though. After a second, his eyes widen a little. Meeting the dead eyes, Nathan strokes the back of her hand. "I'm sorry, Marni."
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Talk to your wife, Nathan.
The perfect job… Logically, it was just that. High pay, your own schedule, no worry about lawsuits.
Ethically, morally—it was a fucking nightmare.
And this isn't?
Marni's eyes are closed now. (He's not sure when that happened.) If this is a nightmare, then they'll both wake up soon. He holds her hand a little tighter inside his. They'll both wake up. Soon.
You wish.
He brushes a finger over Marni's lips. "Shh."
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What was it those Greeks were on about? The four humours?
Nathan's leaning against the table, one knee pulled up so he can lean his arm on it. Yes, the four humours. He chuckles softly. An imbalance in the humours made you sad or sick or annoying. They actually used to believe in those silly things. Tilting his head back, he closes his eyes and sifts through his memories.
Bile. Yellow meant choleric. Black was melancholy.
Phlegm meant phlegmatic.
And blood was for cheer. Nathan looks down at the floor. A great big puddle of cheer, that's all it is. Beside it, scattered on the floor, are scalpels and syringes and shattered vials with sharp glass shards. There's a knife too. A skinning knife that a chef might use. Or a butcher.
Nathan doesn't remember using it, doesn't remember it at all, but there's blood on the blade.
Look Nathan, it's telling him, look at the blood. You sliced her up and ripped all the cheer out.
After a moment: Pity. I rather liked her.
He lets his head half-loll to the side, looking at Marni. She's not looking at him, not now, but her eyes are open.
"It's going to be alright," he murmurs, reaching for the butcher's knife, dragging his thumb through the pool of cheer. Maybe he can put it back in.
"That's a noisy brat you have, Wallace."
And he doesn't really hear Rotti. It's just a nightmare, right? He turns his head back, blinking. It seems brighter when he looks up. Too bright for a dream. Rotti's sneering. Nathan half-covers his eyes with his hand, trying to keep the light out of his face. "What?"
"Your little mongrel. Shilo."
Something jabs Nathan, something in his head. Shilo. He repeats the name, and Rotti nods. Then the older man smirks, dangles a pen in front of Nathan's face.
"Come on, Nathan."
"Rotti," and he grabs at the man's wrist. The pen stops dangling. "Where's Shilo?"
Unperturbed, Rotti smirks his little smirk, undoing the handcuffs with his other hand. Nathan tries to hold on, but Rotti pulls his wrist free, too easily. "Don't you worry about her." He waves the pen in front of Nathan's face again. It takes Nathan two tries to grab it. Then he drags himself to unsteady feet.
Rotti reaches out, and he flinches, but doesn't move. Rotti's not a gentle person, not a nice person, but he uses a handkerchief to wipe Nathan's forehead. Then he nods at the desk. The contract's still sitting there. Nathan stumbles forward, and he can almost hear Rotti's smile.
"Good boy."
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