Disclaimer: see chapter one
AN: Thank you so much for all the feedback you've given me! It means the world and has been real useful in motivating me back into writing this chapter after a tough two weeks. Damn bushfire.
The original draft for John was incredibly different (with a bit of modification, it should be posted up in due course). But then he chewed away at my ear (it sounds strange, I know) and he dictated the way this went. Definitely not for the people who view the Tracy boys as monks :P
Chapter Four
Bed is the poor man's opera.
It's also the rich man's opera too, if you get my drift.
In their final moments, many people seem surprised, mortified, even embarrassed to be caught where they are. They shouldn't be. They are not the first person to be caught that way, nor will they be the last.
I'm Death.
I've seen it all before.
It has been said that the second brother is the sensible one. Timid and tame, shy and retiring. Socially awkward.
That is a lie.
The second brother is quite the dark horse. He can be charming, he can be charismatic. He can lock eyes with females across the bar and melt her insides with one quirk of his eyebrow. He can ensure that the female will be going back home with him, just by making her feel like the most important woman on the planet. He knows that what he invests in them in the beginning, he will get back in equal measure later that night. Or early the next morning, depending on how you look at it.
Naturally, he discovered this while he was in college, while he was a poor man.
That is where I begin this meeting, standing in a darkened corner in a room that's illuminated with one candle. I don't need to look at the silhouettes on the wall to know exactly what he's up to, what he looks like. Strong, powerful, confident and sure of himself. I don't need to see the scene play out to know how I'll collect him.
And then I hear the sound I've been waiting for. I hear the hum of wings and watch it locate my charge. The charge swats at it, but it does not deter the bee. It flies into him like a honing missile in a temper, a slight twang as the stinger separates from the thorax.
I watch the normally pale skinned person slowly flush a ruby red. He knows he's highly allergic to bee stings, and that makes my job that much harder. He doesn't know that pulling on the stinger is, in fact, the worst thing he can do, and he tugs impatiently at it. That makes my job easier. His breathing strangles in his throat and the red slowly turns blue. It doesn't match his eyes.
The Death Rattle.
I glide down on him and cradle him close to my chest. Cerulean blue eyes widen at the sight of me. I can see that he doesn't believe it's his time just yet, but that isn't for him to decide.
He pushes against me with one arm - a fighter, just like his mother – and his other hand rummages around in his discarded clothing. He pulls out an Epi-pen and injects it straight into his thigh. Triumph gleams in his eye. It ain't over until the thin man sings.
John Tracy:1, Death:0.
Not that it matters.
The point that counts will always belong to me.