Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He didn't look like the rest. From his plain clothes to the pained expression on his face, it was clear that he didn't belong. This man, this young man typing away at a keyboard while trying to keep his gaze averted from the engine, does not belong.

He looked so frail compared to the scientists and security guards surrounding him, so innocent with a pure heart; a sense of justice and right and wrong. This man whose body shifts from anxiety clear enough to be seen all the way down here.

No, he does not belong here. Not at all.

Wrenching himself from the grasp of the many guards and scientists roughly handling him, Eddie Gluskin makes a dash out of their reach and up the short staircase. He can feel his blood pumping at an impossible rate, adrenaline pushing him forward although all he wants to do is lie down and cry; or hide; or die, for that would be much better than this. This forced experimentation that leaves him clawing at his skin and eyes for hours after in an attempt to rid himself of the agony. They are raping him of all he has, dignity and self preservation thrown out the window, and it hurts. He can't take it, can't take this constant torture any longer. He needs a savior, someone to help him, just anyone –

"Help me! Don't let them do this! Don't let them!" He screams, pressing his body against the window and pounding on it. "You!" he shouts, targeting the technician, "I know you can stop this! You have to help me!" The plea tears through his throat as the young man behind the computer stumbles from his chair and steps back, wide eyes locked on his. Eddie tries to convey his need through their gaze, tries to show him how desperately he needed this to stop. The guards are pulling at his arms but he breaks free every time, running back to the window to his savior. Heart surging and breath hitched, their moment ends much too quickly.

"You have to…"

Something hits the back of his head, making him black out for a few seconds, and when he comes to he realizes that he's being pulled back. The hands gripping his arms and sides are twisting into his flesh and leaving harsh bruises and small cuts, but it only comes as a slight hindrance to his fight. He struggles against their hold all the way to the large sphere filling with a blue sedative liquid that has become all too familiar. Another guard rams what he assumes to be a baton against the back of his skull as they shove him into the container; through the daze, he feels them begin to force tubes into his nostril and mouth. He gags around the plastic tubing, tasting iron and latex on his dry tongue, and it causes him to cough and choke.

It is then that the light drizzle of some substance runs down his throat and into his system. Eyes flying open, he begins to panic. No, no, not this. Oh God, not this – I don't, he cries in his head as the liquid kindles a fire in his gut. Like the sun, it radiates through him and ignites his veins in a surge of gut-wrenching agony, spiraling up his body and constricting his lungs. The tube down his throat does nothing to quell the burning or help him breathe, so in minutes Eddie is beginning to feel lightheaded far too early. Their experiments haven't even begun and he's already reeling off the deep end. A drop of blood rises from a particularly painful cough and thins out in the blue liquid now surrounding him.

Soon, he is reduced to gentle groaning and closed eyes, having lost the strength to keep his eyes open once the sedative from the liquid kicked in. Absentmindedly, he wonders how he's able to float in this mess of blue liquid. It wasn't water, no; the fluid was much thicker but with a higher viscosity.

Viscosity, how did he remember that word from school? Chemistry? Is that where he learned it from? Eddie lazily shakes his head, sparking a jolt of pain to spread through his neck.

Something bright flashes before his closed eyes, but he can only make an outline of its image from where the light fades into darkness. A few seconds later another image flashes, and then another. It is almost hypnotic, psychedelic, watching these images burn into his retinas through lidded eyes. There's a pinch in his right eye from the next image, followed by a couple more in his left, but the ache is dull so he refuses to focus on figuring it out. However, he does muse over the scratching sensation blooming in his cheek.

Eddie groans and inhales a deep breath. The scratching in his cheek is now a burning which consumes the side of his face, fluctuating in intensity every so often. He hears someone say "Yes," from somewhere through the fog in his senses, but that could have been his imagination.

He had a great one, didn't he? Eddie mentally nods his head, this time remembering to leave his body as slack as he could. He imagined all of the touches that made his skin crawl and his heart ache, imagined all of the screams that somehow filtered into his dreams. The laughs of men. The cries of women. They were all a part of his imagination, right? Of course it was. Why else would these wonderful doctors be trying to help him get better? They were only saving him from himself.

The pain in his body dies completely and Eddie moans in relief. He feels so weightless in this glorious blue now, drifting through liquefied space as easily as a star or asteroid. No more pain or sorrow, he is free of all of that nonsense, for now. So in a relatively drunken haze, Eddie hums around the tubes in his mouth and lets his thoughts wonder. Wonder to a familiar song that reminded him of childhood. Despite the ache tugging in his heart, he begins to sing in a broken whisper:

" When I was a boy my mother… often said to me… Get married, son, and see…

how happy you will be…"

Chapter Text

There has been a nickname floating around the asylum for some time now, one that is accompanied by confusion and giggles alike. For those who are confused, they most likely have not visited the Vocational Block in a while; as for those who laugh, they are as ignorant as those who simply do not know or understand. At first the childish name was taken in stride, but over time it wore on him.

The Groom.

Such a comical name, isn't it? At least he thought so when that first group of patients walked past him and one of them, a scrawny fellow with blisters distorting all features below his nose, edged his friends to the side and warned them about stepping too close to the 'Groom.' Eddie hadn't understood the comment; he lifted his gaze from the long white cloth he was sewing to raise an eyebrow at the suspicious group. Of course, they flinched and walked away when they noticed his stare, but Eddie continued to watch them leave, now thoroughly confused.

It wasn't until he met a peculiar patient that he realized what the variant meant all too long ago.

It was perfect. Although the dress was made of white table cloth and shredded paper, it felt like silk as Eddie ran his hand along the fabric, cupping the hem of the dress to bring it to his face. He inhales deeply, rather enjoying the fresh scent. Was that a hint of lavender? He doesn't remember picking up that particular scent, but the odor is pleasant and only adds to enhance his work - his masterpiece.

A single light bulb hangs in the center of the small room, illuminating it just enough to allow Eddie to work in privacy. Directly underneath it is a long metal workbench filled with tailoring supplies: scissors and needles entangled by black thread and tape. A ruler dangles off the edge of the table. Stray pieces of dull and colorful fabric are strewn about the room, with some laid halfway out the window. The only thing keeping the cloths on the table actually on the table is a clear container filled with buttons and other dazzles. Admittedly, the room is a clustered mess, but Eddie appreciates its isolation from the rest of the block and wanderers.

There is a sudden shift from under him, and Eddie frowns into the cloth. Is it time already?

"Darling," he coos, voice muffled by the dress still pressed against his face. He feels the variant move again, a shiver, and make some sort of whining noise. With a sigh he reluctantly allows the fabric to fall past his fingers before running a hand through his hair. They are clammy, sticky, a little more than he prefers, but he counts it as proof of hard work.

Thankful for the lack of light in the room, Eddie cups the side of the variant's face and feels a range of scabbing cuts scratch his palm. "Did I wake you? I wasn't meaning to rouse you from your slumber yet," he says and lightly slaps the cheek in his hand. The variant flinches at that and jerks away, but Eddie was expecting such a reaction. Grabbing the variant's arms tightly, however away from the dress' sleeves to avoid wrinkling it, Eddie shakes the patient violently before locking eye contact. "You've been such a good," he pauses, "girl, since the beginning. I don't suggest acting out now."

He roughly shakes the variant again to hear the ugly whore cry in submission. Pleased with her compliance, Eddie gently strokes her scarred cheek in an attempt to comfort before backing away. He drums his fingers along the bottom of his chin as he scrutinizes the variant.

The dress is gorgeous, perfect, but the variant underneath is not. She is a whore and only serves as a model to build his dress upon. Eddie had found her creeping around the halls leading to his little haven, and, stricken by her wonderful poise and build, decided that he would sate her curiosity with first-hand experience of the work here. She struggled, oh how she tried to get away, which only served to excite his desire.

It didn't take long for her to realize the futility of struggling, and after fifteen minutes of fight Eddie had subdued her enough to drag her deeper into his home and string her up into the air. The rope tied around her waist lifted her by a pulley system across the room. She is only a foot or so off the ground, but it is high enough to prevent her from touching the floor. Sure, she could easily swing her body to gain momentum and possibly break free, but Eddie realized awhile ago that she is not the brightest apple in the bunch.

With the twist of his wrist, Eddie cranks the pulley's lever until the variant is flailing and screaming in pain, the rope pressing deeply into her abdomen now. He turns the lever slowly, watching intently as the whore squirms and wiggles, shouts and screams for him to stop. Her cries are like music to his ears, dancing in the air as a wet gurgle leaves the variant. Such sweet, glorious sounds that echo through the room, accentuated by her feeble cries. He might have felt sad if she hadn't betrayed him. Crimson splatters on to the bottom of the dress. She gasps for a few more moments, Eddie steadily turning the lever, before her body twitches and her arms fall limp at her side. A dribble of blood runs from the corner of her mouth to the collar of the dress.

Satisfied with her motionless body, Eddie allows the pulley enough slack to lower the whore onto the floor, dead weight slumping forward. He carefully approaches her and stops a few feet away. Spotting a gleam of silver on the small table from the corner of his eye, Eddie quietly picks up the long blade and brings it down upon the girl's nape, giving it a harsh slice and tug.

"How disappointing…" he mumbles as he wrenches the knife free and drops it back onto the table. In time with the metallic cling, he crouches for a closer look at the dress. The hem and collar are stained red, along with a new spot between her legs from where her head is now slumped. He pulls her head up and out of the way to frown at the particularly indecent area. He could have salvaged the dress if it wasn't for that.

Oh well, Eddie thinks while hooking his fingers under the dress' collar for a stronger grip. Hoisting the body up so that the variant is 'sitting,' Eddie walks around her until he's behind. With a grunt, he drags the heavy body from the center of the room to a corner masked in shadows. The stench is raw here, gut-wrenchingly so, reminding Eddie that he has to throw out the trash by tonight or else his entire home will smell.

On the count of three, he rolls the body into a pile of about ten other filthy whores and sluts.

Now that the job is done, he smiles and sighs in relief, turning on his heel to walk back to his workbench. What should he do now? That dress took a while to make, having just finished it yesterday, but he isn't in the mood to start a fresh project so soon. Since it is only polite for a gentleman to mourn his Darling's death for a day, even if she turned out to be a dirty whore, he believes that a couple hours will be long enough. So with that in mind, Eddie giddily grabs the blood-stained knife from earlier and slips it into a self-made holster on his belt. After turning the single light bulb off, he steps out of the room.

The hall is much cooler than his room, and Eddie briefly wishes that he had thought to tailor a coat or sweater, something simple to pull over his arms.

Taking a right to leave the sanction of his hallway, Eddie ascends the stairs that lead to Dennis' home. Truthfully, he is fond of the fool, sometimes sneaking up here just to listen to him prattle on and on about girls and the "man downstairs." Of course, Eddie knows exactly whom he is referring to, but the mysterious persona is interesting enough to not stop poor Dennis from using it. The man only had himself to talk to, anyway. So Eddie doesn't bother to seek him out as he crosses through the makeshift labyrinth, having trudged through it enough times to know all of the shortcuts and dead ends. Soon, he is leaving the home and descending stairs, now wandering through open halls.

It is uncanny how many sluts there are.

They are deformed creatures of the night, all watching Eddie's movements earnestly as he walks past their cells, occasionally eyeing them back just to stop them from staring so hard. He has always hated walking past them and feeling their stares crawl up his spine; their disgusting, swinish advances echoing in his ears.

"Why don't you wrap those strong arms around daddy?"

Eddie grits his teeth.

"C'mere boy, I got a surprise for you."

He walks faster.

"Silky, silky, silky. I have a secret. I'm so itchy. Silky, you are so silky..."

"Yeah, just wrap them plump lips around my dripping-"

"Ho! Look at this fine piece of shit. Hey! Hey you! Don't walk away – actually, keep walking! Y' gotta nice ass, I see."

And then he spots a variant curled under a bed, shaking violently as blood drips slowly from the sheets, whispering, "The Groom. O-oh God, the Groom is here. He's here, he's here, he's here." The variant's eyes widen. "The Groom is here to pick his bride… And I-I-I-I don-on't. I c-can't, oh God, he's here…" The man shrinks further into himself and averts his gaze from Eddie's, curling deeper into the shadows under the bed.

When he reaches the recreational courtyard, there are a few patients playing basketball with a flat ball, with others walk or run the track. Most of them wear the prescribed raggedy brown shirt and pants, if they're wearing anything at all, making Eddie stand out like a sore thumb. Not that he minds much, for the clothes he's made himself are much more appealing than those rags, but it is in moments like these where Eddie wishes he could blend in with the crowd.

Blend in and avoid being spotted by the doctors.

Five of them altogether, with two of them examining a sobbing variant whose leg rests on the only female's lap. She crouches in front of him while her partner scribbles whatever is diagnosed. The other three are barricading them in a circle with their large bodies and stern expressions, searching the area in coordination, turning their heads with each other. There are no blind spots under their gaze.

He takes a step back. Calmly. Breathing in slowly as he tries to relax his muscles and turn around, head back the way he came and go to his room. His home. His safe haven. One step backwards: exhale. Another: inhale. He's almost there, can hear the sinful shouts of caged whores. He is so close to the darkness, when all of a sudden someone from inside shouts, "Doooooctors! Gluskin is running! He's running! Come get him! Doctors, Gluskin is heerrreee!"

His eyes dart to the insufferable, screaming bitch beating on her cell's bars before he sprints to her. Instinctively, he grabs the knife from his holster and slams it into her throat. There's blood, so much blood, splattering onto his face, his hair, his clothes, but it doesn't deter him from yanking the blade forward and grabbing the back of her neck to slam her face into the bars.

"You bitch!" he screams and slams her face again, and again, and again, until her nose and lips are hidden behind red. He can hear them coming, oh God, their boots thudding on grass and then tile as the devils draw near. Terror rises in his chest, choking him, as he hears a doctor shout for tasers.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins as Eddie drops the bitch and dashes forward, sprinting into the darkness and trying to cut corners to confuse the doctors. He won't let them take him – not again, not ever. He can't go back to that machine. He can't go back to the pod and fall further into hysteria. His mind is his and he wants it. He needs it. Do they even know what it does to him? How the machine and images buzz delusions into his head?

That whore did this. She cursed him and now he has to run. Run away from the blue sparks that light his peripheral and the thuds that echo through the obscure hallways. Run away. Don't think, just run.

"Gluskin! I order you to stop!"

No.

And then, as he leaps over a fallen desk and shoves open a cracked door, blue light fills his vision. The world fades to black.

"Mr. Gluskin? Are you here with me, Eddie?" a voice says from somewhere above. He grimaces as electricity pains his spine, the metaphysical voice asking again, "Are you here with me? Can you answer my question?"

"I enjoy… sewing," Eddie answers before frowning. Why did he say that? He has no idea, but the answer feels natural.

The being above him sighs and shifts somewhere to his left. There's a ruffle of what sounds like cloth, and then something is being placed in his hand. The fingers brushing against his are soft. "How long have you been sewing, Eddie?" it asks.

"Not very long."

"Do you know what this is?" the voice questions and probes the cloth into Eddie's grasp. He swallows dryly and frowns, not fond of how white light blurs his vision when he tries to open his eyes. So he resolves to keep them closed.

"Silk," he rubs the cloth between his fingers, "I do believe that this is silk."

The voice hums softly. "Tell me, Mr. Gluskin, if you had enough of this material to make anything you desired, what would you create?"

What a strange question. His frown deepens at it and he tries to open his eyes. The light blinds him again, but after forcing them to remain open he can make out the basic features of the being above him. The voice is attached to a nurse, a beautiful nurse with piercing green eyes. Her hair is dark and wispy, curling into a bowl around her ears and stopping at the base of her neck. The only unsightly hair he can see is a faint mustache.

She prods his fingers again, and it takes much control to stop himself from holding her still. He doesn't want to scare her away. In the most charming voice that he can muster, Eddie answers, "I would create a wedding dress. The most beautiful dress for my bride."

"Do you consider yourself a family man?"

"Well, of course!" Eddie exclaims. The nurse removes her hand from his to write something down, but she raises an eyebrow as a signal for him to keep talking. "I do believe that I would be a wonderful father. Have a few children and cherish them as one would cherish diamonds…except, much more." He smiles at the nurse sweetly. "Do you not consider yourself a potential mother? I know that most women dream of having young ones."

That causes the nurse to clear her throat and blush, and Eddie to glance around the room to find the source of her shame. The infirmary is empty except for a sleeping patient turned in his bed. She must not want to discuss such private matters in front of him, he assumes. Eddie muses over how to word his next question to imply her possibly staying with him for a bit, but is brought out of his thoughts when the nurse rushes from her seat and crosses the room to the – once – sleeping patient.

"Richard, I need you to lie back down," she says, commanding, pushing down on the sickly patient's chest. He moves against her, exposing visible bone as he jerks against the restraints holding his arms and legs down. "Richard."

"Don't call me that," the patient, Richard, scolds before shrugging off the nurse's hand on his shoulder. "And I don't have to be babied, dear. I am as capable of following orders as that bachelor over there." He aims at Eddie, who snorts in response. "Anyway, can you be a useful nurse and bring me something to drink. Tequila, martini, imported Bier, I'm not picky, just anything to rid me of this, ahem, dry throat." Richard says and tsks, waiting for the nurse to move. Stone-faced, she tugs on the restraints around Richard's joints, yanking them tight.

When she finally does move to leave, to Eddie's dismay, the patient lifts a gnawed finger and calls after her. "Oh! Do be nice and bring something for our friend here too. I saw the way you guys brought him in, and, might I say, carelessly? All men are created equal, Sherlock!"

The nurse rolls her stunning eyes and exits the room with her notepad. Eddie waits for the door to shut before opening his mouth to speak, but Richard beats him to it.

"I know what you must be thinking right now, something along the lines of 'who's this ingenious fellow telling that nurse what to do.' So I'll go ahead and oblige you." There is a clink of metal and then something hard hitting the floor, followed by three more thuds. When Eddie looks back at the patient, Richard is standing and twirling a hair pin around his finger. "Call me Trager, Dr. Trager."

Trager. The man must have had more time in that damned Engine than Eddie has, for his entire body is a grotesque rendition of skin and bones. It almost makes his stomach churn, but Eddie has seen much worse than a walking skeleton.

"You must be the Groom, if I'm correct," Trager says while walking over to Eddie's bed. He crouches so that he's on eye level with the man, raising an eyebrow at him. "Am I beautiful enough to be your bride, Mr. Gluskin?"

The comment makes Eddie want to simultaneously laugh and vomit; instead, he snarls. "What are you-"

"Ah, ah, ah, I'm asking the questions here. And explaining, well, you know what, I'm doing the talking. You just listen, capisce?" Trager says and then, slowly, leans over the bed to hover above Eddie. So close, Eddie can make out the exact split where metal replaces flesh and the 'doctor's' eye bulges out. He tries to sit up, but the restraints are holding him down.

"You see, I've been hearing about you for a while now. 'Don't go near the Vocational Block or you'll find Eddie Gluskin.' 'Beware of the Groom.' 'The boogeyman will snatch ya and kill ya, the boogey named Gluskin.' Stuff like that, right? And upon hearing all of these rumors, I decided to see the truth for myself." Trager twirls the hairpin before jamming it into the restraint on Eddie's right hand, twisting it meticulously until it snaps open and the metal falls. Satisfied with his work, the doctor moves to undo the restrain on Eddie's right leg.

"I'm sure you know this already, friend, but I've been watching you, and I actually enjoy your work. Grabbing poor guys that aren't too ugly, although that is a matter of opinion, and dressing them up in pretty little dresses. Oh, but if they fight, ho ho ho then it becomes interesting," the restraint hits the floor. "Whore... bitch... slut... minx," Trager practically purrs, "it is so fascinating how you constantly teeter on extolling your victims and crushing their skulls in. Really gets the blood rolling, honestly.

"I just wanted to commend you on your effort to cleanse this rather chaotic asylum, look for your wife, and evade nurses and doctors as much you can. I know that they can be such a pain in the neck. Trust me on that one, friend. But," his voice is lilting, lips lifting into a smirk as he undoes the last restraint on Eddie's hand. The metal falls just like the rest of them, and Eddie sits up almost immediately once his body is free. A sudden pain shoots up his spine that makes him grimace, clenching his eyes shut, but it passes within seconds. When he looks back at where Trager should have been, the man is gone.

On the door is a note smeared in blood:

"If you ever need help, just call.

~ Love, your dear friend, Dr. Trager."

Chapter Text

This form of symbiosis is volatile, yet he can't bring himself to cut it off.

As the pair rounds a corner leading to a large, dusty gymnasium, Eddie eyes the torn back of the parasite he now views as an…acquaintance? Friend? Those words have too much attachment for his tastes, but Trager is not so much of an enemy or stranger anymore.

It is parasitic, all the while mutualistic. Trager has provided him with tools and advice while Eddie has given him companionship and, occasionally, an extra hand to use. Although, Eddie could argue the fact that he's just being used to lift the heavy weight for Trager, aka dead bodies, but he's also very aware of how strong the strange variant is.

The doctor. Maybe he should get his head checked out because this relationship is becoming comfortable, which is a distasteful word as the two toss the bodies over their shoulders to the floor.

The weight heaves a dull thud when it hits the floor, resounding through the gym before leveling off into silence. It is cold in here, and Eddie wonders how Trager can even survive the room, entire asylum included, with only his front area covered by a heavy tarp - and barefoot. Even without the chill, Eddie would never walk these disgusting halls in only his bare feet, wary of the hordes of diseases that must be crawling around. No, he has a family to think about.

"What are we doing here?" He asks when the silence has stretched long enough and curiosity has taken over. There isn't anything particularly special about the vacant gym besides its abnormally low temperature, which isn't truly special because it can easily be traced to the small windows high on the wall. They must be open, he concludes. But the most peculiar element is the reason why Trager insisted so fiercely on bringing those two whores with them. Usually, they do their errands alone and leave whatever collateral where it is, unless Trager fancies the body for study, but to haul the bodies here makes no sense to Eddie.

Trager must be planning something that Eddie won't like. That must be why he hasn't told him about it, knowing that Eddie will hate whatever scheme this is. The thought prickles Eddie's skin, not fond of being handed situations where he has no say.

Eddie crosses his arms and clears his throat to grab the wondering doctor's attention (the man has crept to the other side of the gym and is now crouched over some metal contraption, prodding and pressing down on it carefully). He doesn't look up until Eddie clears his throat a second time and growls his name.

"Oh! Ah," Trager steps a few feet away from the metal device, "yes?"

"Why did you bring me here?"

Either the question or Eddie's tone caused Trager's sheepish smile to drop instantly. "I know that you are eager, but don't you like surprises?"

"When it involves a scheming psychopath, no," Eddie says.

Trager raises an eyebrow. "And you're not one?"

"Not in this context. So I would appreciate it if you'd stop stalling and tell me why you brought me here, with two whores. They deserved the ground that they died on."

"But that is just it, buddy!" Trager says with a flourish, swinging an arm as he spins on his heel to a stand. He narrows his gaze to Eddie and stretches his arms wide, muscles and skin contorting with his body. "This, this is the gift that the hand of God has bestowed on you!"

Trager holds the position, eyes wide and excited, boring into Eddie, but the larger man doesn't react besides a bored glance around the room. After about a minute, Eddie is fighting off a smirk and sighing. "Um, if I may, what exactly is this gift that God has given me?"

"This." Trager answers with a wide gesture.

"…This?"

"Yes."

"Oh." The room. His gift is the entire gym. Eddie looks around skeptically. Sure, it's large and would work great for storage, but with the entire Vocational Block under his thumb Eddie has more than enough storage space – as if he has a lot to store, anyway. So having this gymnasium is a tad excessive in his opinion. He doesn't need it – has no use for it. But he can't outright deny the doctor, if only to sustain their mutualism. Hesitantly and more than unsure, Eddie thanks the doctor.

Trager doesn't buy it.

"You don't like it, do you?" The man asks but doesn't sound hurt or upset, only indication of anything besides coy is the hint of disappointment. Eddie opens his mouth to deny the accusation but Trager interrupts him. "Don't try to deny it, Gluskin, I can see it in your eyes. It's a shame though, with all of the promise that this room has," he tilts his head to the side and clasps his hands behind his back, "I saw a future here for you. But alas! All does not go according to plan, even if that plan would have solidified you."

"What are you talking about?"

"This!"

There's something that whips past Eddie, a tendril that slices his cheek and air that curls upward. A howl of laughter. Metallic clanking. Something is thrown into the air and then there's a sickening thud that flips Eddie's stomach upside down. He grits his teeth and tries to stop his body from flinching, the onslaught of movement sparking his senses. Only when he hears another bout of laughter is he able to pry his gaze from his hand and drag it along the gym wall until he spots the culprit.

"This is your gift, buddy!" Trager barks from his place above ground, hanging by his feet from the ceiling. He swings his body for momentum, dangling back and forth wildly, waving his arms and laughing. "This is my gift to you!"

Hanging not too far from Trager is one of the dead whores, her sliced body dripping crimson as it lies pale and limp. Eddie stares between the two in bewilderment, heart thundering in his chest as the wild doctor shrieks in joy and the whore hangs. There is a rope connecting them, linked to one of the metal rods on the device Trager was examining earlier. The cut on Eddie's cheeks stings profusely, but he doesn't lift a finger to swipe at the blood, mind too boggled to truly care for the trail falling to dip at his collar.

What is the doctor thinking? Why did he just fling himself into the air? Does he want to die? It is the only conclusion that Eddie can come up with: that Trager's gift to Eddie is his death (he feels hollow now; hollow and sweaty and wanting to sit because staring up at Trager is making him dizzy). Eddie fumbles back, almost falling, but catches himself just in time. A shiver rakes through his body.

Trager is shouting something but he can't hear him – no, no he can hear but… what is he saying? What is he shouting? What is he say-

"Rope, Gluskin! Grab the rope right now!"

Rope. Eddie swings his body to search for said rope frantically, snatching it up from the ground. He is instantly flung forward, arms being yanked up by the rope, and has to wrap the harsh coil around his fist and wrist to keep a vice grip on it. When he looks back at Trager his notices that the doctor is teetering up and down, and the whore is closer to the ground. When Eddie pulls on the rope, the whore goes up and Trager comes down.

"Did you… Did you tie yourself to a pulley?" Eddie shouts, glaring at the damned psycho as a mixture of anger and anxiety burns in his chest, tasting acid in his throat. "Trager! What were you thinking?!"

"Of your future, my friend!" Trager shouts back, twirling, carelessly moving in the air despite the strain that it puts on Eddie. The Groom has to plant his feet on the ground and lower himself just to keep his footing, but Trager doesn't seem to notice. "I did this for you! This can be your trophy, your legacy! Think about it Gluskin, this is what you need!"

"What are you-"

"I've seen the piles, Eddie! I've seen your…your whores," Trager snarls, no longer swinging but staying still, eyes locked on Eddie. "I've watched you dump them in the corners of that room you used to call home and leave them there to rot. But this is your legacy, this is your purpose. These whores are gifts!"

It hurts. The strain on his arms are setting his muscles aflame, pumping adrenaline into him that dulls the pain just slightly. He grimaces and tries to step back to bring the deranged patient closer but finds that Trager is too heavy. His hands run cold in sweat and the rope slips up his wrist, peeling away at skin. It seems like the longer he holds on the heavier Trager becomes, and if this continues he's not sure how long he'll be able to maintain.

So what the hell is Trager talking about?

"Your wife, you're clearing the way for her, aren't you?"

Eddie snaps his head up at that. Without thinking, he answers, "Yes… Yes I am. I am freeing her from the company of filthy sluts." What does she have to do with this? A gift, a trophy? The promise of his darling? Eddie grips the rope tighter and jerks it back, dropping Trager about an inch. "Why are you bringing my darling into this? She has nothing to do with you."

"But she does, buddy! I – we are doing this for her! Just try to follow where I'm going, okay?" Trager says while shoving his fists into the dark cloth hanging over his chest.

"Why are you not seeing my vision, Gluskin? Don't just look at me, but look at what I represent. Look at my symbolism, per se. I know Father Martin would love this, but watch as I hang for my sins, Eddie. My friend, this is your legacy, your path to purity. This is the road your darling must trek to reach you! Do you not see it?" He swings his body to the left and sends Eddie fumbling to keep his grip, incidentally raising Trager higher – but the doctor only seems encouraged.

"You don't have to hide your work in that damned closet anymore; don't have to leave the promise of your wife behind. Eddie, I am offering you a token for your darling as well as a way to be rid of those whores," he exclaims with outstretched arms. "Let them hang! That is what I am giving to you. A way out. A way in. A way to freedom, Gluskin. A path for your bride to follow. This is the gift that the hand of God has bestowed upon you!"

A sharp twist from Trager jerks Eddie forward and tumbling to the floor, slamming his knees on the cold wood. He tries to tighten his grip on the rope but it slings from his grasp between his fingers, burning and splitting the skin on his palms and knuckles. The rope spirals free from his arms and hands within seconds while Trager laughs from above. Maniacal and hearty, like a joyous uncle at a reunion; except, he is choking on his own laughter as the pulley creeks and groans from the weight, wires and ropes tightening at high tension points.

And all Eddie can do is watch in silence, mouth agape but no voice to leave it. He scurries out from under Trager and the hanging whore on his hands and knees. This place. His gift. He feels nauseous and hot yet cold all the same, throat dry and body sweating. Triangles. He can see the faded flashes of triangles and squares and other geometric shapes between organics. It blurs his vision, races through his head, dull and steady and reminiscent of a time he'd like to forget.

Trager is laughing but all he hears is the buzz of the engine. Trager is slipping but all he sees is the faded code of a cursed engine.

There's a buzz saw.

There's a pair of large scissors (dripping in blood – why is there so much blood?)

Darling. Oh, she must be nearby.

This is her gift. This is her trail. Clear her path of bitches and whores and sluts. So filthy, filthy filthy filthy.

Something crashes to the floor, loud and sharp, he can even hear something wet snapping, but Eddie's eyes are clenched shut and his breathing is ragged.

No… he doesn't want to look.

This form of symbiosis is volatile, yet he can't bring himself to cut it off.

Blood has a rather nice sound to it as it drips; the beat is constant. It is never heavy like rain, and the dash of color is a pleasant contrast to clear. Eddie doesn't bother to place a bucket under the source of it in order to catch the droplets; instead, he relaxes into his chair and enjoys the sight.

It feels good to finally have the time to sit back and rest, especially since sleep has become sporadic. Between the riots, tailoring, and variants, Eddie has been quite busy keeping his home in pristine condition and getting rid of any pests (sluts). And it always takes the most energy out of him when a promising lady turns out to be nothing more than a bitch in disguise. So he lives for these moments of peace and quiet, sometimes even allowing himself the time to eat.

As if on cue, a can of beans and pack of crackers brush against his shoulder, and Eddie turns to retrieve them.

"Thank you," he says before digging into the half eaten package for a cracker. He isn't very hungry – actually, he's not hungry at all – but if he doesn't eat Trager will probably fuss and prattle on about health and fitness (as if that exposed muscle tissue of a man was the epitome of health himself).

"The welcome is yours," Trager coos before stretching and yawning. Beside him is his signature pair of scissors with fresh stains bleeding on to the floor, which reminds Eddie of the droplets in front of him.

Tipping the can over his lips to tap the beans into his mouth, Eddie looks around the aluminum to watch the rest of the blood drain from the fat slut hanging several feet above them. She was one of those promising types, but when he tried to fix her she fought him harder than the rest. And he couldn't have her setting an example for the others, so in a fit of rage and dominance Eddie sliced off her vulgarity and strung her up while she was still fighting, satisfied with how limp and submissive she became once the blood started pouring.

And it still pours.

In retrospect, Eddie realized that she could have been strong enough to bear his child if he had been more…patient with her, but the fall of her life is enough to quell his desire for now. And Trager doesn't seem to mind spending his free time eating and watching her either, so Eddie doesn't see a need to regret much.

Until he meets his darling, that is.

But until then, he is content with hanging whores in the company of his companion. Yes, their relationship is strange, but he likes it this way. Almost like… friends.

Or parasites.

Chapter Text

The surgical room has a rather pungent odor to it, floating through the air precariously as if ready to target and attack anyone who defiles the rules of this place; which it might as well do, with how strong the stench is. Lightbulbs arbitrarily dangle between beds with curtains drawn around them. The drapes are thick and heavy, yet they wave in the dank air ever so slightly. In the dim light dull greens, blues, and greys merge together to create a monochromatic tinge within the standard shades of white, black, and brown. It highlights the splatters of crimson along the walls and floors, brightening the contrast brilliantly. How it paints the room is remotely artistic, and if one were to extensively analyze it then he would come to the conclusion that the drips and splatters were intentional.

At least it seems that way to Eddie Gluskin as he etches into the block of wood he found in the courtyard. In the midst of engendering one of his more spectacular dresses, Eddie was dragged from his home by the – very – persistent doctor. Trager claimed that he meant to tell Eddie about their little venture earlier, but it was clear as day that Trager's actions were as spontaneous as their bloomed relationship. And since Trager looked ready to burst or explore his workroom by the time Eddie shook away his shock, Gluskin didn't really think he had a say in the matter.

Humor Trager or allow the maniac to scavenge through his possessions? The answer wasn't that hard.

Which landed him on a wild adventure through the asylum for specific materials and machinary: rotary hammer drills, shin brace wraps, buzz saws, and surgical shears were just the tip of their investments. It would be a lie to say that he loathed the entirety of the scavenging, but he wasn't ecstatic about it either.

The sound of a drill spinning fills the room like a raw temptress, hips swaying in the wind and lip curled into a snarl, walking amid horrid cries and screams. The noise is followed by whimpering, and then piercing shrills rise over the demented laughter of a madman. It is wet and loud, whipping along the walls at a speed far too fast for him to grasp on to. As if it was a harmonious melody, Eddie listens to the screams and laughter while chipping away at the wood. He guides the tip of the knife in a large arc over the top before going over it again. He repeats the motions until the bark is thin enough for him to push through the other side and tear off the semi-circle. Another scream erupts from behind the curtain, but Eddie is too busy planning his next curve to truly pay attention.

"Buddy! This one's a fighter. Come over here and see for yourself."

"No, thank you," Eddie shakes his head despite knowing that Trager cannot see him, eyes not moving from the forming figure. "I am quite fine where I am."

"What a grandpa. Oh well, your-" A scream slices through Trager's words abruptly. "...One moment."

Eddie listens to the receding footsteps until they are no longer heard. There is silence, and then the tell-tale buzz of a saw shatters the eerie tranquility like glass. He waits for the demons around the corner to show their ugly heads again before lowering his gaze back to his wood work and flicking his wrist to chip at it. A slice here, a nick there. The block begins to take form with every piece of bark that falls off. A perfect circle. A sharp edge wedged into the wood across from another. He drowns out the agonized cries of death with the peaceful and crisp whispers of whittling. By the time the screams end, he is etching detail into the face of a horse.

"As I was saying, oh, wait that actually looks great."

The shadow across the room shifts into a rambunctious mass shadowing his work in less than two seconds. He can practically feel Trager breathing over him, warm breath circling over the exposed portion of his neck. Eddie has the urge to raise his collar to cover that area and stop the invasion of personal space, but decides to simply lift his head and place the horse in his lap. Because Trager is blocking the light from behind, his whole persona is illuminated in gold while dark shadows overwhelm his actual features. The picture is imposing, or at least would be for any other variant, but to Eddie it is nothing more than well placement of light and dark. Not to say that the blood spilled over Trager's chest and arms do not perfect the image.

Slowly, Eddie flips the horse in his palm, then holds it out for the doctor to look at.

"What an artisan," Trager breathes, plucking the horse out of Eddie's hand and into his own. "Although, I shouldn't be too surprised since you spend most of your free time designing those damned dresses. Which is a tad creepy, just saying, but whatever keeps the sails up, am I right? Your work is damn good."

Eddie nods his thanks. Awed by the craftsmanship, Trager flips the horse around in his palm and runs his finger along the fine lines that were in the process of being crafted. They are precise, with each line serving a purpose: emphasize a certain expression, contour another curve or edge, enhance the art as a whole. Well thought out, meaningful, and complete. The finished product will surely be astonishing.

Eddie licks his bottom lip. "Is there something wrong with it?"

"You're a strange one, Mr. Gluskin."

The way his eyebrows raise is almost comical. "Excuse me?"

"I don't think you belong here. Alright, maybe in a cracked up hospital somewhere for your dress fetish, sure, but what I meant by "here" is this year, this time period," Trager muses with his gaze glued to the horse. "You are a man out of your time. Not necessarily a bad thing, no, but I wonder why." He leans against the door that he entered from, arms crossing while one hand toys with the art. His gaze is piercing, resembling daggers when it finally lands on Eddie, who mentally cringes (not cowers) from the stare. Trager's lip curls into a crooked smile. "Tell me, what makes you this way? The split that has you flirting with women one second and then stabbing her to death in the next. Your passion for morals and values, that fierce sense of right and wrong. What causes you to see the world in such a monotonous way? I honestly want to know."

The voice is lilting, calm, coaxing Edie into a river of innocent curiosity. Trager wants to know why he is this way. A strange desire, for what specialty or allure does Eddie have to make the doctor want to understand him? Is the question truly innocent, or is Trager's curiosity more perverse than he is letting on? The music, his idiosyncrasies, is Eddie truly that peculiar? Suddenly, there's a hollow something building in the pit of his stomach that grows the longer he looks at Trager. It manifests slowly, building a gradual pulse that soon snakes into his heart and wraps its claws around it. Crushing. He bites his lower lip with little consideration and averts his entire posture from the doctor.

He feels attacked. Like prey surrounded by bloodthirsty predators. Inching closer, closer, the questions resound like love notes from Satan in his ears. Sing to him a little louder, a little softer, a little deeper. Eddie's hands involuntarily ball into fists at his side.

What makes him this way? An old soul trapped in this body. Does he belong, is he welcomed - oh, how the wedding bells ring so sweetly.

"Buddy?"

"I'm not sure," he chokes out.

The quiet that precedes is deafening.

Still avoiding contact with Trager, Eddie slumps deeper into the chair, dragging a foot up on it so he can rest his chin on his knee. He hears the shuffling to his right but doesn't look, already knowing who is moving and why. And within seconds, just as he predicted, Trager is dragging a chair next to his and plopping himself down. Something hard prods against his fist until it rubs enough times for Eddie to give in and take the damn horse in his hand.

"Have you heard about that shit kid Father Martin brought in here?"

What a nice opener. Eddie simply shakes his head. "You keep mentioning this Father Martin. Who is he?"

"Just some run off the mill priest that got sent here for, I don't know, sacrificing his church like lamb or something. I don't care too much for his background, but I know that since he's been here he's been trying to convert people into one form of worshippers or another. A load of shit if you ask me. Too bad the man is smart enough to avoid me. A tongue like that could be put to much better use, in my opinion." His tone is light, in the utmost passive way, but there is something more sinister laced in it that reminds Eddie of what the man sitting beside him is capable of.

"Anyway," Trager starts with a twirl of his wrist, "Father Fuck here has brought in an outsider to do his dirty work. Some kid. Which is a pity and shame, really."

"And why is that?"

Trager tilts his head and shrugs. "Because I'll have to kill him. Hear that he's fairly close to my little...clinic and needs a checkup. Possibly donate an organ or two, nothing spectacular." He glances at Eddie and catches the man staring at him with a little less than amused expression. "What? Rather I do it than one of those dirty whores you've been chasing around. I'm sure you can agree."

And though it is left unspoken, Eddie agrees with the doctor. Those filthy whores do not deserve the satisfaction of a kill - much less the air they breathe. But he doesn't say it, if only to force their hands back into familiar silence; Trager yawns and twists his body opposite to Eddie while the groom fixes his energy back on the half finished horse.

He whittles away at the wood until the desired shape is formed. Dragging the tip of the knife along leg muscles and the arch of the horse's back, he then curvs wisps into the wood to create an impression of flowing hair. As time passes he is drawn further into blankness. All that matters is the rotation of his wrist and the cut it presses into the wood, conjuring splinters and allure. Eddie bathes in the silence surrounding him, allowing him to dive deeper into the recesses of his psyche.

"Whore! There's nowhere for you to run!"

"Get back here! Meat! Meat! Whore!"

The change in nature incites a shock to his system. He bristles at the language being thrown so nonchalantly in the air, as if whorish souls were a practical joke and not the degradation of virgin women. The frown settled on his face intensifies as the voices draw near. Their footsteps are no longer taps but thuds, loud and ringing through the walls.

Someone is being chased. He can hear it, the ragged breathing and exertion masking whimpers and cries. Salty tears enhanced by fear are so evident that he can practically taste it. And by the way Trager has brightened up, he assumes that it is the case for him too.

"It's that kid," Trager bubbles not unlike a child on Christmas.

"How do you know?"

"Who else would it be?" The thuds sharpen immensely at that moment. Eddie glares down at the floor as if to see the culprit through the flooring, since the crashes and huffs seemed to be directly below them. How can Trager be so sure when they can't even see the floor below? It doesn't make sense. And he lifts his glare to target it on Trager, but the moment he does his head explodes into searing pain.

It radiates from his temples, warm and pulsating as he crashes shoulder first onto the ground. Eyes clenched shut, his teeth involuntarily grind and pinch the side of his tongue. Through the heavy fog clouding his mind (pain, pain is clouding his thoughts), Eddie can make out the excited ramblings of Trager. Trager. Did he-?

"I'm so sorry, buddy, but this is beyond a gift."

The enthusiasm behind Trager's voice scratches his ears like chalk on a blackboard. Between the hollers and ecstasy, all Eddie wants is to hold his palms over his ears to muffle the sounds. The ringing in his ear is far too persistent. He grits his teeth and tries to open his eyes, managing to get only one half way open. While his peripherals are horrid, straight ahead isn't blurry enough to hinder his sight, so he twists and worms forward until he has a decent line to Trager and the rest of the room.

The doctor rushes about the room and hall frantically, tarp wrapped tightly around his waist swinging as he paces. Gesticulating. He mumbles as he walks with one hand relentlessly cupping his chin, irregularly scratching - rather, scraping - while the other tosses about knives and screws. Eddie watches him in silence, forcing his body to remain limp so as not to attract any attention. From the way his body convulses with pent-up energy, Trager is just a bomb ticking away.

So when he grabs a particularly long pair of scissors and begins to approach Eddie, a tremble rakes through his body before the Groom is jumping to his feet and putting up his guard, only for the doctor to snatch him by his collar and toss him back on the floor. It doesn't register to Eddie what had happened until he was laid flat on the ground again, staring up at Trager with only a quarter of his vision. He must have lost footing (how can Trager so easily toss him?)

"Oh, buddy. I feel a little bad for doing that. Promise. But if you hadn't noticed, I'm especially busy at the moment," Trager coos while moving to crouch in front of Eddie. Gently, he caresses Eddie's chin with the tip of the rusted scissors. "So what I'm going to do is be the good friend that we both wanted out of each other." The point nicks under Eddie's chin, eliciting a low gasp from him that barely escapes before he is forcing his lips shut. The gesture only serves to make Trager bark with laughter, which shoves the scissors further on to Eddie's skin and cause the other to tilt his chin as far to the side as humanly possible. He opens his mouth to tell the mad variant to move the damn blades before he makes a mistake, but somehow his desires are answered before he has time to voice them.

Thoroughly confused, Eddie shuffles onto his feet and levels Trager an annoyed and insistent stare.

"What do you say, friend? Let me have at it?"

He watches the rain pour languidly, resting the palm of his hand on the cool window to feel some of the chill the rain has brought. Howls of wind mingle with the pleasant drum of pouring water, creating a relaxing harmony of nature that transfers into his being. Sighing, Eddie presses closer to the window with half-lidded eyes. The sensation is similar to dreaming, except with a lucidity that allows him to feel new and old sensations at the same intensity. It's like gazing out from the highest building in a megalopolis to watch the nightlife pass by, or like staring off into the horizon as the sun sets behind orange canyons. Eddie's mind is drifting between hidden caverns and uncut forest leaves, thoughts dancing among Ghost Dancers and ballroom geniuses. He is sweeping through closed closets and dark rooms when, in the only spot of moonlight in the room, he catches a tempting silhouette.

The curve of her body, her long legs. Palms sweaty, he approaches her slowly as if a single rushed step will shatter her glory. Her image. In his mind's eyes, Eddie smiles at his beloved wife and holds her by her waist, tracing a delicate finger along her similarly delicate collarbone and neck. He curls his fingers to cup her ears and gazes deep into her eyes. Big and brown, like sweet milk chocolate. Beside his pounding heart he can feel hers leaping, and in that moment Eddie, without closing his eyes, leans closer in a secret attempt to brush their wanting lips together.

Thunder roars over his head as the icy window bites his lips with cold wetness.

Eddie shakes his head and retreats from the window. Chuckling, he drags the back of his hand over the smudge left on the glass before bringing the same hand up to scratch the back of his head. Fortunately for his ego, no one was there to witness such an embarrassment. Under the clash of lightning and another round of thunder, Eddie circles back through the hall he came from and makes his way to his home.

"..I have looked all over, but no girlie can I find. Who seems to be just-"

"Like the little girlie I have in mind," he sings with the tune, humming the rest of the verse carelessly. Though the loudness of the storm brewing outside has lessen to a mere rumble, Eddie appreciates its persistence. A soft background to the relative silence of the vocational block, with only a single working radio to drown out the moans from a nearby hall. He'll have to deal with those heathens later, but for now he has some work to get back to.

When he returns to his workroom, the dress is still there draped graciously around a fresh mannequin. Silk ruffles wave over each other until it hits the floor, and even then the fabric coils fantastic around the mannequin's feet. Despite not having finished the torso of the dress, Eddie is proud of his work, which is uncommon for how much he's willing to destroy most of his pieces beside dangling bodies of whores. Funny realizing how the gymnasium must smell like rot and scorched fabric. Eddie laughs at the thought. His darling will surely appreciate how cynical he is towards his work, if only to make something beyond godly for her.

Eddie cracks his knuckles for good measure before scanning the room for a seat without any fabric on it. It takes an effort to find one, actually having to scoot aside a few stuffed chairs in order to pluck an old wooden one from the back, but the journey only makes him more anxious to set it in front of his dearest dress and begin the relaxing labor.

And then he hears it.

The footsteps. So small and petite that if he wasn't in dead silence he would have easily missed it. They whisper through the walls gently, coaxing and lazy in their ways as the owner of those meticulous feet stumble through his halls. Eddie raises an eyebrow. These steps are not like the heavy, careless ones of his usual whores. They are short and borderline silent, very cautious of each creek it makes. Like a fairy pacing around her garden.

A girlie.

Suddenly he no longer has the desire to sew but to search, heart beginning to speed in his chest as he practically shoves the chair aside and runs out of the room. Could this be her? His dear? His one and only beloved who will hold his heart in her sweetest hands and give him his first son. It must be, has to be, with how his heart is thumping and how his clothes are becoming unbearably warm.

But he must not frighten her, so slows his steps to match hers, finding her pattern rather easy to emulate. They walk on different sides of the world yet still together, inhaling as one and then exhaling the same breath. Eddie begins to feel lightheaded from the promise. Something nagging tells him that he needs to slow down and think this through before letting his heart and desire run amuck - how many times has this same scenario happened before? Where he believes that this one is his love, when in actuality she is just another slut? Too many for him to even keep count, sadly, but this feels different. His steps feels different. He feels different.

Silently, Eddie turns a corner and is confronted with a door. The entirety of the hall is dark, too dark, for it is a little difficult for him to see more than a foot in front of him. Regardless, he reaches forward. There is a creek from the other side of the wall - oh, she must sense him too - and then he has to hold his breath.

The handle to the doors rumble like the cry of an erupting volcano, and although the ash fills the air right as he breathes, constricting his lungs the moment they invade, Eddie beams with the light of the sun.

"Darling."

Chapter Text

Fear is simply the product of anxiety and risk, darkness shrouding corners and shadowing inklings of light as they seep through dusty windows and reflect off of shattered glass. Cracked shards of hope embed ripe hearts as the night creeps on and the moon settles high on its pedestal. Fear is the glue that holds together broken minds and tattered souls. It sews the pieces together to form disturbing remnants of what normal life should be. It morphs figures and silhouettes into monsters, engender unspoken whispers, and call upon every doubt and skeleton in one's closet to remind him of his sins.

Fear is fleshy karma being sliced by a dull razor blade; it is the cold sweat that pools under layers of thin clothes and chills bone. It is irrational, abrupt, and catastrophic. Fear itself is an arguable sensation, but when the haze of hatred begins to manifest into something more real, more tangible, that is when someone should truly feel terrified. When fear encompasses a bleeding heart and crying soul, it spreads its tendrils until that person is a living vessel of darkness, a personal abyss. Then and only then is fear a reality and absolute, but this fear is rarely thought to exist.

Rarely, until it is screaming in your face and digging its bloody claws into you.

"Did I frighten you? I'm awfully sorry, I didn't mean to." The voice, deep and smooth with an accent that Waylon Park cannot place, resounds through the recreational room like waves from the ocean, cascading over the air before submerging it in sound. It is charming in the cheapest of ways, yet completely wholehearted, which invokes a shiver that runs down Waylon's spine. He lifts the camera to search in the direction from which the voice radiates, but he can't make out the figure even with the thermal light on. Clicking the infrared off, Waylon crawls out from under the table he found safety in and scurries to the one adjacent to it, peering around the leg for a better view.

"We've met before haven't we? I know I've seen your face. Maybe…just before I woke up." This time the voice is closer, and if Waylon holds his shaky breaths he can make out the quiet echo of steps. "Though it seems like a dream now, being here with you."

Nearer, nearer, the variant draws closer until his silhouette shifts into defined lines and features. It is far enough away for Waylon to not be spotted if he stays in the dark, but close enough for the software engineer to feel his skin begin to prick in horror. Calculated movements silently lift the camera to Waylon's eye and turn the light back on.

The man across the room is familiar, a realization that drops Waylon's heart to his stomach for more reasons than he can explain. Who is this man? His memories are blurry from the engine – objects and shapes flash before his eyes, a headache threatens to rip a groan from his chapped lips – though Waylon is sure that his frazzled thoughts would have altered the memory, even without the machine. However, the thought settles neither his heart nor anxiety, nor the adrenaline pumping through his system preparing him to flee when the next available chance comes.

"Let me fill you up."

Another involuntary shiver rips through him. Keeping his camera angled on the pacing variant, Waylon lets a few heartbeats pass before dashing to the other side of the room, light on his toes and hoping to God, Muhammad, and Buddha that he won't crash into something. For a brief second he angles the camera in front of him to double check the area before sliding under a table and placing his focus back on the man. If it were not for his insistent shaking, Waylon would have smiled at his silence.

The feeling lasts only a few seconds.

He listens to the floorboards creek under heavy weight as the man turns around and starts back towards the way he came – the way Waylon is gradually inching to. His form is tall and brooding, sharp eyes catching the light of the infrared and practically glowing. The tailored vest, pants, and gloves remind Waylon of gentlemen from the 50s, swindlers who'd dance with girls for hours just to move on to the next one once the deed was done. Clever. The atmosphere around this man contrasts drastically with the patients Waylon has encountered before, as if this one is more aware of reality. It is confusing, especially with how familiar he seems, and does nothing to ease his worries.

"You don't have to be alone anymore," the man coos. "You could make me whole. I could fill that emptiness inside of you. Let me love you."

There's a rustle to Waylon's right, and the engineer swings his body to the left while aiming the camera in that direction. He stumbles back and looks around yet sees nothing but air and shadows. The disturbance is gone, vanished, leaving him staring off at empty tables and sewing machines. And he almost let himself sigh, almost allows himself to chuckle at the fright, until a deeper voice reaches his ears.

"Darling, where are you?"

The jolt causes him to stumble into a table, rocking it, eliciting a rough screech of wood on wood that ensnares Waylon where he stands. Pain blossoms in his hips and begins to drum through his pelvis from where he ran into the table edge, but Waylon doesn't have time to focus on the ache before he catches the figure from across the room coming to a halt and then turning around.

He raises his camera to the man, and the glow of a smile on crooked lips pummel his soul into the ground. It takes him less than a second.

He dashes for the room the man came out of, sprinting as fast as he can for a destination unknown. Closed doors, shattered glass, and pools of blood greet him joyously. They hold out their hands to shake – capture – his, but he jumps away from their grasp. A bloody mannequin in a (wedding?) dress smiles at him as he rushes down a hall, and he stares back at her (him?) for longer than necessary, feeling his heart sink further in that now familiar void.

The thundering footsteps from behind seem to have come to a halt, disappearing with no resemblance of a warning, but he doesn't stop running until iron begins to cloud his taste buds. His mouth tastes like musk and blood. Waylon spits the disgusting concoction onto the floor and rubs a palm over his eyes, wiping off forgotten tears and grime.

Darling. The word brings bile up his throat and he wants to double over and dry heave until the feeling leaves, but if he did that he would be gagging for days, possibly months. Has the sickness already settled in? Manifesting itself into a spirit welled deep inside of him, biding its time until it seeps into his mind and plays him like a damn fiddle, a marionette? Waylon shakes his head. Whoever this monster is, he won't let him become his downfall. It's just another chase, isn't it? This bastard is just another sicko to avoid while he searches for a way out. Once he's out of these halls he'll be home free. It will be a walk in the park to leave. This nightmare won't last forever.

So he shakes off as much nervousness and anxiety as he can and then looks around the room he has found himself in. Spacious, with a few tables cluttering one corner of the room, and a splatter of blood covering another, blocking a doorway to his left. Light pours in through windows aligned on the right wall, showcasing pouring rain and a few flashes of lightning. Waylon peers through the door he came in through carefully, but doesn't see any man approaching or, God help him, standing at the doorway, so he turns his back to it and walks further into the room.

"When I was a boy my mother often said to me, get married son and see how happy you will ve…"

Shit.

His legs launch him forward without so much as a second's hesitance. He stumbles over cracked wooden planks until he notices a gas tank container, and almost has a nervous breakdown right then. This couldn't be real. But as he lets his camera drop to dangle against his ribcage and places his hands on the cold metal, the chill is too tangible to be a façade. Swallowing harshly, Waylon tries to block out the singing and push the container just enough to let him slip through.

"I will have to look around until the right one I have found. I want a girl,"

Waylon pushes the tanks away and then crashes through the door.

"Just like the girl that married dear, old Dad."

Why does that fucker sound so close?

Shallow breaths intermingle with shorter, faster ones. He can feel himself hyperventilating, feel the cold sweat sip the heat from his body and leave him shivering as he runs. Waylon fights back tears but it's an uphill battle and he's losing. Losing. He chokes on his own spit and heaves sharply. Hiccups. A strangled shove at a door wrenches his wrist to the side and pain shoots up his arm.

"Darling. You could be so beautiful."

He sprints into a room full of large tanks and slams the door shut.

"I want you to have my baby!"

He has to stop and breathe. It would've killed him if he didn't. Shoving his palms onto a table, he leans over it and sucks in as much breath as he can, squeezing his eyes shut to fight the tears and help hold the breath. One… two… Exhale slowly, allow the tremble to ravage his bones and turn his muscles into jelly. Three, inhale slowly, ignore the hollow noises that creak through the room. Something bumps against his finger, making him fidget, but when he peeks an eye open he sees that the object is harmless.

Waylon replaces his camera's battery with a click. Beads of light dance through the windows languidly, giving up enough of it for Waylon not to need his camera. Meticulous steps carry him through the maze of desks and machinery until he comes across a door parallel to him, and the man standing outside of it.

Like a love sick, sad puppy; the comparison churns Waylon's stomach. Wasting no more time on staring at the variant, he leaps over a table and runs to the nearest door, which has been blessed with yet another container blocking it. Absentmindedly, he curses Fate as he moves to shove the tanks again, and feels his entire being shift in terror as the lost puppy from before follows suit and jumps over said table.

Somehow he manages to evade the man's grasp right as he runs through the open door. He doesn't have time to think or regret not shoving the door in Satan's face, thoughts flying out of his mind as air and survival take reigns over him. And there's a light coming from around the corner, unnatural and whirling with manmade power. Adrenaline pumps through him, pushing him harder, faster, for there's a light coming from an open doorway.

An elevator shaft. And there's a ladder, a red ladder that runs along the opposite wall and if he can just make the jump he'll be fine – he'll be safe. He'll be able to get away. The blood in his mouth tastes sweet for it is filled with hope. Raw, untamed, hope. Hope –

That is squashed like an annoying bug as soon as he readies himself for the leap. Calloused fingers wrap around his wrist with lightning speed and wrench his arm back, but the pull is untimely. Waylon, having already jumped towards the ladder, is yanked mid-air and slammed against the concrete railing, knee knocking into the hard surface. He cries out in frustration and pain, wetness pricking his eyes but he doesn't have the strength, nor care, to halt the floodgates from opening.

He was so close, so close, practically tasting salvation on the tip of his tongue.

"Oh god. Oh god, are you okay?" The man shouts from above, tone laced with worry. "Tell me that you're okay. I hate to think of you suffering without me. Here, let me pull you up," he says, and the grip around Waylon's wrist is partnered with one above his elbow.

He is pulled up like ragdoll, like some child's toy that has had the misfortune of falling. Waylon allows this but doesn't put in effort to help the variant or fight him, body and mind too exhausted to pry off the grip and possibly fall to his demise. Strangely, however, he holds no fear towards that end – it would be quick and easy, and he wouldn't have to endure whatever comes next. But this is fatigue speaking, and through an acute sense of self-preservation does he hold onto the lone thread of instinct and survival that hangs before him. He has to leave this place, has to live, if only to hug his children one more time.

He is rolled onto the floor with an oof. The cold, wooden floors tease his skin as he drags himself onto his hands and knees, not quite pulling the hands on his arms off but leaning his body away from them. They remain securely there in spite of his efforts, and Waylon has to ignore the tremble that shakes him again.

"Darling, what were you thinking?" the man asks, eyes wide and glistening with what Waylon reluctantly acknowledges as betrayal and worry. "Why would you do such a thing? You could have gotten yourself killed." He shakes his head and sighs before leveling his gaze back on Waylon, hands sliding up the engineer's arms to grip his shoulders painfully.

"My dear… You are, more beautiful than I could have ever imagined." His voice is soothing, a false calm as the psychopath glides his fingers gently along Waylon's collar and jaw line, cupping his head behind his ears. Waylon's breath hitches at the smooth affection, his skin crawling wherever those grotesque hands go. Heart racing, it pounds in his chest and he wonders if the man before him can hear the thunder.

It is then that the pieces begin to fall together, sliding one by one into a forgotten jigsaw puzzle. His apparel, diction, and formality all justifies the projection of a man out of his time, the "darlings" emphasizing a point that has been made repeatedly. The Man Downstairs. The Groom. Mr. Gluskin. Waylon's head whirls in memory and he suddenly feels a headache oncoming.

Case number 196.

Eddie Gluskin.

Warmth envelops him and Waylon doesn't realize that he's being cradled in Eddie's lap until the shuffling in his ears stop, and he can make out startled whispers above his head. They're muffled by the, surprisingly soft, fabric pressed against his temple and the fingers curling around his ear and rustling strands of hair. He wants to move out of the embrace, wants to claw and punch and kick his way out of this damned grasp and block, but there's pressure being exerted on his aching kneecap that steadily increases.

Waylon groans and shifts, but the hands toying with him are relentless in their efforts, coaxing a growl from the back of his throat and a twitch. And then an involuntary kick that only encourages the pressure. Waylon snaps his head forward and stares wildly at the foot grinding against his knee, attempting to yank himself from the hold but ends up entangled in a web of stronger arms and legs.

"Darling," Eddie grunts, "I suggest that you stop struggling now. I may end up breaking your neck."

A scream tears past his lips. Heat surges through his knee and shin, sending agony in tides like a letter in a bottle swimming through waves. He grits his teeth to stop the show of fear and pain which only leads him to hissing and whimpering. An arm hooks around his waist and pulls him further on to Eddie, back now pressed against the Groom's chest. His arm is twisted and held firmly behind his back as the foot on his knee digs deeper.

Eddie growls in his ear. "Were you… You'd rather die than be with me? Is that what you were trying to do?" He twists Waylon's arm and is greeted with a cry. "I was blinded by your beauty, but I will not be shamed by a whore. So tell me, darling," he snarls mockingly, a true contradiction to the purr of the nickname earlier, "are you here to make a mockery of me? Are you just a little slut?"

The hold is unyielding, fierce, and with each passing second the agony coursing through his veins intensifies. Waylon struggles against it, his entire body pushing and wiggling, trying to pinpoint weak spots but the search is fruitless. He clenches his eyes shut and grinds his teeth, accidentally biting his tongue and cheek to the point of cutting them. Blood pools into his mouth in trickles and soon he is fighting nausea too. It is reckless and ridden with failure, he knows, yet he can't bring himself to submit. There has to be a way out, has to be a way to wiggle out from Eddie's arms and escape. Isn't there always a way out? Isn't there always a path to freedom?

Except when there isn't, and one is left alone in the darkness surrounded by wolves. The depression comes on quick and allows despair to seep into his movements. A chocked sob parts his lips and he falls into a fit of huffs and crying, no longer pushing against the arms but settling, reluctantly and without intention, into them. He inhales air without oxygen and coughs up methane. His head throbs along with his body, a melancholy ache that persists instead of dulling. Eddie moves under him, and for a split moment Waylon believes that the madman will give him space to crawl out, but that thought is crushed as soon as it springs.

Instead, the larger man drags the arm that was around his waist up to his chest so his hand can pinch Waylon's chin, carefully tilting his head upwards. Waylon's tearful stare is met with piercing blue encompassed by bloody red. It is unsettling, among everything else, and the bastard has the audacity to smile at him.

Eddie speaks softly. "Oh, darling, you will make a lovely wife someday, once I've made an honest woman of you. With such wonderful tears streaking your cheeks… I can tell that you are not a whore, not with those eyes."

The hold on Waylon loosens as rustling sounds in its place; however, he makes no effort to move, knowing that the subsequent pain will probably have him clinging onto life. So he anxiously waits for the Groom to do whatever he is doing, basking in this moment to think of Lisa and still his shuddering breath. When he finally comes back to the present, there is a can hovering over his head with a surgical-masked Eddie watching him.

"I know you must be just as eager as I am to consummate our love. But try to enjoy the anticipation," is what Waylon hears before a cloud of green is being forced in his face. He chokes on the gas and tries to turn his head away but Eddie is holding him in place. The taste of chlorine mixes with the metallic on his tongue, and the chemical burns his nose raw.

As his mind fades into a bleak abyss, Waylon catches the glistening of an excited, bloody blue stare.

Chapter Text

"You have amazing bone structure…"

Darkness. It penetrates with a lethal syringe and bleeds through his body and mind, serenading his entire being with isolated warmth. His fingers are chilled. His breathing is irregular and slow. Toes involuntarily curl as something warm travels up his thigh and stops at his pelvis. Waylon's eyelids twitch but he is far from full consciousness.

"…Such soft skin…"

The voice rings loud again, more concentrated and acute. Not unlike a fishing line, it hooks into him and begins the arduous effort of reeling him back into reality. But he doesn't want to go back, so he fights it. Clenches his eyes shut and mentally jerks away from the seepage of light brightening the darkness behind eyelids. It's so peaceful here in the unknown. He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to go –

"You're going to be so beautiful."

White light blurs his vision when he opens his eyes a little too quickly, sending a pulse of dizziness through him. Waylon squints at it before turning his head to the side and quietly groaning. His body feels like a freshly battered punching bag, with aches and pains running up and down his legs, chest, and arms. Despite how the brightness has lessened, objects in the distance blend in with those nearer, turning edges and shapes into dully colored blobs. Surrealism is uncanny in these shaded figments of reality, yet he cannot decide between which ones are actually there or not. He blinks once, twice, but the answer is not within reach.

A ruffle of movement to his right moves him to glance in its direction, and it is then that he notices the trap binding him.

Legs strung apart in the air, thick rope ties his ankles to wooden posts in the same way that rope locks his wrists to another set of wood. He pulls against the hold but the rope doesn't budge, fastened so tightly around bone that red welts are already beginning to form. He kicks, hard, but the product is the same. Nothing. Waylon's heart begins to pound and slowly he becomes more aware of his surroundings.

The light from above has dimmed enough for him to notice how the room is shrouded in darkness except in this one spot. The light bulb is bright, immensely so, which emphasizes the spray of blood on the walls and doorway. And he feels all the more disgusted. All of him exposed, privacy and dignity thrown out of the window and on display for whoever dares to look – the thought settles deep in his mind. Exposed. For these variants to gawk at and grab, grip and steal, their calloused and cut fingers reaching for his most vulnerable bits. Waylon breathes in sharply, breath catching in his throat, and all thoughts are thrown off when a sudden coughing fit leaves him gasping for air.

"Oh, my dear, when did you wake up? Are you alright?" The voice radiates from where he heard the ruffling, and then the sound of footsteps ring in his ears. "Darling? Darling, do control your coughing. Here, this will help."

The press of cold glass on his lips leads to refreshing wetness on his tongue, and Waylon gulps the liquid as if it were from the fountain of youth. The water cools and clears his throat, and he only has to cough once more before the feeling leaves completely. He drinks the rest of the water hastily and is washed in disappointment when the entire glass is downed. His lips smack when the cup is pulled away from him, with Waylon following it until the stretch in his neck becomes painful.

The glass cup clinks on metal soon after. "I will give you more shortly, darling, but for now I'd like for you to look at me. I miss the brilliance of my love's gaze," the voice above says gently.

Waylon's throat dries almost immediately.

He lifts his gaze slowly, careful to avert his stare from looking directly at Eddie, but the man realizes this and decides to take matters into his own hands, literally, by cupping Waylon's chin and leaning over the table so that he is all Waylon can see. Waylon tries to pull his chin away but that only makes Eddie's grip tighten.

"Your eyes…they are like a dream; an ocean of emotion that I can easily fall into and peacefully drown in. How can a man not see this, your beauty? And I am only looking at your eyes," he chuckles. "Darling, I am a transfixed man, and you are my sole focus. Do you feel it too, my love?"

Fuck no, Waylon wants to spit, scream, and slander, but he keeps his tongue bitten despite the searing pain between his teeth. Eddie watches him intently, and when it is evident that Waylon won't respond he simply sighs. "I guess you won't be able to answer right now, considering how dehydrated you are and this new, ah, situation," he gestures to the wood, rope, and table, "but I can see how anxious you are to become mine. Perhaps, we both want this equally?" A smile splits Eddie's lips as he looks at Waylon lovingly, so vile and twisted that Waylon has to blink hard to force the bile from rising.

"But we can save that for after the ceremony."

Ceremony? Waylon's eyes widen and he pushes forward in an attempt to sit up. The ropes yank him back, jerking his right shoulder awkwardly, but he still struggles to follow Eddie as he walks around the table. He opens his mouth to speak, ask what the hell he meant by ceremony, but what comes out is a helpless little squeak that Waylon doesn't even believe Eddie heard. He tries again. The squeak turns into an alien grumble. He grits his teeth in frustration and pulls on the rope harshly, bruising his wrists profusely yet not caring about it in the least.

Why can't he speak? Just say something, anything, make Eddie explain himself. "Cer." The syllable scratches at his throat painfully. "Cere… Cer… Ceremo..ny. Ceremony." He clears his throat and gasps the word. "Ceremony. I – no, wha…what ceremony-" Breath catching, he inhales sharply and flexes his fingers, trying to calm his racing heart and allow air to fill his lungs. By now Eddie has turned to gawk at him, an eyebrow raced in confusion while his eyes light in amused concern.

"Oh darling, what other ceremony is there to behold if not our wedding?" The variant beams, proud and excited and bubbling with enthusiasm. He rushes back over to Waylon's side and clasps a strangled hand between his, the surprise warmth shocking Waylon. "Once you're fixed, I will begin preparation for our wedding. I figured that you would need time to recover and adjust, so I decided to postpone the planning until after your surgery. Oh! The anticipation is dire." Eddie runs a calloused hand down Waylon's side, dipping his fingers into the small gaps between each rib. "But you're going to look so beautiful. And our children… You will be a great mother."

The hand stops somewhere at his hip, too close for Waylon's liking, sending pulses of nausea through the engineer.

A wedding; the thought refuses to solidify. He is already a married man. Children: he has two sons. Although their faces are elusive, Waylon clearly remembers their presence and importance. He can't remarry. And surgery? He has an inkling of what type of surgery Eddie wants, and it makes the nausea in him surge, forcing him to bite back the powerful urge to vomit. He rolls his head to the side and gags, mind and body numb, stomach churning and his nose burning because of how strong the scent of iron is. He opens his eyes to crimson and realizes that the blood isn't his; it's dry.

A scream claws past his lips. He punches and kicks and jerks his entire body, maneuvering in every which way to see if something will make his binds bend, or twist, or lack, or do anything that will glimpse at escape. It is all he needs. But the more he moves the more he realizes that the rope is too strong and the wooden posts are too solid. Burning hands grip his chest, his shoulders, pushing him against splintered wood to stop him from moving.

"Darling."

"No! No! Stop – let go of me! Please, stop!"

"Darling!"

A solid punch in the gut cuts off any movement Waylon was in the process of. His body goes limp as he struggles to breathe in, finding it difficult to hold his breath for even a second. He must have been hyperventilating. Through blurred vision he follows the recoil of a muscled arm and guides his gaze up to the snarling owner's face. Tense. Angered. A hateful expression on scarred flesh.

"You're making this hard on yourself, slut. If you loved me, you wouldn't do this."

Waylon wanted to confirm that statement, confirm how much he deeply loathes this psychopath, but the argument is detrimental, he knows, so he bites his tongue. As if he could have spoken anyway.

Swallowing, Waylon tries to focus on Eddie and the trap that the variant is now toying with. If he looks down he can't see anything below his crotch, which unnerves him the most. Why are his legs spread? It must be for the surgery, easier access he supposes, but there's something else that Eddie has been fond of touching. It'll occasionally tink, edging Waylon's suspicion towards metal. But he doesn't have much time to ponder whatever contraption is between his legs before Eddie is once again capturing his attention, now holding a rather long blade.

Eddie admires the knife, gliding a gloved finger along its edge carefully and with a small smile, as if it was his favorite weapon to use. Holds it up towards the single light bulb dangling halfheartedly so the light can reflect and make the blade glisten, and once his inspection is done he plunges it into a mason jar filled with a blue liquid. The scent that erupts is strong.

"Bleach," Waylon groans.

"Would be a shame if you died from infection," Eddie says, his tone indifferent and without much care, as if the reply was automatic. Waylon watches him twirl the blade around until the blue shifts into purple, and then pull it out and dry it on a relatively white towel. While wiping off the knife, Eddie tilts his chin toward Waylon. "Darling, I want you to listen to me carefully. Very carefully, or else I won't be able to help you through this."

Waylon's stomach churns. He looks at Eddie intently, with wide eyes and a confused expression.

"A woman…has to suffer many things. It's not pleasant, I know. But just try to…endure. For my sake. For the sake of our children." He speaks barely above a whisper, looking over every inch of Waylon slowly, critiquing. If Waylon wasn't staring back, he would not have noticed it. Noticed the way Eddie's hand shifted silently and slowly, slight movements that were just barely there. His body roars in protest when he feels the cold blade settle right above pelvis, pointing intently at his sex.

"It won't take long dear, I promise. Only a few snips here and…here," fingers brush the inside of Waylon's thigh for emphasis, "and then I'll create a home for my seed. A place inside that will carry them. Our children.

"You're frightened, yes? I can see it in your eyes how scared you are. But there is no need to fear, my love, for I am here. I won't leave you through any of this, and if you need to cry I will wipe your tears away. I'll be careful with you, darling. Oh, how I've been practicing for this moment. This will be perfect. I know that I can do this," he whispers, more so to himself. And then he looks back at Waylon. "Darling! Oh, no, please don't cry now. There will be time for that once the surgery has begun."

He hadn't even realized that he was crying, but now that Eddie has pointed it out it takes Waylon in one quick swoop and leaves him sobbing in frustration and fear. The dam has broken, releasing pent up energy in a flood of sorrow. Waylon wants to cover his face – his chest, his privates – but the ropes refuse to move. He knows better than to pull and fight again, but he doesn't know what else to do. He feels himself crumbling, shattering, the blade pointing into his flesh and the short jolt that catches his body ends with a small incision on his hip.

Waylon cries out. The cut is less of a cut and more of a nick but it promises more, and he doesn't want more. It'll kill him. Another sob ravages him and his entire body shakes. The chill of the blade is now a fiery heat. He moves against it but the sensation is stationary. He hears Eddie speaking but can't make out the words. He sounds panicked. He sounds worried. He sounds annoyed and ready to attack but Waylon is too far in his own shithole to be dragged out by a threat.

Maybe Eddie will just kill him. Maybe he won't survive (he won't survive, it is impossible). Waylon wants to accept this conclusion but for some reason he can't. Maybe it's Lisa, or the children, but his mind refuses to completely process his sure end. The blade scratches the surface of his flesh, and he feels a fresh trail of blood drip down his thigh. It isn't long or deep, but again, it promises more.

More.

More.

More.

"I'm going to die," Waylon whimpers pathetically into his shoulder. He shudders and chokes on his own tears.

The blade stops moving.

"What did you just – Darling?"

"I won't… I'm going to-to die."

Waylon hiccups and snorts. He rolls his head to the other side, away from Eddie; it is a futile attempt to hide his shame and fear, but it is all he can do. It must be a figment of his imagination, but he feels a breeze cool his overheated body, calming him in a wisp of surrealism. And then he's floating. Higher, higher, Waylon wonders how far he can go before he leaves his body completely. Eyes closed, breathing haggard, he feels himself cool and drift away in a sea of air. Hysterical.

The illusion only lasts a few seconds before his eyes are being compelled open. The pressure on his hip is gone except for the ache of a bleeding cut, and he can no longer feel the ominous presence of Eddie standing over him. Standing…over…

His neck could have snapped from how fast he turned his head, but all he receives is heavy whiplash. Where Eddie should have been is air, emptiness, with the blade that was set to emasculate him out of sight. Daring to look at his hip, he cringes at the streaks of blood flowing between his legs and smeared on his thighs (finger prints, Eddie must have touched him). And his penis…

The sight simultaneously terrifies and relieves him. Eddie is gone – but where has he gone off to?

Waylon moves to try his hand at loosening the rope again – this time with thought and strategy – but the moment he wiggles his wrist a large hand grabs him, snatching Waylon's attention up and to the being holding him still.

It isn't Eddie.

Glazed eyes bore into his, piercing and dead despite the clear life that this man possesses. Violent trimmers convulse him, causing the image of a banshee to take over and Waylon no longer sees the disturbing variant as a human but as a monster. A demon. Stitches close reddened semicircles under breasts that should not be there, holding up lumps that don't belong. The monster steps back, whimpering incomprehensibly, until his pelvis is clearly seen. His pelvis, with a wide gash splitting him in two.

"Help…me…" the monster whispers brokenly. He steps back with a large gait, bowed legs emphasizing the bloody hole. "My child…my children… Help- help us."

Horror creeps up Waylon's spine and holds him still. He stares at him, the monster, frozen. Watches him tremble and fumble into shadows, back into whatever black abyss he crawled out of.

"See, darling. I promise that you won't die."

Eddie is standing over him again, but this time leaning directly above Waylon and holding his shoulders down to keep Waylon looking at him. A violent tremble shakes him down to his core.

"Do you not trust me? Why? I have only been sincere with you darling, and you have fought me from the beginning."

Waylon whimpers quietly. "I… I don't –"

"You don't what? You don't want to be with me, you dirty whore?" Eddie growls, gripping Waylon's shoulders hard enough to leave dark bruises. Waylon grimaces at the pain and, thinking fast, cries out a sharp "No!"

Eddie stops squeezing, but he doesn't loosen his grip either. "…Why?"

"That- that man. Y-you did the surgery on him, right?" The answer is obvious, but he waits for Eddie to nod. "You can't do that t-to me-" Waylon cries and jolts when the Eddie digs his fingers against the skin beneath his collar bone. In a sharp gasp, he corrects, "Our children! If you do-do that to me then I can't… I can't have our children!"

"What do you mean, bitch?"

"I'm not ready! I… If I had the surgery I w-won't live. It will kill me. Eddie," Waylon groans, "please, please wait for me. I t-trust you. But I can't… I won't… think of the children."

It's a stretch, but Waylon whines the word as if his life depended on it (which it does). He thinks of his two sons, their faces, their laughs, and without much effort he falls back into the depth of horror and fear that leads him to tears. "I can't have children if I," he hiccups, "if I die." If he dies. He almost wants to laugh at such an achievement.

Above him, Eddie stares with a poker face that couldn't be pierced even if he was stabbed right then. Earnestly scrutinizing Waylon with bloodshot eyes, a minute passes before his mask crumbles into a tight smile. He continues to hold the stare, and Waylon holds it back, willing Eddie with all he can give to believe his words. He doesn't notice the untying of rope until both of his wrists crash onto the wooden table.

It takes a moment for the realization to register, and once it does Waylon sits up and brings his knees to his stomach, immediately wanting to cover his privates despite the stark sting that comes from irritating his cuts. He can feel the blood pooling in his lap, but it doesn't matter right now, nor do the bruises painting his flesh red and purple. He's free, free, in the most relative of terms but the knowledge almost short circuits him in joy. That is, until a strong arm wraps around his back and pulls him into an embrace.

Eddie nudges behind Waylon's ear with his nose, breathing the scent of his filth as if he was a patch of roses, and Waylon has to desperately fight his knee-jerk reaction of running away. That would only end with him being chased and, possibly, back on this table bleeding out and gagging on his own spit, tears, and blood. He shivers at the image, but stays still nonetheless.

Eddie whispers into his shoulder. "You are a little minx, darling. What a girl have I fallen for." He holds Waylon tighter, closer, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. "I think I'm falling in love. Or plummeting." With the arm wrapped around Waylon's midsection, he holsters Waylon up and into his arms as much as he can, expecting Waylon to do the rest of the work and frowning when that doesn't happen. However, the frown soon shifts into a conniving smile. He dips a fingertip into a spot of blood on Waylon's thigh.

"I suppose we can wait to free you of your…vulgarities, but in the meantime, I do believe that we should free you of such," he trails a finger through another line of blood, "filth. It is only proper for a lady to be clean at all times. She is a treasure, a diamond that shines in the sunlight," he says, tone low and laced with something Waylon tries to ignore.

Swallowing thickly, Waylon slumps into the arms now holding him bridal style and rests his head against the chest adorned in a bloody vest. The ache in his body is like a slow drum, and all of the fear and tears have left him exhausted.

Before he knows it, he is drifting off into a restless sleep, holding Eddie's vest tightly as the man serenades him with thoughtless humming.

Chapter Text

Water sloshes onto the floor gently. Graceful motions send the droplets flying on to the edge of grey, where they adhere to the ceramic until the weight overwhelms the force. It is a small drum in the large hall that echoes the harmony of pouring rain. Cracked windows refract light from outside into the hallway, basking them with just enough light to see without straining their eyes. Lightning strikes and thunder roars not long after.

'She must be tired,' Eddie thinks absently while stroking the side of his darling's face. He hadn't expected her to sleep for so long, a few minutes or some, yes, but not for more than an hour. It was becoming worrisome, but Eddie refused to wake her from her slumber – she looks too much like a doll right now to ruin the image. She is exhausted from all the fighting, he concludes before running calloused fingers through her hair again, soaking blonde strands with more water that plasters them to her face.

Adjusting her weight to that she is leaning back instead of forward, Eddie uses his free arm to reach into the murky water and pull out a rag. Humming sweetly, he glides the drenched rag along her sharp hips and up her belly, neatly wiping at bruises and thin scars, red lines from where she has been cut before. He touches the rag up her chest (flat and petite, like a baby girl) before circling her shoulders and giving equal time to her arms. She shivers when he prods at a purple bruise, and for a second his heart skips at the thought of her waking up. But the moment passes without change, so he continues.

The cycle of washing and admiring repeats for an unknown amount of time, passing by with little thought compared to how rapt he is in her glory – her essence. She is a goddess and he is her feeble servant. She is a fighter, and he is her warrior. Eddie cups her naked knee. A fighter…the taste it leaves in his mouth is neither stale nor pleasant, not with how peaceful she looks. The only explanation for her foolish actions is fear, but his little bird must learn not to fear him. There is no reason to; however, he can forgive her this one transgression, since it was a simple mistake.

Dropping the rag back into the water, Eddie shuffles on his knees to lessen the space between them. The cold outside of the bathtub touches his side as he leans forward to press his forehead underneath her chin, nestling there, and then inhales her washed scent. It is earthly and raw, still tinged with musk from sweat, but the water has diluted the smell and replaced it with iron. Eddie buries his nose into the space where her collar and neck meet and nuzzles the skin. Warm. His heart flutters. She is so warm and sweet. Her scent is intoxicating, bringing him to a new high. Too far gone to notice her subtle shifts until a groan reaches his ears, and then there's a hand on his neck shoving him away.

"What are you-?! Let go!" She screams, digging her nails into his neck in a tight squeeze and squirming in the water violently, her eyes wide and feral as she tries to stand, but her knee buckles under the weight and she collapses with a shout. Her face contorts in pain, eyes narrowing at him and then at the water rippling around her.

Under her tightening grip Eddie cannot breathe. He gasps and growls, straining to maintain control over his actions before she ends up like the other whores. His goddess, taking advantage of her faithful servant like this; the dominance is unyielding, and the surge of her control urges him to fight for his own.

Eddie swings his arm out from the water and closes his wide hand around her neck, fully capturing hers while she can only halfway grip his. They simultaneously clench their hands and work for leverage, but their height difference gives Eddie the advantage. He stands and holds her down so she can't challenge him, curling a harsh fist into her hair and yanking her head back. She cries out at the pain and her grip on his neck falters, her arm too short to make up for the slack and soon Eddie is pushing hard enough to force her lower in the bathtub.

Lower, lower, he pushes and pulls until her head is barely above water, now crouching beside the tub to shove her deeper. His darling shakes her head vigorously and scratches at him, completely letting go of his neck in favor of clawing at his face and arms. Failed attempts to pry his fingers apart leave bright scratch marks on his knuckles.

"Every. Time. I try and I try to save you hopeless sluts, you all betray me," he snarls. "You put up this fight, but know you will never win this game, darling." He forces her head under the water and holds her still, watching the air bubbles surface and pop. Her screams are soundless. Her chokes are silent. He twists his grip on her neck and she finally closes her mouth, but her eyes are wide and staring, watching, waiting, and accepting. Eddie frowns and is filled with the sudden urge to loosen his hold. So he does, and the bitch sits up immediately.

Gasps resound through the empty hall, bouncing off of the walls and tracing the ceiling. He angles his arm to the side, without letting go of her neck, to avoid the fit of coughing and spitting. Her whole body trembles and the vibrations are sent up his arm and down his spine. The rise and fall of her chest is exaggerated, and the short hair on her head is slicked straight. He further loosens his grip but she portrays no knowledge of noticing, not even when he lets go fully and drags his hands into his lap like a school child.

They sit still for a few minutes longer until her coughs are irregular and thin, and Eddie feels a smirk tug on the corners of his lips. "You must know how foolish you are, darling," he says, which earns him nothing more than a glare. "This constant resistance won't get you anywhere in life. It's just going to make things harder for you, especially now that we're together. Darling, how am I to fall for you if you always push me away?"

"Stop."

The haggard voice is rusty in the air, yet sounds even worse in Eddie's ears. Scratchy. He sees her suffocating again and is confused by the audacity hidden in that one, rustic word. "Yes?" he prompts.

His darling shifts in the water, muscles flexing every so often, shivering. "The…darlings. S-stop calling me darling like that."

"What makes you believe that you can st-"

"M-my name is Waylon. Not darling, but Waylon." She says firmly, lifting her gaze to hold Eddie's shocked stare. Her eyes are piercing and powerful, and Eddie can't help but see the goddess he saw before, her enchanting stare encompassing his heart in a strong warmth. He swallows thickly, and then a grin is splitting his lips.

"Waylon," he repeats, "not darling, but Waylon." His rolls the name around his tongue and tastes its sweetness until it melts, swallowing it down slowly to savor the taste only to do it over again. Waylon. Such a masculine name, but somehow it fits her strong will, her wickedness. Her ability to convince him to leave her vulgarity attached – for now – and make him fall for her again after shoving her beauty underwater. Waylon. Eddie's blood flows a little faster.

"You have such a beautiful name, darli… Waylon," he purrs and leans over the edge of the bathtub. Not unlike prey being stalked by its predator, Waylon shrinks under Eddie's earnest stare, her expression a cracked poker face that reveals her instability. Pursed, pink lips form a flat line and her cheeks flare a pale red. She nibbles at her bottom lip and averts her gaze when his stays. The water ripples around her thighs, dirty with filth and now cool.

Rising from a crouch, Eddie snags a long towel from a nearby table and extends an ungloved hand. "Come here, Waylon, I think you're clean enough."

Waylon. The name filters through his thoughts passively, coming to mind for a few seconds before exiting in similar fashion. Eddie idly rummages through a wooden chest filled with many different fabrics and half-made clothing.

Waylon. His darling has told him her name, at a rather peculiar moment, yes, but she had, which eases Eddie's mind only a few notches as threads of doubt and curiosity begin to intrude. Why did she choose that exact moment? The gift was so irrelevant and…random. He is grateful but not as much as cautious; there had been many other whores before to teach him to be wary of women. Minxes they are, they all are, even without intention. And this one, oh his darling is a witch down to her bone - a kind witch who needs to be void of her tendencies.

Waylon. The name sparked from anger and violence, coaxed from a raspy throat dried from loss of breath. He had admired the way she choked, enjoyed the sight of bubbles bursting pockets of air stolen from her lungs. He wanted her dead – partially, he more so wanted her to suffer. He wanted her to suffer, yet she wanted him to know her name, take them to a more personal level. Eddie stops fumbling around the clothing, his hands caught between a cream colored blouse and the fold of what he assumes to be a pearly white dress.

"Darling," he says intentionally and waits for her acknowledgement. Without words, he knows that he has her attention when he hears the telltale, sharp intake of breath. "Can you stand up for me, please?"

Pushing aside the fabrics on top, Eddie grabs the white dress and pulls it out of the chest carefully. Its design is reminiscent of the masterpiece crafted on that one whore the day he met Trager, a memory that seems so distant but in actually was only a week or two ago. The slut had bled through the original, so Eddie had decided to comprise a better version of the ruined dress, and he is rather proud of the piece that came to. Now, holding it out to his darling for her to see, Eddie awaits her glee.

"So, what do you think of it?" he asks.

Rising from the stool she was perched on with only a towel covering her innocence, Waylon fingers the hem of the material and eyes the dress. She hesitates to speak "It's….pretty?"

Eddie's assumption shatters. "Why do you sound so unsure?" he gestures to Waylon with a wide swipe of his arm. "I think it'll fit perfectly, do you not?" He raises the question and steps forward, involuntarily making her shift away. Eddie stops short of standing directly in front of her, which seems to relax her just enough to stop her from looking like she's about to bolt out of the room. "I'm sure it will fit. I took your measurements already, so I know it will."

The bolting expression is back within seconds. "Whe-when did you do that?"

"While you were asleep." Eddie shrugs sheepishly. "I was going to need to know your sizes to find something for you to wear after your bath anyway, so I simply chose to do it while you were incapable of fighting me." He raises an eyebrow at her and notices how ghostly pale her face is, finding the shade sickening and misplaced. "If you'd like, I could find you another dress?" He offers and loops the dress around his arm, going to search through the chest again but a frail voice hinders his trip.

"N-no. It's fine. I c-can wear the dress," she stutters and Eddie has to reign in his passion to avoid strangling her in a tight embrace. Instead, he beams a bright smile at her and beckons her closer with open palms. "Come, come, you can't stay in that towel all day!"

She hesitates to approach, a sheep wary of stumbling across a wolf, but the moment she's within reach Eddie wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him, cradling her cheek with the back of his hand. She squirms against the hold, but the arm securing her is too strong to budge. Her 'fight' reaction is incipient, simmering to a boil, yet he remains pressed against her. Nudging her head to the side for easier access, Eddie nears until his lips ghost just behind her ear, and whispers, "Unless this is just a ploy for more, you little minx."

The shiver that rakes her body runs through his, eliciting a quiet, deep-throated hum from him and tingling nerves in his chest and fingers. The pale that painted her face and shoulders is now a flushed pink, and she warms Eddie wherever they connect. Waylon shuffles against him – away from him – and Eddie lets her. He bites the hollow of his cheek. After the ceremony. The reminder eases his mind.

Although, before she can get too far Eddie manages to shuffle the bundle of fabric into her arms. Waylon eyes it warily, to Eddie's dismay, but his disappointment quickly changes to excitement when she saunters to the opposite side of the workroom and mutters for him to turn around and not look. The request is lost on him, since he did just bathe her, but Eddie obliges without verbal or physical rebuttal.

The sound of the towel hitting the floor and fabric crinkling is music to his ears. It feels different with her, completely and utterly opposite to the noises the whores now hanging in his gym had made. They were never this quiet and fragile, and their fighting spirits were enough to assure Eddie that he wanted to kill them. They were toying with his heart, his soul, and would've laughed at his pain if they ever had the chance - if they ever escaped, that is. But Waylon is different, special.

Familiar. He tries to surface the memory of their first meeting but is met with a harsh wall of vague colors and blurred lines. Images are obscured by fragments of that cursed machine, forming a headache before he can think too hard. So he stops, and breathes, and rubs his hands together impatiently for Waylon to call his attention.

After about a minute of silence, Eddie has convinced himself that she must be fully dressed by now, and turns on his heel to face his darling.

White. The serenity of the piece flows from her shoulders to below her knees, hugging her waist and hips in a loose embrace that emphasizes her shape in the slightest of ways while leaving much room for the imagination. It portrays the image of young woman new to the world, yet in her face and build is experience. Lean muscles accentuate the overall product, but Eddie will have to award the finishing touch to the deeper pink brushing her cheeks. She looks at him with wide, brown, doe eyes and grabs her right wrist, etching line after line on her skin with her fingertip. The sight makes the air in Eddie's throat catch.

"Waylon," he breathes, a charming smile lighting his eyes and movements, morphing them into gracefulness linked to the joy in his heart. This time when he approaches her, she doesn't move back, and it takes it as a small relief to the massive amount of work that needs to be done. But for now all he can focus on is her present appearance and love.

He stops to cradle her waist when he's right on the edge of her personal space. "I am a lucky man, Waylon. To have you here, in my world, in my arms. You are so beautiful," he trails a finger down to her hand and opens his palm for her to take. Waylon bites her lower lip hesitantly, as if contemplating the concept, but complies before Eddie truly regards the moment. "I am blessed to have found you before another could spoil your innocence, and once your shame has been discarded I will teach you how to be a proper woman. But until then, my dear, I believe that you deserve a treat."

He quickly leans forward before his darling could protest and nuzzles his nose over hers playfully, enjoying the question that fills her instead of disgust or tension. When he pulls away, her cheeks have reached an impossible red and her lips have parted, obviously confused by the gesture but not enough so to ask, apparently. Well, silence is the better side of a woman, so Eddie accepts the silent quizzical and let go of her limp hand.

"I'll be right back, darling," he tells her before walking out of the workroom with the keys twirling around his finger, humming an older song as he locks the door from the outside.

"A token for our future," Eddie chimes from the doorway. He is hoisting a medium-sized, rectangular box over one shoulder, and donning new clothes and an excited glint in his eye. Kicking the door closed behind him, Eddie nods for Waylon to follow him to the sewing table and sets down the box at the center of the table.

He smiles when he feels a presence next to him. "It's yours, don't expect me to open it," he says lightly and taps the top of the box.

Waylon glances at him in what Eddie assumes as confirmation, and then carefully plucks the top of the box off and lays it on the table. He doesn't miss the highlight in her eyes when she sees what's inside. Bright, red strawberries rest in rows inside the box, their scent rising from the cardboard and fanning over the two. They point diagonally in a zigzag pattern; something Eddie thought would make for a better aesthetic appeal than rows and columns. But it is what's between them that truly capture the elegance of the gift.

Coiled around the center most strawberries is a gold link; it is thin but prominent, and when Waylon spots it she looks at Eddie pointedly. Chuckling, he nods and tells her, "Go ahead. The necklace isn't going to pick itself up, darling." The roll of the name is alluring, enchanting, and purposeful. He inches closer to her as she picks the piece of jewelry up and eyes it, gently holding it between fingertips as if it will break upon any sort of force.

"Did you make this?" She asks.

"Yes," he replies smoothly.

"For me?"

"Who else, Waylon my love."

That trips Waylon's words, and Eddie is amused by how she struggles to voice her thoughts. Her skin is paling, but he chalks it up to her being nervous and beyond flattered. Happy. What he would give to do more for – to – her with her pausing like this. He looks over her frail form, gaze lingering longer than necessary at her hips and lips, but reminds himself to wait for after the ceremony. After the ceremony, and then…

"Th-thank you," is what stumbles out as barely a whisper, cracked and rolling off a tangled tongue. Waylon runs a finger over the gold links and inhales deeply, trying to calm her breath. She blinks hard, exhales, and then her beautiful eyes are on Eddie, a small, careful smile on her lips. "Thank you, Eddie."

A name. His heart skips in his chest, he can't breathe, and then he's pressing a smaller, warmer body against his. The scent of the earth clouds his senses and all of a sudden all he wants to do is breathe. And touch. And hold her still until the end of the world. She does not push him away nor return the embrace, but the acceptance is enough to quell Eddie's burning want for now. He takes what she gives, and then presses his lips to her forehead in a light kiss just for a bit more.

"You're welcome, Waylon," he whispers against her flushed skin.

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♥ Adorable chibi Waylon and Eddie by Daliakoen ♥

Chapter Text

He twirls the thread around his smallest finger loosely, letting the velvet string coil and then fall to bundle at the base of his pinky only to repeat the process. A low rumble sounds through the ceiling, signifying the use of some machine – air conditioning, heating, something of the sorts that requires ventilation – in another, close part of the building. He glances through the door to make sure that no lights from electronics are on nearby, and when he spots no sight of blue he resigns to twirling the string again.

The repetition is idle, done with very little to no regard or thought, droning on as the machine hums and silence stretches. Eddie struggles not to yawn. It is getting late, and now the only light source in the workroom comes from waned candles. They flicker in the background patiently, yet the tranquility in the air is shifting into something more sinister - hollower. He blinks slowly, vision blurring around the edges, but he isn't tired. No, unlike the candles he cannot stand to the test of patience. Eddie taps his foot on the floor and loops the thread around his thumb, and then his index finger, and then his ring. He twists the knot and pulls taunt until the thread is tangled between his fingers.

Eddie plucks the centermost line of thread. "Waylon, how much longer will you have me wait?"

There's a creak in the floorboards, but no direct answer. He coils the string again, tighter this time, yanking the other lines of thread to pull this one flush against his skin. Redness begins to pour past the white of his finger and build, and he watches the color change until all of his flesh under the string is a pale white while the skin above is bright pink. When he finally drops the thread, small pins are pulsing through his finger.

Eddie clears his throat. "Waylon?" he asks again but louder. Another creak in the wood alerts him of his darling's presence, but she doesn't speak.

Now frowning, Eddie unties the small knots he made in the long string and places it on the desk beside him before turning to face the rest of the room. Golden light saves it from the shadows, giving it a rich glow that fools the mind into serenity. Stray, cut pieces of fabric lie unceremoniously on the table, and the strawberry box from earlier remains open with a few strawberries eaten.

He can hear her shift from behind the desk.

"Darling, what are you doing?" Eddie asks, now coming to lean over the desk and peer behind it. It's too dark for him to make out details, but the figure of Waylon hiding behind the desk is as solid as he imagined. His expression softens upon seeing her, but he doesn't try to mask his disappointment from his darling not answering when he called. "Do you need any help?"

"No," she says quickly, too hasty, and the speed of it leaves his mouth tasting displeasure. He purses his lips.

"But dear, you clearly don't know what you're doing."

"And you do?" she snaps.

Swallowing down his knee-jerk reaction to shove the desk down on her, and possibly crush a bone or two, Eddie clenches his jaw and waits for his fingers to relax from fists before slowly walking around the desk, snagging a burning candle along the way. Placing the candle down on the floor a foot or two away from them, Eddie kneels in front of Waylon, one hand on his knee while the other rests on the ground.

"As a matter of fact," he pokes her shoulder to get her attention, to which Waylon shrinks further into herself. "I do, darling. It…displeases me, but I suppose everything was just leading up to you." Eddie quirks his eyebrows and smiles, trying to dazzle her into acceptance, but Waylon's gaze is averted from him.

Why?

Waylon jerks against his hand when he grabs her inner thigh, fingers brushing around her warm skin, searching for something that isn't there. She kicks out but the attempt is futile with Eddie now snatching her right leg and dragging her closer, out of the dark and into the yellow glow. It's a fight to hold her still, Waylon wiggling the entire way as he drags her further out of her corner.

"Excuse my rashness, darling, but I don't see why-" he slaps her hand away an instant before the slap hits, "you're hiding from me." Another kick is sent his way and Eddie steps on her leg, grinding his heel right below her bruised knee. She gasps sharply and trembles, a low whimper escaping her lips but he doesn't move off until she is glaring up at him; cheeks red, tears glistening in her eyes, the image warms him enough for him to let off.

Leveling his stare from above her, Eddie watches as her hands – so small and petite – curl into fists and her cheeks burn a deep crimson. It's a pleasant contrast to her white dress, which is hitched mid-thigh and folded between her legs. Embarrassment radiates off of her, but before Eddie can further his questioning, he spots something peaking from inside her fist: it is a deep purple and sewn, and Eddie has to bite his inner cheek to keep from laughing at her chagrin. Waylon takes the brief moment to widen the distance between them.

"Come here, Waylon," he says sweetly. She doesn't take kindly to his amusement, it's obvious by the way she glares underneath layers of nervousness, but what is he to do when she is being so adorable? Eddie's smile widens, and soon Waylon is crawling over to him reluctantly, refusing to make eye contact with him.

Once she's close enough, Eddie runs his index finger along the side of her fist, and then pulls the byzantium colored cloth from her grasp.

"Were you having difficulty with this?"

Waylon's cheeks light aflame. She bites her bottom lip and completely turns her head from him, frowning, positively despising how her face is becoming red. And he just watches. Smirking. Eddie pinches the smooth cotton between his fingers, finding the piece soft and perfect for his darling. He made it for her, of course, after remembering how improper it was for her not to wear undergarments.

And she had accepted the gift like a treasure, staring at it as her cheeks paled (that sickening white, it was disgusting but perhaps it came from appreciation?) and her knees began to buckle. She was enamored. Eddie had sent to her to the opposite side of the room to change since she was too shy to undress before him – like a proper lady – and that had led them to where they are now.

Here, with Waylon blushing profusely and Eddie holding her panties like an entertained handler. Maybe she needed a little more training?

"I would have thought that you'd know how to put on panties by now, darling," he begins, snaking a warm hand up her shin and behind her knee. Waylon fidgets under his hold. "But my inference is mistaken. You were raised by wolves then… yet turned out to be a spectacular woman, I can see it. With a little more, ah, discipline, you'll be the best mother around," he leans in close and drags the fabric up and around her foot, "the best in the world.

"But that will come after the ceremony, of course."

His words are emphasized by a warm, large hand on Waylon's privates, cupping them with feather-like touches. Eddie doesn't look at his hand as he leads the panties around Waylon's thighs and hips while simultaneously folding her innocence. She, however, stares at his actions with her lips slightly apart, muscles taunt, and fingers digging into her dress. Waylon watches Eddie intently, a boost to the man's ego but at the same time he feels distraught, and vulgar.

The hand holding Waylon's vulgarity feels numb, absently repeating robotic motions to finish the job quickly and without incident. Although he loves her silky skin and innocence, Eddie hates her wickedness; this attachment that doesn't belong. Finally placing her firmly in the underwear, Eddie quickly removes his hand and wipes it on his pants, internally growling his discontent. However, it all washes away when he meets Waylon's beautiful gaze.

His insides practically flutter. "Darling," he breathes, and then pulls her into a gentle embrace. He wraps his arms around her and she pats his shoulder, a simple gesture that has Eddie's heart reeling in joy. Waylon, his darling, so wonderful and everything he wanted. Oh, she just needs a little more attention and then she'll be perfect – absolutely stellar.

So caught up in his thoughts, Eddie pulls back, but only far enough to look her directly in the eye. She looks so inviting, and when she wets her lips it calls his attention there. All he has to do is lean a little bit closer…

A grumble in the air startles them both, halting Eddie's actions before he could even make them. Waylon's blush comes back to push her paleness away, and she glances down at her stomach. To Eddie's surprise, she is the one to chuckle softly. "I guess I'm hungry," she notes, more so to herself, tone a melting pot of despair, amusement, and other vague emotions.

He blinks, and then flashes her a charming smile. "We'll just have to fix that, won't we?"

The hallway is dark, a familiarity that has become natural, but the eeriness of it is something that Eddie hasn't felt in a while. For a moment his thoughts flash back to his dear friend, and Eddie wonders how the old fool is handling everything. He hasn't felt the absence of the man before, his focus being primarily on Waylon, but now, as the pair trudge the empty, creaking halls of Mount Massive Asylum, Eddie feels a thread of dread for not seeing Trager.

Wasn't he hunting down a kid the last time they talked? Their conversation had been so rushed before he left; he clearly remembers the doctor almost literally bouncing off of the walls when the kid came close, his excitement bubbling beyond measure. It was heart-warming to see him so happy, so vividly simmering with anticipation, that in the moments before he departed Eddie had actually wanted to stay.

He wanted to meet the kid, see exactly who Trager was targeting and understand what was so substantial about him. Shit priest's kid, he hears in his head, and the thought makes him laugh aloud.

Waylon raises a questioning look at him, but Eddie dismisses her curiosity with the wave of his hand. He leads her through a door and around a corner to a large room with three exits, one being a decontamination chamber. He starts towards it, but Waylon stops as soon as her eyes land on the door.

Eddie turns his back to the door in order to face her. "It's just right through here, Waylon, I promise. I know the walk has been long but it won't take much longer before I can feed you."

He waits for her to come to her senses and move, but after a few seconds of inactivity Eddie begins to feel his anger bubble. She shifts her weight and angles her body away, like a rabbit ready to dash with the next alarm. The movement is subtle, but Eddie catches her shaking her head.

"Eddie…"

"Why must we always play this game, darling?" he speaks through his teeth, eyes narrowed, and takes a step forward. He tries to relax his body to at least appear less aggravated, but his darling was full of too many childish games. "If you were so afraid then why did you follow me all the way here? You could have run long before, if that was what you were planning. I was simply offering to satisfy your need, since I don't eat as much anymore."

Sure, he could have fed her whatever was in the Block or forced her to eat the rest of those strawberries, but, foolishly, he thought that she would have preferred more of a variety – something special to show her how much he valued her health. Eddie didn't take from his reserve room often, if at all. So for her to deny him? He grits his teeth and takes another step forward.

Waylon shuffles back, and something akin to the sound of rushing gas fills the room, but his sole focus is on the whore before him.

"Or maybe you were planning on leaving me once I showed you where my supplies were? Is that it? Were you just using me for knowledge and ended up feeling guilty about it?" his hands ball into fists. "Darling! I need an answer."

"E-Eddie, it's not that-"

"Then why are you running from me?"

A piercing whoosh sweeps through the room followed by the whirl of something so familiar, so mechanical that it knocks Eddie into a nano-second of déjà vu before the spell ends and a loud "Feed Me!" slices through the air. The explosion of sound jolts his body, and Eddie turns to see what the cause is, but is met with a wall of gas and a buzz saw swinging towards his face.

He dodges it at the last second, but a strong foot rams into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and sending him stumbling backwards, gasping for air. "Feed Me!" The voice screams in time with the hum of the saw as the blade is brought down inches away from Eddie's scalp. He drops to the ground and rolls to his right, narrowly dodging the man's next attack but fatally falling into a trap. A wall. His back presses against a wall and the man towers above him.

Naked, covered in blood. The screech of the buzz saw is deafening. Eddie scrambles on the floor for traction but his feet keep slipping, fingernails scratching the floorboards as the man raises the saw above his head, whirring, muffling the noise of a voice splitting the air.

A voice calling his name.

He is frozen in fear. Fear, manifesting from the very pit of his soul and he can't do anything to stop it, can't do anything to keep the terror in his reigns. Maybe the effect is synergistic? Maybe it's the Engine? But for whatever reason, as he stares at the gas chamber and feels his stomach lurch with nausea, Waylon's body refuses to move and his throat constricts. "E-Eddie, it's not-," he hears himself say but doesn't immediately recognize the voice. It is hoarse and cracked, deeply torn in a way that echoes the insanity of the asylum. Waylon feels broken, shattered beyond repair as his mind throws images of naked men and guts and blood and chewing in his face.

He doesn't even notice the foul colored gas fill the chamber, doesn't even notice the maniac burst through the doors until Eddie is loosely evading the man's assault. His groom drops to the floor and rolls away, but then his back hits the wall and Waylon's world suddenly falls to pieces – pieces that somehow manage to link together and scream one, solitary message.

"EDDIE!"

Fear, fear is gripping him fast and furiously, intertwining with adrenaline to create some sort of drug that reacts violently in his blood. He's running now, but not to his freedom. Oh, how his demise looks so much sweeter.

Fear, fear is gripping him fast and furiously as he rams his body into Frank Manera's and feels the man crash below him. The saw is still buzzing loudly but he can't place where, too many sensory alerts rattling his mind with too little space to properly process them. There is a lump under his stomach, raising his hips off the ground but he assumes that it's the cannibal's struggling body, which fights against him, bucking back but Waylon's body is resilient. Unyielding. He presses down and screams along with the man, terror scratching at his throat in time with Manera's hollers. He doesn't see Eddie, can't hear Eddie, and that realization scares him beyond comprehension.

It is confusing and disgusting and Waylon wants the crawl into a corner and vomit his soul out. Searing tears streak down his cheeks, and he holds on tighter to the man who attacked Eddie. The man who chased him endlessly and made his life a darker nightmare than it already was. He could deal with Eddie's shit, but this..this… A deep sob rips through Waylon and his body violently shakes.

"Darling!" he hears Eddie shout, but the voice is so distant that is sounds like a dream, muffled by that sadistic buzz of a still turning blade. Frank is no longer struggling below him, but Waylon shoves his body anyway. A wet slush and slice sounds from the body, but in the darkness behind his eyelids he can't see anything.

"Darling!" the voice calls again, closer, and his heart jumps up to his throat. He feels so sick. Waylon wants to open his eyes and see who is mimicking Eddie, but something wet and thick is keeping his eyes shut. He raises a hand to wipe off the blood, but the moment he does a strong hand grabs his elbow and yanks him up. Waylon cries out, feeling a rusted blade slice open his palm, but then the strong hand turns into an arm, and then a body.

Waylon immediately rests his head against the chest he's being pressed to, and the ragged stitching that pokes into his cheek is such a relief that Waylon finds himself crying again.

"Waylon," Eddie says into his ear, and somehow the voice is comforting. "I'm going to get you out of here, and then I'll finish him. Darling," Waylon feels a pair of lips kiss his forehead reassuringly, "he won't wake up. I promise you, Waylon. I will murder him with my own hands for daring to hurt you."

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♥ Beautiful One Who Loves fanart by PhoenixTakaramono ♥

Chapter Text

Twin light bulbs dangle loosely from the ceiling. Their light is dim, weak, just enough to illuminate bits and pieces of the walls and floor without giving enough to thoroughly see in. Whispers of wind and rain filter into the hallway as the hum of a dying ventilation system sets as background noise. It is quiet, oh so quiet, except for the single scrape of a stitch.

Stitch.

Stitch.

Crimson trails from the wound in branches, lining a puddle of blood at the waist. The hand works quickly, wrist snapping to push the needle through taunt skin and then loop it out. Piercing and sharp, the sewing elicits soft groans and mewls of pain. Heat radiates from the spot fiercely.

Stitch.

The needle is slippery now; fingers around the metal struggle to grip it, pinching at ends while a heavy sigh leaves dry lips. A growl soon follows. The needle is plunged again but this time it hits a nerve that spikes up a heaving chest, shifting the growl to a shout and eyes clench in fury. Blood spurts from the wound and aggravates the rest of the cut. Stitch. Abs are relaxed to aid in threading the needle through. Stitch. The work is done in haste with trembling fingers that struggle to hold long enough to adjust their grip on the needle. A slice that stretches from hip to hip. The agony is never ending. The blood coats so thickly.

Stitch.

Stitch.

Stitch.

"Darling, I need you to look away now."

Waylon doesn't hesitate to do so.

He covers his ears in a childish attempt to block out the whir of the buzz saw, gaze cast away to stare blankly at the floor's broken pattern. The monster, whom he knows to now refer to as Frank Manera, in his haste had landed stomach first on the saw while it was still going, allowing the blade to slice at him freely. It didn't help that Waylon was pinning him down, but the realization does not make him as sick as it should have.

As it would have, a mere week or two ago. He blinks as a shiver rips through his body and moves his gaze to the door across from him. He cannot see past the blood splattered on the door's small window, but he can hear the muffled screams and laughter. Waylon presses his palms harder against his ears and curls into a ball, dragging his knees underneath his chin and pressing his elbows between his thighs.

He was so scared. Standing before a simmering Eddie had frozen him in fear long before Frank appeared from gassy shadows. The fear gripped him, drew its fingers into his chest and held him by the lungs. Waylon couldn't breathe. He couldn't blink. He couldn't scream out a warning or drag his legs from under him – he couldn't do anything but watch as the fighting began. But that wasn't the worst part. No – Waylon inhales sharply – that wasn't the worst part and his decisions during the fight may as well have led him on a course of destruction.

Because he didn't flee. When his body had finally come back to him, when he finally had control over his voice and thoughts and actions, he didn't flee. He didn't run or hide or die. Instead, he screamed for Eddie.

Eddie. The thought would be comical if it wasn't so terrifying.

As he processed the buzz saw and bloodlust in Frank's eyes, Waylon hadn't taken the chance to run. He could have done it. They were distracted; they weren't thinking about him. On the off chance, Eddie was trying to protect him from the monster and give him time to run. But what had Waylon done? He stayed. He cried for Eddie and took it upon himself to save the man. Why? Did he really think of Eddie as his groom – bile catches in his throat and Waylon has to immediately dismiss the thought.

So what was the reason? Why did he not only stay, but try to protect Eddie Gluskin? Had he, somehow, developed a connection with him? A semblance of pity or want or reliance?

"-a man in love now, darling. I cannot entertain such desires anymore; it would be impetuous of me." Waylon hears Eddie say through the fog of his thoughts, and is surprised by how clear the man sounds despite the buzzing and muffle of his hands over his ears. Lifting his hands, Waylon crawls closer to the door and leans his ear against its wood.

The saw's whir stops, and he can make out the familiar sound of Eddie's boots sloshing through a stream of fluid. "But you did this to yourself. There is no other to blame except you. You overstepped a fine line when you tried to hurt my dear, beautiful Waylon." The footsteps sound farther from the door, and a rattle of chains and grunts lets Waylon know that Eddie is near Frank. "You can take my food and clothing, all of my material possessions… but the moment you try to claim my Waylon… that is when you pay."

The slurp of blades digging into tissue and blood is loud and sickening in the room, emphasizing the immediate splash of blood spilling on the floor and splattering everywhere else. Frank hollers in pain and the chains rattle loudly, dancing in time with drowning gasps and dying snarls but the slosh of the blades refuse to stop.

"Die already, you swinish whore."

Waylon shuffles away from the door on legs of jello, his heart soaring and lungs jumping in painful hiccups. Behind him, Eddie urges his victim to death and brings the saw down upon him in quick strokes, filling the rooms with inhumane cries. It's too much, too loud, and no matter how far he moves from the chamber of blood and chains Waylon can't lessen the cacophony of screams. It resounds and reverbs off the walls – the volume is phenomenal. The screaming, tantalizing and raw.

And then, it suddenly stops.

Not a crescendo of whirring, not a single signal of closing. All of the sound in the world spontaneously ends, leaving Waylon hard pressed against the back wall and staring wide-eyed at the wiggling door handle. Involuntarily he holds his breath, lungs constricted harshly to keep the air from escaping. Time ticks by slowly and the shuffle of boots do not bring with it comfort. In pregnant silence, he watches as the door slowly creaks to an open, and a pair of bloodied gloves are tossed inside.

"Waylon? Where are you?" Eddie asks gently in a tone that parallels a zoologist coaxing a wild bear. He steps into the room cautiously and slowly looks around. "Frank Manera is-"

"Don't s-say it," comes a voice that barely resembles Waylon's. Crawling out from his hiding spot, Waylon moves to stand before Eddie and breathes out shakily. His mouth tastes raw and dry, and he can't help from note the splatter patterns painting Eddies face and clothing. The man's eyes widen and a clear wash of relief waves over him, but Waylon cowers when he tries to come any closer. Eddie frowns, confused, and twitches a finger to beckon Waylon.

It takes a moment of hesitation, a moment to work the solid anxiety out of his system as much as possible, before Waylon feels confident (or stupid) enough to oblige the request. He flinches when a warm hand soaked in red grasps his and pulls him closer; too close, the pungent scent of metallic death is vile this close. He gags but covers the reflex with a cough.

Eddie leads Waylon to the opposite side of the dimly lit room, a place that Waylon hasn't had the time to venture into yet. It is connected to the workroom by a tiny stretch of hallway – if it can be called that – and is filled with more blankets than fabrics, although naked mannequins rot at the entrance of the room. A window lets in light from above, and what is not covered by outside is illuminated by well-placed candles. Despite all of this, Waylon has to strain his sight to clearly make out what the objects are exactly to keep from stepping on them. When Eddie finally settles on a spot, it is at the center of a makeshift bed of two mattresses and a mountain of sheets.

"Sit here for a bit, my love. I must depart but only for a second," Eddie says and pushes down on Waylon's shoulder to urge him down. Waylon doesn't argue and sits, but watches closely as Eddie gives him a passive smile before ambling down the hall they just passed through.

Once the man is out of sight, he acts quickly.

Grabbing the nearest candle from the floor, Waylon scrambles from the bed and then maneuvers around a dresser to a neatly organized table. Two small stacks of files lie on it with a few document ends sticking out of them. He flicks back one of the brown covers and runs a finger along the edge of sketch paper, scanning over the many drawings of men in long and short wedding gowns. They are all missing penises.

Moving on, Waylon runs his palm across the table and grabs anything that pokes into his skin: a pencil, a pen, a white pendant that holds a blank picture. It was all garbage. Waylon spins on his heel and heads back towards the workroom on quiet feet, bracing himself against the wall and peering around to make sure the groom wasn't nearby. If he's caught, Eddie would surely kill him. If he's caught, Eddie would do to him what he did to Manera. If he's caught-

A rattle of keys call Waylon's attention sharply. He almost breaks his neck from how fast he turns to the sound, snapping in its direction. Humming. The keys dangle to the tune of humming and heavy, booted footsteps, and as the being passes above Waylon he can hear the twirl of an enamored man.

Shit.

He doesn't have time to process the distance or any noise that he's making as he dashes back down the stretch of hallway and crashes on the mattress, yanking at the sheets to at least make it seem like he took advantage of the opportunity. His breathing is haggard, heart is racing, and his fingers tremble in anticipation. The keys ring louder.

A can of something is thrown at his face and Waylon catches the item a split second before it could break his nose.

"You have outstanding reflexes, darling," Eddie praises and claps, setting something down on the table, before kneeling on the bed beside Waylon, who scoots about a foot over to accommodate their distance. Eddie doesn't seem to mind, but Waylon isn't exactly gauging out his facial expression. "You haven't had the chance to eat yet, so I grabbed a can of peaches for you. I know that it isn't anything spectacular, but I doubt you would approve of going back to my reserve. Perhaps another time, hm?"

Waylon glances at him and nods before placing his attention on the can rotating in his hands. Peaches; his stomach growls in need. He had forgotten about his hunger, but who could blame him with a man trying to satisfy his hunger with him? Cannibalism sure had a way of reducing appetite. But now with food in his hands, Waylon couldn't open the lid fast enough.

He pries at the lid with his fingers aggressively, digging his nails into the aluminum and scratching at the surface but to no avail. Eddie chuckles to the sideline, causing Waylon's cheeks to burn, and he shoots the variant a glare of desperation and disapproval.

"Do you need some help?"

"No."

"Well," Eddie hums, continuing to watch.

A whiff of sour air meddles into his breath and Waylon scrunches his nose to keep the odor out. It is sweet, not as fresh as the blood still clinging onto Eddie's clothes, but no longer his face and hands, and Waylon finds that there is a clear distinction between the new smell and Eddie's. He stops fumbling with the can and searches the area, finding nothing.

It is only when he peers down at himself that he spots the display of crimson tainting his white dress. The splatter is hallucinogenic, trippy, rays of red mingling between white. The smell is foul. Waylon slaps at the fabric in a fit of hysteria – blood. Manera's blood is on his dress and he didn't even notice. How had he not noticed? Drawing in breath, Waylon wiggles under the dress and yanks an arm inside, tugging at the cloth and squirming until both of his arms are inside. He goes to push the dress over his head but Eddie is grabbing him and shoving it back on.

"Darling!" he shouts but Waylon is too far gone. He kicks out and lands a blow on Eddie's side. The man keels over from impact, giving Waylon enough room to scramble farther up the bed. He grips the hem of the dress fiercely and rips it off, prying it over his shoulders and head and throwing it anywhere away from him. Cold bites at his skin viscously, but it doesn't matter.

Crawling. His skin feels like its crawling with millions of bugs and he can't get the stench off.

Waylon jerks away from the fingers touching his shoulder and hisses as if the touch burned. He's exposed now; the only thing covering him is over his privates. He accidentally knocks over a candle while scooting back and palms the fire to kill it before it could burn the mattress, and immediately regrets the decision with how strongly the flame burns his skin.

Once the pain dies to a dull ache, Waylon raises his glare to the man before him, but finds that he is no longer there. "Ed-?" he starts but doesn't finish, the low thud of boots hitting the floor alerts Waylon of Eddie's whereabouts. Silently, he stares as Eddie drops his boots on the floor and cracks his knuckles and neck. He looks…wary. Shoulders bent and heavy, sighs leaving his lips. The scene is so unlike the image that Waylon has subconsciously built for him, and the contrast brings about a surge of disbelief and confusion. This perplexing feeling remains in place even as Eddie, still quiet, lowers onto the bed again and crawls higher until he's at the very top. A wall of blankets surrounds him like pillows, and Waylon notices the glint of metal in his hands. Without a word, Eddie withdraws a knife from his hip and cuts off the can's lid.

"Here," he says, holding out the can, and this time Waylon doesn't hesitate to take it. The metal matches the coolness in the room, and subconsciously Waylon inches closer to the larger source of heat.

Eddie, apparently, notices his move but nevertheless ignores it. To Waylon's anxiety, Eddie's expression is a borderline from contemplative and accusatory, a combination worth the dread beginning to form in his belly. He scoops out a sliced peach with his finger, and Eddie clears his throat.

"Was it the blood?" he asks. Waylon freezes, not exactly sure what is being asked. Eddie waits a few seconds before clarifying. "Were you afraid of the blood, darling? You seemed to not have noticed it until just now, and when you did you were scared." Eddie sits up and rests his hands in his lap. "Darling, you need to put the dress back on."

"No," he chokes out, voice a little too broken for his liking, so he decides to scoop out another peach and fill his mouth with that in place of words, eyes averted from Eddie.

"You're cold, and the…trauma…from what has happened will only intensify it. You need to wear something."

He hates the way he sounds; concerned, pleading almost, Eddie's tone is like a knife being twisted in his gut. He tries to stuff his cheeks with more peaches for an excuse not to answer, but the slower he chews and the longer Eddie's stares surround him, the harder it is for him to swallow down the mess he created in his mouth. He tries to swallow and regrets doing so with how the sensation seems to ride down his back. He arches slightly and is smacked with a fresh whoosh of cold air.

Noticing this, Eddie pats the spot beside him and says, "Here." Waylon refuses at first, but when a cool hand presses against the middle of his back he shakes violently and succumbs to the command.

It is warmer here by a considerable margin, but he doesn't approve of this. Eddie's arm is wrapped around his back and Waylon's skin pricks where Eddie's vest scratches him. They breathe in unison as Waylon finishes eating the peaches and drinking the juice. It is sweet and alluring, and Waylon fully appreciates its distractive aroma.

Sometime between his eating and appreciation, Waylon finds that a blanket has been laid over him and Eddie snuggled – rather warmly – at his side. The man's chin is resting against his temple, and Waylon is sure that he is basking in his scent. Romantic. Sensual. It reminds him of his many nights with Lisa and the memory aches his heart. Eddie mumbles something that draws him from his thoughts, but it was too low for him to catch.

"Eddie?"

"Thank you, Waylon," he sighs into Waylon's ear. "What you did back there was courageous. Darling, I'm so proud of you. I'm so grateful to have found you."

Butterflies do not belong here. Waylon feels his cheeks flush and his breath hitch. He saved Eddie… He didn't flee. The path to his destruction widens and Waylon feels that it will become an easy ride if he doesn't turn around now. Turn around now and leave the man. He could run. But he's so cold and Eddie…Eddie is warm and welcoming. Waylon bites his lower lip and brings the can to his nose.

"Waylon?" Eddie whispers, but he doesn't respond.

Time is a relative matter, and soon he cannot tell how much of it has passed before Eddie's breathing has evened. A minute? Five or ten? It is a complete loss on him yet the concept is seldom important. Waylon shifts away to test out the water, and when Eddie remains stagnant he tries his hand at completely pulling himself out from the grasp. For one terrifying moment, Eddie grumbles and reaches out into empty space, but Waylon has enough sense to shove a mound of blanket in the space to replace him. Eddie frowns and squeezes the sheets, but soon his expression settles and he huffs into the pile.

Good.

Briefly looking back at Eddie to make sure that he is in the clear, Waylon crawls out from the bed and silently rises to his feet. The cold that envelops him is a significant deterrent, but his mind is still enough to keep him from being dissuaded.

The keys, Eddie had entered with them and he put them… He put them… Waylon snatches them from the table tightly to keep them from rattling. There are three, but if he moves fast enough he may be able to find the right one before Eddie wakes up. Waylon shakes his head. He has to do this before Eddie wakes up.

In the dark, he rushes across the small hall to the workroom. The candles are all blown out, but he does not need light in order to find the stray pieces of clothing Eddie seemed happy to have lying about. After a short search, he comes across a pair of horribly designed pants that hang off his hips, probably leftovers from a previous victim, and a half completed vest. He clings onto the warmth that they bring, and it would be a lie to say that he wasn't relieved to finally wear something other than dress. It is freeing, a point to the masculinity that has been stripped away from him and finally, Waylon can breathe. Breathe, and bask in the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

But, in the midst of him leaving the workroom, his fingers absently travel to the solid piece of cold dangling from his neck.

With white knuckles, he holds the gold chain necklace. He holds it defiantly as he runs through the halls of the Vocational Block, retracing his steps in blurred memory. He holds it as growls and snarls fill his ears; holds it as warmth envelops him with kind words and sincerity. He doesn't stop holding the chain until he comes before the door to his freedom. His hands tremble violently as he stumbles to find the correct key, shoving them into the keyhole and twisting with coiling urgency. He glances behind to scan the hallway and almost breaks down when he hears the telltale click of the key and feels the door give.

Why did he save Eddie? The answer eludes him completely. It lies somewhere between subconscious reaction and a reason that he is too afraid to seek out. It was an impulsive, immediate consequence of a grotesque doubt that had spurred in him while he wasn't paying attention. But as he pushes past the door to the male ward and runs with every fiber in his being propelling him forward, Waylon no longer feels the need to answer that question.

He doesn't feel the need to hold on to the symbol of his bondage any longer, either.

So he breaks it.

Chapter Text

How?

Eddie stares down at the bundle of sheets in his hands, squeezing them, trying to piece together when the warmth in his arms had disappeared into a few balled up fabrics. The chill in the air feels unnatural. All of the candles in the room have somehow died, or are faintly withering away, dimming the light to the point that he can barely see the small hallway ahead. He flexes his fingers around the mound again.

How?

Did she plan this from the beginning? Had this been her little scheme all along? Find protection under him just long enough for him to kill that cannibalistic bastard? Is this what she wanted?

Voice dried in his throat, he silently lays the sheets where they were and crawls off the bed. His boots thud against the cold floor, echoing through the room as it is the only sound besides the steady hum of the ventilation system. He snatches a candle from the desk with his sketchbook and ruffles through the mess to find a lighter. The flame burns his eyes when it is alive, but the sting is pleasant. It anchors him to reality.

The dullness coursing through him makes his actions feel surreal. Borderline imaginary and real, he walks the narrow tightrope and sways from side to side, quietly searching the room and hall for any signs of life. She likes to hide in small, dark, shadowy spaces, so he checks every corner. He bends to look under the tables, crouches to peer behind doorways, runs his hands along the floor and walls and sniffs the air for any scent of her.

Gone.

But the question is no longer just how, but why. Why would she leave when he saved her from that crazed man? Why would she leave when he was willing to keep her warm, fed, and protected? Isn't that what all women want and need out of a man, a place for comfort, warmth, food, and the utmost love? So why, why why why, would she sneak out and leave him while he was intoxicated in oblivion? He trusted her.

Eddie swallows thickly and tries to blink away the wetness building in his eyes. Something snaps – no, breaks – in his chest and he can't seem to find his breath. He gasps, but the air is too far away. Dull and aching, his heart slows to an irregular beat that refuses to pump blood through his veins. His fingers tremble. His toes are freezing. His vision is blurred by tears and soon he is dragging the back of his gloved hand over his eyes, sniffling, balling the other hand into a fist and eventually biting his glove to keep from crying out in frustration.

It is his own damn fault that she left. He allowed himself to feel comfortable while knowing that she was a frightened bird. She was afraid and dazed, never taught how to properly love someone. She was neglected the chance to completely come into her womanhood and that had left her wary of men. He had known this, but he rushed her anyway. Didn't she say that she was not ready for children? By god, she wasn't ready for anything.

He slams his fist against the wall and groans, arms shaking, bowing his head to press his forehead against the cold. She ran away because he was so stupid, stupid, stupid. Quick to anger yet slow to listen, he lured her like sheep to wolves. Perhaps she would have been more receptive if he hadn't forced himself upon her – if he had been more courteous of her concerns and forgotten his assumptions. Because he assumed her ideals and took it upon himself to further them without examination, he never fully recognized the many gaps in her thought process.

Expecting a girl to be a woman, ha! How foolish.

Drawing a long breath, he holds it until his lungs are screaming for release before sighing. Despite how the world seems to spin around him, he attempts to steady his feet and back away from the wall. One step, he is wobbly, but three steps later Eddie feels secure enough to shake his head and walk towards the door.

He'll just have to be patient and teach her how a proper woman is supposed to love and behave. If she does not know, then how can he hold it against her? He was going about their relationship the wrong way this entire time.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Eddie taps the workroom's door closed with his foot and then starts down the hall of the Vocational Block. Light shines through cracked windows here and there, but everything is mostly shrouded in darkness. Bittersweet thoughts tread his mind as he walks past the many rows of broken sewing machines and mannequins, scrunching his nose as he passes their rotting models.

Whores. All purposed to fall before his feet and be used as he determines. Their elegant dresses are stained by blood and other excrements to the point where the entire piece is soiled, never to be worn again. It is a pity to have such nice fabrics wasted on them, but there's nothing he can do now. Eddie runs a finger along the whore's waist as he passes her body.

Cold air breezes past him as he makes his way through the block, maneuvering through rooms to check for any signs of Waylon being there. It is reasonable that she could have gotten lost in his little labyrinth, and even more plausible that she couldn't have gotten too far away. Especially without his-

Eddie pats his waist and finds empty air around belt loops. He slides his hands down the length of his vest and pants, digging into every pocket and still finding nothing but space. They should have been on him, somewhere, safely kept away so no one can take it. He pats his body again but to no avail. And it is then that he remembers the events before he fell asleep. He came back into the workroom, saw Waylon, and then…then…

The turn of his heel is sharp enough to break his ankle, but he ignores the sting as he heads towards the only feasible place his darling could have gone. The corner of his lip curls into a snarl. That little minx, it amazes him how clever she is. In the face of mass turmoil and danger, Waylon always seem to concoct a plan of escape. Eddie doesn't give her all of the credit she deserves.

By the time he can see the awkwardly shoved open metal door leading to the male ward, he is simmering with excitement. The looming chase courses through his veins in adrenaline, swirling relentlessly and making him stumble back into that world of surrealism. He can practically taste it. Eyes locked on the shadows to come, he does not notice the small, golden chains until he hears a crunch under his shoe. He ignores it at first, but the crunching does not stop even after three strides. Now curious, he glances down at his feet and catches just the faintest glint.

It reflects off of the light behind him, shining softly among the darkness. Eddie lifts his right foot only to expose more chains underneath. They are scattered on the ground, torn in violent haste and tossed haphazardly. Gaze travelling along the floor, he sees the farthest remnant a foot or two away, resting against the wall.

"Darling," he whispers, feeling something heavy fall into the pit of his stomach, like lead. Eddie tries to wet his lips but his tongue is dry. It hurts, but the sight itself is not painful. It is the symbol that is upsetting; he stares at the image of Waylon rejecting their love – but how can he be upset? He scared her. The cannibal scared her. And that is what he's here to fix. That is why he searching for her now, to fix this.

Swiping aside the gold chains, Eddie crouches into the space that is now clear and begins to gather the small pieces into his palm, collecting them as he tries to calm his quivering heart. He had expected vicious anger to consume him, and for a second he could feel it bubbling, yet for some reason it has quelled to a small note of annoyance. The idea is simultaneously baffling and calming. He plucks the last chain from the floor and balls his fist tightly around them before funneling them into his back pocket.

Fear has a way of getting to people; he knows this, has felt it and learned to harness the terror of others for his advantage. It is a skill that has to be taught, since life is a constant cycle of overcoming fear. Of the unknown, of the future, of the past, of someone or something, the meaning behind fear does not matter as much as it being there. He has felt fear many times before, but most of the memories are hidden behind a veil of whirring and images that came with the engine. However, Eddie recollects that he learned the skill before he woke up. He had used it, instilled it in others. How? He does not remember, yet the fact remains that fear had, at some point, become an ally of his.

Maybe his darling was too fragile for it? He can only believe that, hang on to it because it is the safest route for him (and her). As he walks through the eerily quiet male ward his thoughts are fixed of Waylon and trying to piece together two problems: what is she afraid of and how to fix it. So consumed in his thoughts, Eddie does not notice the growing shadow behind him, creeping along the walls as he stares straight ahead. The quiet is misleading; the shadow follows him into a large room with chains hanging from the ceiling and drops of blood splattering on to the ground.

Somewhere in the distance, a sweet melody begins to play.

Eddie jolts from its suddenness and sharply turns around. He searches the area around him but nothing has changed. No shadows, no movements, no sounds except for the music coursing through the ward. He breathes in deeply and wraps his hand around the knife holstered on his hip, gripping it tightly. Cautiously, he walks back to the doorway of the room and peers around the corner.

"I don't want to set the world on fire…"

The hallway stretches farther than he thought, but the shadows hold no sign of life, so he gently steps away from the door and continues his search. A large light shines at the center of the room, beaming down on a bloody mattress suspended by chains and wooden columns. Scraggly beds sit in rows across each other, and opposite the highlighted mattress is a fortress of overturned beds and mattresses strapped together by belts and rope.

"I just want to start a flame in your heart…"

He approaches the bloody mattress as one would a wild animal, hand on his weapon and on soft, meticulous feet. Red glistens in the light, showcasing its freshness while a pungent odor of iron rises from the mattress. It spills from around the edges of the bed, pints of blood streaming like a river. Eddie steps into the puddle and pulls out his knife.

"In my heart I have but one desire, and that one is you… no other will do…"

Whoever's blood this is…Eddie bites his lower lip in the habit of his lover's, which only serves to make his stomach tighten. His little bird, off to fly on her own but she could have… Some whore could have found her and-

Something clatters to the ground behind him and then he hears the faintest sound of groaning - whimpering almost - coming from the same direction that the music is. He quickly retightens his grip on the knife and heads towards it on heavy feet. The music grows louder as he crosses the hall to a much larger room (lit by a combination of candles and light bulbs) but he focuses on the groaning.

"I've lost all ambition… for worldly acclaim…"

So sickeningly familiar.

"I just want to be the one you love…"

Rage begins to simmer but he has no will to fight it.

"And with your admission that you feel the same…"

Splotches of blood mark his path as he travels deeper into the room, growing in size the closer he gets to the source of music. The man sings louder; the groans become agonizing. Eddie's muscles flinch in anticipation. He grits his teeth.

"I'll have reached the goal I'm dreaming of…"

The blood stops at the back of the room, pooling underneath a grey, wooden door. An upside down cross dangles above it, and the walls are carved by scratch marks and broken fingernails. Eddie listens to the soft coo of the singer, and feels his blood rage to the acute groaning coming from behind the door. It sounds so familiar, and in this moment Eddie is reminded of his ally. Fear…it has a way of getting to people.

"Believe me…"

"Eddie!" Waylon screams when he shoves open the door, knife raised to attack but he almost drops it when their eyes meet. Chained down to a rotating, circular block of wood, Waylon stares at him with wide eyes and a frightened expression, sprawled and trying to jerk her wrists out from under the chains but the pressure only bruises. Her dress sways with the cycle of the wood, and Eddie can make out stripes of blood and dirt coating her dress and body. He is frozen by the scene before him, a playfully sinister wheel binding his darling by heavy chains as blood drips down the side of her forehead. His body tries to still him, but he has no control over the surge of energy moving him forward. All he knows is that he needs to save her, now.

Eddie moves with speed unknown, grabbing the edge of the wheel as best as he can and yanking it counter-clockwise to stop its motion. He adjusts it so that Waylon is positioned upright, and then comes to stand in front of her.

He wipes away the tears from her cheeks with a shaky hand. "Darling, darling what happened to you?" Eddie stumbles to grab one of the chains and lift it off of her wrist. It doesn't budge. "Who did this to you? Who chained you up like this?"

Waylon shakes her head violently. "I-I don't know! I don't k-know him-"

"Where did he find you?"

"E-Eddie I-"

"I need you to answer me!" He shouts and stabs the far corner of the wheel, above Waylon's head but she flinches from the impact. Another whimper escapes her lips, and the noise makes him regret ever yelling. Eddie inhales shakily and tries to steady his breathing, but it is so goddamn hard when his darling is covered in blood and crying.

This time when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. "Waylon, what happened to you?"

"I was… I-I was running and – and then he just came out of n-nowhere," she lifts her chin and sucks in breath through her teeth only to lose it in a hiccup. "Oh god E-Eddie he just… I don't even – I don't know! I t-tried to fight him off b-but then – I couldn't see anything anymore," Waylon sobs. "Everything was s-so dark."

Gently, Eddie curls his fingers through her hair to lift it away from her face, feeling around for the source of the blood leaking down her forehead, but he can't find it. Even after sifting through her hair, pulling strands apart just to make sure, the cut is nonexistent. Eddie drops his attention to the blood on her dress. It is still wet, but no matter where he looks he can't pinpoint the cut. Eddie reaches above her head and pulls out his knife. "Waylon," he taps her cheek to regain her attention, "are you hurt?"

Waylon's eyes are glossy. "Hurt?"

"Did he hurt you, darling? Where is this blood coming from?"

"…Not mine," she says, and the wave of relief that washes over him is intense, but he has to be sure.

"He didn't cut you? You're not bleeding? Darling, are you saying that this blood isn't yours?" Eddie yanks on one of the chains by her feet. "Are you sure?"

She hiccups and coughs, but nods her head. "Not mine… E-Eddie, I don't know what ha-happened."

"I'll get you out of here."

"I-I'm so s-sorry."

He stops pulling on the chain and looks up at her - his goddess, with puffy, red eyes and tears streaming down her face. Her lips tremble and the blood on her forehead trickles down to her cheek. Eddie grabs her hand. "You don't have to apologize, my lov-"

"I was so scared, Eddie. I shouldn't h-have left you, I… Eddie," she tries but isn't able to hold back her tears any longer. They ravage through her like a flood, all of the anguish and horror, and all Eddie can do is watch. Watch as his love heaves heavy tears and trembles even under the weight of the chains. He feels something in his chest clench and has to turn away before it could grow. Squeezing the hand in his before letting go, Eddie goes back to the chain around her foot and starts to loosen it.

He tugs on it until he feels a slack, and then rotates around the knot until the chain drops with a loud thud.

He is halfway through the second chain when the music suddenly stops and a cold laughter replaces it. Biting and fierce, it pierces through the air and drills a hole into Eddie's ear, travelling through his mind until it hits something that has him turning on his heel and readying his knife.

In the doorway is a man, stitched together and slowly clapping.

"Bravo! What a wonderful performance that was," he claps, "I must say that I am very impressed. It's not every day that a man gets to witness a romantic tragedy in this dump; a shame really. If the government is going to spend our tax dollars on mundane expenditures then this should surely be on the list."

The man strides in confidence, head held high on his shoulders and arms graciously swaying at his side despite holding a pair of shears the length of his tibia. Eddie watches him like a hawk. The variant stops at a desk and flips open some sort of book. He holds the shears under his arm and licks his finger to turn each page. The crinkle of paper scratches at Eddie's ears and he clenches his jaw, adjusting the knife to re-position his guard. The man closes his book and walks forward, but stops at the brink where shadow ends and light penetrates. Although Eddie can't see his eyes, he knows that they are staring through him.

"Who could have known that we would fall to this? A knife outstretched to slit the throat of another man, tell me, where is the camaraderie in that?"

Eddie scoffs. "You did this."

"I did this? Are you seriously going to lay the blame solely on me?" He pauses for an answer, but silence reigns between them. "Well then, I see how it is. Your little 'bride' runs away from home and you blame the one who finds her. Okay, I guess I can see your point, with the spinning, chainy wheel and all, but seriously you should be thanking me right now."

"How dare you-"

"Ah, ah, ah, I'm the one talking here." The man pauses, and then howls in fake laughter. "Isn't that one classic? A little déjà vu for two am I right, or am I right?" he snickers, and then straightens up as if nothing happened. He taps his bone shears against the floor. "As I was saying before being rudely interrupted, you should be thanking me because I saved you a) a hell of a lot of trouble trying to find this little dime and b) the chance to reunite with your proclaimed lover."

Eddie swipes his knife through the air. "You did no such thing."

"But I did, I did. You see, your damsel in distress is rather slippery. Crawling through vents and hiding in lockers or under tables; but unlike you, I've had experienced with this type. And to tell you the truth, it is not worth the effort; but anywho, if it wasn't for me your 'bride' would have been long gone by now, wouldn't you have you little dog," he coos and waves past Eddie's shoulder to Waylon. He stops when Eddie steps in front of her.

Sighing, the man continues. "I suppose appreciation was a bit too much of a stretch for you… but I at least expected happiness. To see me."

Eddie narrows his eyes at the man. "And why is that?"

Holding his gaze, the man allows the pregnant silence to serenade the room until it is drenched in hostility; then, and only then, does he step into the light. "Because I've missed you, buddy."

Chapter Text

"There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience…"

- Martin Luther King Letter from Birmingham Jail

She sits with her arms hugging her chest, knees drawn close under her to trap in any and all warmth. The heater burning close to her is a good two degrees warmer than the rest of the room, but the effort is clearly appreciated. Her eyes flutter up for a brief second before hurriedly rushing down to their rightful gaze on the floor. The radiator hums lightly in tune with the dry whistles of wind from outside. Among the mass of dead candles are a few tenacious ones that carry the light from the ceiling into the hallway. It blends with the white from windows and creates a pattern of soft yellow on the floor and walls. In the not-so-far distance one can still hear the melody of an ancient song.

"We base it on a standard of belief. Respect. Honesty. Trust, is just another connection shared between two people."

Her hands twitch on their own accord; nimble fingers etch characters onto pale skin, flushing her knuckles and wrists red. Breathe in. Breathe out. A tremble rakes her body and causes her to suck in air through her teeth.

"In its simplest form, one can say that it is just the acceptance that another is reliable. I trust you, is saying that I can depend on you. I cannot trust you, or I do not trust you, is to say that I cannot depend on you. You are not reliable. You are not trustworthy."

Perhaps she feels cold because the heater is too far away, so carefully she runs her hand along the dusty floor until she can wrap it around the base of the radiator. She silently scoots it closer and shuffles her body so that her side is almost pressed against its vents. The heat scorches her thighs, but the contrast is just too pleasant for her to give it away. Submitting to the growing pain, she bites her lip and closes her eyes.

"But this, oh no this is something entirely different. This is real trust. A bond stronger than such flimsy connection. Somewhere along the way, our destinies have intertwined, and what is yours has somehow become mine."

"You're wrong about that."

"Am I now?"

Eddie drags the dull blade down the side of his cheek, keeping his arm leveled to avoid any additional pressure while making sure that the small, infrequent nicks are felt. The sight is mesmerizing in the dirtiest of ways, and he feels sick just relinquishing in it, but the power feels too good and he can't just give that away.

He shouldn't feel anything.

They share a breath, and then Trager is smirking. He says, "Because ever since we've met I haven't been able to get rid of you." Their gazes move to the thick chain wrapped around Trager's neck when a small clink resounds from the metal. The knife rests there for a few seconds, wavering silently as Eddie's fist grows white from how tight he's clenching it. When he takes a step back, Trager tries to move forward but is held back by the chain. He grunts but it does nothing to loosen Eddie's grip.

"Chains, so many chains and we are bonded by all them," Trager groans around the metal coiled around his neck, raspy voice a mere whisper of the familiar, confident stride of vocals. "Buddy, can't you see the link between us? From that very day in the hospital...I knew that we were meant to be together."

"You hurt her," Eddie growls, knife coming dangerously close to the corner of Trager's eye. The tip brushes an eyelash but the good doctor refuses to flinch. "And your philosophy is vile, disgusting, vulgar in every aspect and you have no shame for basking in it. I should just kill you now for what you did to her," Eddie jerks the chain to grind a link into Trager's throat, "why shouldn't I kill you?"

Trager's hands flex reflexively into fists, balling and curling into the dark fabric tied around his waist. Trager narrows his eyes at the man before him, and in this moment Eddie can feel the venom boiling within. He can taste the blood on his tongue and hear the rush of adrenaline through his veins. Anger is a fierce thing, and when it is directed it becomes volatile. But the rush only lasts a second before the doctor is calm again, hands relaxed, eyes trained to the bloody blue in front of him, completely ignoring the clear tip of the knife wedged right above his cheek. Eddie tilts the blade and swipes right, cutting into raw flesh and leaving a line of crimson to ooze freely, but even that does not break the man's resolve.

Instead, it makes him chuckle. "You just don't seem to understand, do you?" Trager spits. "I have done nothing wrong!"

"Look at her, Trager!" He shouts and grabs Trager's chin viciously, jerking it far enough to the side for him to see Waylon curled on the floor, head bowed, eyes averted and body shaking. She neither reacts nor flinch when Eddie shouts Her eyes are cast away and Eddie appreciates that. She does not need to see; she does not need to hear. His knees buckle slightly and the feeling makes him stand taller. This pain, it will fade but Trager needs to see first - he needs to see what he did to her. "You took her. You snatched her up like a stray bitch and chained her for display-"

"I saved her for you-"

"You frightened her while she was broken." The chain digs deeper, presses a little harder against fragile bone. Eddie hears something that sounds like a gag but does not stop. He presses further, further, harder. "I should kill you," he says through clenched teeth, "I should kill you and hang you up with the rest of them."

"And w-who are they? Your whores, buddy? The whores that I gave you?" Trager accuses and Eddie looks back at him, hardened features watching as the man's bottom lip quivers and saliva falls from the corner of his mouth. Eddie scuffs before loosening his hold on the chain, allowing Trager a few seconds to gasp. When he's finished, the doctor glares up at him. "I gave you your sanctuary. I showed you how to hunt, how to kill. You were an amateur before me," he says.

"I was there when you were nothing but a name, a figure without a face and a monster for campfire stories. Buddy, we built each other. We were molded from the same block of clay, crafted by different hands but our chains are the same. You can't kill me. Your angel was falling from heaven, she ate from the Tree of Knowledge and tasted the bliss of the forbidden fruit. She wanted freedom. Freedom not from me, but freedom from you." He snarls. "I was just an obstacle in her way."

The knife comes down across Trager's forearm and his hiss is muffled under the clank of metal on metal. The chain cuffing his arm rattles gently, and Eddie leaves the knife there to rest in the cut. He has the urge to push it in - stab Trager and twist the knife - but he resists the impulse for now. He resists the impulse...but his arm is unsteady. Hovering in the air to create much needed distance between them. Trager is chained to the wheel in mockery of what he did to Waylon. His throat guarded by a thick link, arms and knees pinned by the cool metal. The music plays behind them, the candles rot beside them, and somewhere to his right the bone shears clatter on to the floor.

Stab him.

Eddie can hear the blood dripping to the floor. Softly, it falls from a gash in Trager's abdomen. So grotesque, it made bile rise in Eddie's throat when it was exposed to him.

Stab him.

How do you make Trager juice? Step 1: squeeze. Trager had laughed at the little note. Had laughed at the sickening commentary of his own supposed death; he had even laughed when Eddie drove the knife into his gut and sliced.

Stab him.

The stitches were fresh and tight. Trager had done them himself. Found a rusted needle and dropped it in a pail of bleach before looping black thread around it. Did it hurt when he pulled his torn flesh together and sewed the cut closed? Did it hurt when he had to throw himself off of a desk to pop his back into place? How had he done it? Eddie couldn't imagine the pain or the sheer determination required to mend oneself after being crushed by an elevator. But somehow, someway, Trager managed to do it. Trager managed to fix himself and come back with vengeance.

Stab him.

Did he follow the gold trail that Waylon left behind? Did he stalk his darling like some sort of demented predator and pounced when he saw an opportunity? Did Waylon fight back? Did she scream, did she cry, did she try to hide like she always does?

Did she call for Eddie?

Eddie doesn't know, so he has to guess. He has to imagine that Trager attacked her - hurt her - or else...or else... Eddie's expression falls, and the brief moment of resignation is enough to spark a light in Trager.

"It is what we are here for, buddy, it is why we were destined to meet," Trager says. "You and I, we trust each other. When the money fails, when God dies, when we're left to crawl out from shit and ashes... we have each other. And I saved your...darling...for just that reason. I saved her for you, Gluskin." He reaches out, gnawed fingers straining to reach beyond the constriction of the chain. His fingers brush against Eddie's arm, and the contact makes his stomach flip in a mixture of disgust and unease; however, he does not reject it. "You won't kill me, because I got her back for you. And you damn well need to remember that."

The Trager before him is a skeleton of the man he once knew, all skin and bones with no meat. Not to say that there was much to begin with, but the difference is clear in how his ribs jut out and his joints aim to pierce through his skin. Postmortem must have done this to him, but Eddie supposes that the effects are only reasonable. Dying is usually permanent.

He sits on the floor beside a bundle of candles with Waylon's head nestled in his lap, one hand stroking her hair soothingly while the other holds him upright. The burn on her side is unsightly, rows of welts lined to resemble the vents on the heater she has been clinging to. Earlier when he tried to take it away from her, she almost broke down in tears and kept reaching for it despite burning her hand. It keeps her warm, she repeated, and when he offered to hold her so that she can stay warm he had to agree not to move the radiator too far. Her antics are almost delusional, but Eddie cannot hold it against her. It would be hypocritical, especially when he's not too sure of reality himself.

"It's just a matter of trust," Trager's voice sounds from across the room. The doctor is pacing in wide ovals, absentmindedly opening and closing his shears as he occasionally glances at Eddie. "You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. It's just how the world works."

Eddie eyes the wound in Trager's arm. "And what exactly does this back scratching entail? We are not friends, Trager. I won't agree to anything that will put my darling Waylon at risk again."

"You're killing me here, stop worrying. Drink a martini, enjoy the sunset, this is just the exposition to a great business deal." Trager sighs and spreads his arms before smiling down at him. "Tell me, Mr. Gluskin, what is it that you desire?"

The question catches Eddie off guard. He furrows his eyebrows and Trager's grin widens. "Be realistic now, I can't work miracles. You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. What is it that you want, right now, that I will be able to do for you?"

Waylon shifts beside him and nudges her head against Eddie's stomach. Desire? His gut reaction is to wish Trager dead, but the quip would be a waste and the words taste like a lie. It feels like a trap to answer, as if Trager will promise him something and never produce, yet the promise is only a mask for the uncertainty of what the doctor has to ask. The concoction is ripe, ready to enact whenever the go is given. Trager has a scheme, Eddie knows, some sort of manipulation ready to be carried out. Devious, but the question is so tempting. What is it that he wants? What is it that Trager can give him for making him do whatever the hell he has imagined? Eddie doesn't want to answer while simultaneously can feel his lips peeling apart.

His mouth opens, and the words do not feel like his own when he hears himself speak.

"Perform Waylon's surgery, safely, without any schemes or errors or trickery. I've seen you do it before," he says, tone crisp with the intention of a warning. Hurt her, and I will kill you. The unspoken words are unnecessary, for Trager simply nods and clasps his hands behind his back in giddy. Eddie tugs on a strand of Waylon's hair just to see if she is awake, and when she remains still he allows himself to exhale.

Above him, Trager shuffles a few feet closer. "I knew you would ask this, I should have just offered honestly. But no, I won't hurt her. Not at all, not at all. I have...better things to do with my time," he smirks and then erases it when Eddie sits up straighter. "Now remember, an exchange is an exchange. I will gratefully operate on Mrs. Waylon Gluskin if you help me with a tiny problem."

Eddie cups Waylon's cheek. "Which is?"

Step 1: squeeze.

"I need you to help me find and kill someone," the glint in his eye is lethal, and with the baritone of a madman Trager calls the name of his victim.

"A mister Miles Upshur."

Chapter Text

It feels strange to be in pants again, is what Waylon dully notes as they walk down a hallway lined with windows. Hidden behind the tall cathedral across the courtyard lies rays of orange and yellow that lead the way for a slowly crawling sun; the last time he saw the sun rise, Waylon does not remember. But here, trailing just slightly behind the two psychopaths, he is not sure whether he appreciates the sunlight or wants to shield himself from it.

Is this a dream or reality? If he recognizes how the sun rises and falls, does that make everything concrete? Every step is tiresome because he feels so drained, as if he's been running for miles without rest. Waylon runs his dry tongue over equally chapped lips. If jello melts in sunlight then perhaps his gelatinous body will too. And for a split second he pauses, ceasing his steps to stand directly in the orange light before almost smacking the sense back into his head. He bites his bottom lip and squeezes his eyes shut. So stupid, stupid, stupid-

"Darling?" Eddie calls from a good distance in front of him. He raises an eyebrow at him and moves to retrace his steps to stand by Waylon's side, but the former computer technician shakes his head and jogs forward.

Waylon's face twitches when he feels the fabric between his thighs rub. The material feels so foreign after spending a day running around in a dress. Although he's relieved to be back in an outfit that outlines his masculinity, he can't quiet the voice in his head whispering that he's being constricted. From the grey sleeves curling around his shoulders to the brown, ragged slacks creating a tube around his legs, the clothes seem to limit his movements. He traces a finger along the collar gently, almost subconsciously, until something warm loops under his palm and drags his fingers away.

"We'll get you out of this filthy outfit as soon as we can," Eddie says with his hand pulling Waylon's into a tight hold. "It was just the closest outfit we had. If it makes you feel any better, I regret putting it on you."

It doesn't, of course it doesn't, but simultaneously Waylon prefers dirty clothes over those stained with blood. His stomach churns at the thought and he accidentally squeezes Eddie's hand, but the man takes it as an offer of gratitude. He smiles down at Waylon with bright, blue eyes that seem to glow in the golden light, and if Waylon smiles back then it is just to reassure his own safety, and not to reciprocate the affection.

They are like ghouls and ghostly figures, wrinkled and torn skin folding over bones and malnourished fat. The majority of them are no more than undead skeletons. They are not alive, not in the sense that living means more than just breathing with a pumping heart. Though oxygen and blood courses through their veins their spirits have rot and left their bodies. These are just reflexes; these are just acts of memory.

Trager leads them into the rancid courtyard by a few feet. Swinging the shears like a child would a doll or action figure, he eyes each and every variant with narrowed eyes and a sharp gaze. Eddie trails behind him with the same expression, however, he will occasionally glance back at Waylon with the softest eyes and kindest tilt to his lips. A shame how such a simple, and mostly unwanted, gesture can calm Waylon's nerves.

Turning his attention to the courtyard, Waylon notes the group of variants playing basketball to his left. There are about ten of them, but only four are playing. Two teams of two jog back and forth and dribble something spherical and flat. He frowns at what he assumes to be the ball. It is discolored and misshaped, which shouldn't ring any alarms because everything in this cursed place is dingy and bent out of shape, but for some reason just the sight of it sends shrills crawling along his skin. Drawn to the players, who luckily seem to not have noticed them yet, Waylon steps from behind Eddie and edges closer to the side of the cement sidewalk, where weeds and grass begin to break past the composite. Small rocks grind against his heel and toes uncomfortably. Waylon stops walking when one of the variants shuffle around another's ankles and takes aim to throw the ball.

He shoots it, form a broken semblance of what it used to be, and the ball spirals into the air. The ball, so distorted and grey, not completely round, flat in various places, rebounds off the backboard and is sent right into the other team's hands. Some guys on the sideline groan and shout while the rest on them holler in excitement. But the ball, so distorted and grey, is being held in such an awkward position. Waylon wants to see it up close. He wants to figure out what he probably shouldn't know.

But Eddie and Trager are quite a bit ahead now, and if he doesn't catch up with them Eddie will turn around and reprimand him. 'Keep up darling,' he'd say, 'it's unsafe for you to be so far away.' Waylon goes to walk forward, but his feet do not budge. He lifts his leg but his knee only jerks, and there's a pressure there that he hasn't felt before. It grows stronger, warmer, reaching around his calves and diving under his pants leg to hold on to bare skin. Waylon tries again but this time his attempts are futile; nothing moves. Not his hip, not his legs, not his feet. The pressure exerts itself on to his waist and that is when he cries out, finally looking down to see crooked fingers and skeletal arms wrapped around his lower half.

"So warm. I need to feel you…need to hold you," it growls into his ear and Waylon swings his elbow back into something soft. He hears a loud snap like teeth knocking into each other, and the hands around his legs pull back to trip him. His hip hits the cement first. It sends a sharp, steaming pain up his side and spine and Waylon can't contain the scream that tears past his lips. He grinds his teeth and kicks while trying to pull himself up by his arms, but the man holding his ankles anticipates this and presses his thighs around Waylon's legs to keep them still.

"You're a slippery one," he growls and then starts clawing. Sharp nails dig into Waylon's arms and he moves them in an attempt to stop the assault, but the variant is too fast. His friend, the one standing over them, watches with a sick mixture of amusement. Waylon catches his eye and the monster smiles, smiles and laughs as Waylon struggles to crawl out from under the fast being. He twists his body until it feels like his spine is about to pop and manages to punch the quick bastard in the face. It gives him leverage, and he raises his leg to kick him off when an ear-piercing scream rips through the air.

It can only be described as the squelch of boots in mud, the slippery noise of a semi-liquid being pushed aside by an unstoppable force. Wet, disgusting, so loud the sound will forever be engraved in Waylon's memory.

The weight on Waylon's shins drop. Slowly, he turns his head in its direction and immediately tastes acid in his throat at the sight.

Staring right back at him is the remains of his attacker, mouth quivering agape and wide eyes boring into his soul. Blood squirts out from his stomach and paints Waylon's pants red. The variant's body jerks, pressing closer to Waylon and he swallows his horror pitifully. Waylon scampers out from under the body and swipes at his clothes but avoids the dripping blood. His fingers are trembling uncontrollably, and after a moment he realizes that it's his entire body that's moving. Below him is a groan, around him is silence, and yet behind him is the sound of familiar growls and quiet pleas.

"You touched her." Eddie's voice is dangerously low and raspy, as if straining to keep from hollering its grievances.

"I didn't- he… he was so- so-"

Eddie twists his hand into the variant's hair and yanks it back, bending the man's spine until he is folded on his knees. The variant is pinned there by Eddie's hand and boots, tears streaming down his face and contorting his features into something truly ugly. But his anguish is forgotten, and Eddie grinds his boots harder on the variant's calves. In one swift motion, Eddie's knife is pointed at the side of the variant's neck. He allows him to shout and scream. Allows him to cry until his sorrow is no more than sobs and hiccups, and when all that is left in the variant is whimpers, Eddie slits his throat and slams his forehead into the cement.

Above them he hears the ruffle of feathers and the croon of crows; besides that, the courtyard is quiet.

Eddie slides his knife through the variant's clothes to clean it and then places it back at his hip before leveling his gaze on Waylon. The contact has a momentary twinge of hostility, a signature of blame for stepping away from his side, and then it dissipates into concern and want. Waylon tries to convince himself that he is not in need of the contact, that he doesn't desire it, but when Eddie wraps his long arms around him and pulls him close Waylon finds himself almost melting into the comfort. He sighs and breathes in the musky scent of iron and earth that he now exclusively associates with Eddie, and almost has the urge to hug him back. Fortunately, the lack of reciprocation is taken in stride.

"Darling, this is the second time that you pulled away from me and Trager," Eddie says and leans back so that he can look Waylon in the eye. "Is something the matter?"

Waylon opens his mouth believing that he had an answer ready and finds that no words are forming. He blinks, cheeks turning rosy, and glances past Eddie to stare at the still basketball players. One variant grasps the ball in his hand strangely, but from this distance Waylon still cannot make out its definite shape.

"…No," Waylon starts. "Eddie I-"

"Is everyone paying attention?" Trager shouts to their right, and Eddie twists to face him. He is standing over the bodies of Waylon's aggressors, one hand cupping around his mouth to act as a megaphone while the other grips his bloody shears. He scissors them for their clanking sound which rings loud. There is murmuring around them, some in places that cannot be seen due to the low fog that coats the ground. But the sun is higher in the sky now, and for the most part the courtyard is entirely visible. Trager turns on his heel slowly, and by the time he comes to a full rotation everyone is shushed.

"Good, good," Trager nods his head at a few variants. "Now that I have everyone's attention, I would like to set up some ground rules before we continue." He lowers his hands to clasp them together. "Rule number one! We will not have any more violent acts of aggression directed towards our friend Waylon here. He's a bit frail, as you all can see, and if you so much as look at him strangely I'm sure that mama bear Gluskin will have some not-so-polite words to say to you." Trager scratches his chin and mumbles, "Words in the form of his fists and that wonderful knife, actually."

A few of the variants shuffle and shake the metal fence linked around the yard, and Waylon can practically feel the heat of their eyes staring. He frowns at Trager, not understanding why, in the first place, he is standing there talking to these monsters, but he keeps quiet all the same.

"Rule number two! I will not be interrupted while I am talking-"

"Fuck you!"

"Who said that?" The doctor jerks to his right and point his shears in the direction the voice came from. He stares, hunched over, narrowing his eyes at the smirking variants. They do not move in discomfort, actually jabbing each other in the arm and making small jokes. Trager steps forward. "Ah, I see that we have some children among us, as expected. Please, I beseech you. Whoever spoke, I ask you to come here. Cowardice is not a flattering quality, no?"

The variants by the fence rattle the links, nudging each other more forcefully now until one in particular is picked out of the group. He is broad but sickly, clenching a wooden bat with nails drilled into it. An arrogant bastard, cocking his head to the side and sending Trager a smirk of razor teeth as he gingerly approaches the doctor. Waylon catches a split second where Trager seemed about to yawn.

All around them the variants begin to rile, shifting in a haunting way that announces their growing presence. He can see some hanging out of windows, gathering at the courtyard's entrance, and pooling closer to the center. Eddie lowers his hold to Waylon's waist and takes a step forward, possibly to balance the distance between them and the others, and rests his free hand on his knife. The tension begins to mount when Trager and the pugnacious variant are a few feet apart, and by now Waylon can't help but to be acutely aware of his surroundings.

They stare down each other, and Waylon is definitely sure that the variant is the first to move.

He pulls his bat high in the air, aiming to bash Trager's head in quickly, but the doctor counters it by stepping under the variant's arm and plunging his shears in right below the variant's ribs. He chokes and gasps, dropping the bat almost immediately and going to choke Trager yet by the time he moves he is already being thrown to the ground. Trager backs away with his shears pointed at the downed man, but he is spaced far enough away for display. The crowd bubbles with excitement, some variants rattling the fence vigorously, all the while their comrade lies shaking on the ground, clutching his stomach as blood oozes out.

Waylon's throat dries but he feels no pity or sympathy for the man. The tension is still a mountain on his shoulders. Trager, however, is reveling in the atmosphere. He whistles to call for attention and waits until most of the noise has died down. "Moving right along," he shouts so that his voice carries, "I have one simple question." Now, his shears are pointed at Waylon. "Who here has seen, or know the location of, someone who looks very much like him. The small one. Our friend."

"Watch it," Eddie says through gritted teeth and Trager just winks at him before turning back to the crowd. He continues with, "The kid I am looking for should have been seen with Father Martin, crawling through air vents, or running all lost-like in the hallways. Anyone? Has anyone seen him?"

The crowd's clamor grows as they begin to laugh and speak amongst each other. Waylon watches as those hanging out the windows step back into the building only to return seconds later with another variant. Some yell in outrage while others talk peacefully. Father Martin, the voices repeat in a sort of twisted harmony. They sound afraid, hurt, annoyed, and furious. The cacophony of voices is too confusing to decipher, and Waylon is soon ignoring the audio to instead note the gathering variants and their proximity.

The more they talk, they closer they come. It is unnerving how much the clatter has grown since they first entered the almost empty courtyard. He feels no disgust or shame for slinging his arm around Eddie's broad chest to keep them close. The Groom's expression shifts slightly, conveying that he noticed the change, but his focus is on searching the area. He takes a few steps closer to Trager, yet this only worsens Waylon's anxiety. Tugging on Eddie's shirt to grab his attention, Waylon stands on his toes to whisper in Eddie's ear.

"There are too many of them. I think," he gives the courtyard another glance; "I think we should go. Soon."

Eddie lifts his hand to the back of Waylon's neck and gently turns his head a little to the left. He says, "There, a bit past the ones on the fence. There is a small opening where the fences connect. There are too many where we entered from, and the other doorways are also crowded. Darling, you can fit through there easily."

"You killed him!"

"Hey! Hey look over here! I know, I've seen that bastard before! Just like the kid…ye, he went down-"

"Wernicke did this to us…Find him…He's dead."

"Eddie, what are you…" Waylon can see it, the small gap in the fence. It is thinner than the spaces between bookshelves that he has slipped through, but if he ran… It was possible. But Eddie is much bigger than him, and if they go together - Waylon angles himself so that he is almost standing in front of Eddie. "How would you fit? You can't. Eddie, you can't."

The variants edge closer, breathing, shouting, banging on any and everything they can. Their shouts are louder. Piercing.

"Why should I listen to you?"

"Fuck you! You cock sucking piece of shit, I will fucking rip you apart!"

"Walker was beside him! Walker followed him! He went- he went to that place-"

"Down down down down, he went down. Down into our nightmares."

"Kill him!"

Trager must have noticed the crowd's aggression for he is steadily backing towards them. The doctor raises his arms and asks about Miles again, eliciting more shouts.

"Eddie, where are you going to go?" Waylon asks anxiously, voice catching in his throat for a second longer than he wished. It is strange, this feeling simmering inside that has Waylon yearning for Eddie's attention - all of it; this sensation that has his stomach churning and palms sweating. He can feel the adrenaline building from his toes up, plucking his nerves and making him bounce a little when he shifts to claim Eddie's gaze. Brilliant, bloodstained blue stare back at him.

"Kill them! Kill them all!"

"Go down, down down down into our nightmares. Down to where the Walrider li-"

"Kill them! Kill them!"

"Buddy," Trager says, bumping into Waylon and Eddie as he comes to stand by their side. The variants' advancements are no longer subtle. They creep out from the corners of the yard and bunch into groups, some already picking fights while others join in blood thirst. Their shouts fill the air, booming over the cry of crows, covering the sun's light with bitter darkness.

Waylon can feel his flight instinct bubbling to the surface. It has kept him alive this long, it will continue to keep him alive. Absentmindedly he reaches into his pocket to grab a battery and almost panics when he feels none. How long has it been since he's had his camera? Did Eddie take it away from him? Now that he's noticed it he feels naked and defenseless, but the nearing yells are enough to push those thoughts to the back of his mind.

"We'll get her out of here," he hears Trager say to Eddie as they begin heading to the fence. Eddie is pushing Waylon by his shoulder, a grip that is harsh enough to make sure that he is actually moving. The knife is held higher in the air, and Trager's shears are branded by his side.

Waylon tries to fight against the push, but Eddie refuses to budge. When he looks at Waylon again his determination is fierce. "Darling, I need you to listen carefully."

"Eddie I don't-"

"No, I need you to listen. Once you go through that fence you need to run towards the church, quickly." Eddie glances over his shoulder and frowns, turning back to Waylon with a sterner expression. His eyes are hard, cheeks hollow. The blisters and scars on his cheek are ugly. "Trager and I will meet you there. You have to go without worry, dear. We will be safe."

Lies. He's lying. Balling his hands into fists, Waylon struggles to not punch Eddie in the face. "There's too many of them," he says – no, shouts – and ignores the way Trager seems so amused by their display. Bastard. It's his damn fault that they're in this situation. He wants to turn his fists to Trager, perhaps snatch Eddie's knife while it is unguarded and slit Trager's throat. He and Eddie can escape together, it's possible, they can do it. Trager should stay. Trager should wait. Trager should-

"Into our nightmares he took Hope's body- down down down! He haunts our dreams-"

"Waylon now!"

He is pushed and shoved forward by alien hands, torn from Eddie before he could convince them to go together. There is no time to pause, no time to shake the dread building in his stomach as the crowds of variants converge on each other. His movements are unconscious; his thoughts are irrelevant as his feet take him in a familiar grasp of motion. Run. The last he sees of Eddie is marked by blood and the precise aim of a knife.

He turns his focus ahead; bodies run over each other as limbs fly and hits are taken. Waylon vaults over a pile of downed, bloody messes and just barely avoids being smacked in the face by a wooden plank. His is filled with the sounds of maniacal laughter and screams of agony. Some are mourning. Some are cheering. He allows the chaotic melody to take over his senses and lead him to the gap in the fence. Quickly, he flees from the fight and squeezes past two variants. By the time he makes it through the hole, Waylon is sure that he left his heart and lungs 100 feet behind.

The flames and empty hallways are disquieting. He avoids the church at all costs, recognizing how the smoke is spreading and the heat is rising; the fire is spreading rapidly, ready to consume the entire asylum. He wishes it could.

Each step leaves his feet aching painfully, but the soreness is rather dull compared to the solemn air that has merged itself with his being. His very thoughts are traced with darkness, and if he could engender an entity that would represent his mind Waylon believes that it would be a manifestation of shadows. Shadows – he clings to them. The sunlight is too bright, and if it is dark then that means the fire is a good distance away. Not to say that it is necessarily dark anymore; most of the rooms are lit by ceiling lights and lamps. It would be smart to stay in a room or hall that was close enough to the church but not actually in it – like the church's entrance, since Trager and Eddie will most likely come from inside the building – yet Waylon cannot bring himself to stop walking.

He drags his hand along the wall until he comes to an elevator shaft. Curious, Waylon peers down the hall to make sure that no one is around before stepping closer to the elevator. A green light flashes periodically and there is set of keys still in hole. How long it has been in there, he does not know, but something is telling him that it was used recently. So peculiar, Waylon steps into the elevator without much thought and twist the key. He wants to take it out for inspection, or to keep, but his actions are thoughtless and he is jolted by the groan of the shaft. Before he can stop it, the elevator's gates are closing and he is being carried down into the earth.

When one dies, does he actually see his life flash before his eyes? He watches as the floors past in quick succession. The colors blend into blues and yellows, greys and reds thrown into a melting pot. Soon, the vibrant reds and yellows shift into silver, blue, and white. It is cooler here, Waylon notes, and the air is sharper. Fresh, as if he were standing outside instead of an elevator somewhere underground. The machine stops with a whoosh of air, green light blinking, and after a moment the gates open to expose a large corridor of walls that look like ice – or white rock.

Astonished, Waylon takes in the view and carefully steps out of the elevator. He lands on cold tiles, but in the next step he hits something solid. Solid, and fleshy.

His heart pounds in his ear. Waylon swallows, and lowers his gaze to the floor. "Wha-?"

A man, laying in the mist of black webs and ghostly fog, cowers under Waylon's heel. He groans, fingers wrapping around Waylon's ankle, and then in a weak, rasp of a voice he whispers, "Help…me…"

Chapter Text

The webs are less solid and more misty as they coil and bend around Waylon's ankle. His heartbeat quickens and an involuntary shudder rides his spine. The webs are thin and thread-like, as fragile and individual as a spider's. However, a spider's silk is also strong and here, curling up his ankle and calf, Waylon can sense the mist's strength and warning. He tries to pull his foot back but the being below him groans something throaty and the webs contract.

"Ego sum dolore," it moans and the black mist surrounding him seems to shift. Although he cannot see behind the abysmal darkness, Waylon knows that it is watching him, staring beyond his eyes and pleading into his soul. It is pulling him closer with an almost gravitational tug. Waylon glances over his shoulder to see that he is indeed about a foot farther into the hallway than he was before.

Panic beginning to simmer in the pit of his stomach and chest, Waylon tries once more to take back his foot but to no avail. "Adivua,"  it groans again. The being twists what Waylon suspects to be its head and crawls forward, moving onto its knees as the black mist curls and folds. Its body jerks as it moves and elicits a slippery, almost popping noise – it is not unlike the wet sound of slipping a joint back in place. The sight is sickening, but Waylon is transfixed, staring with wide eyes as its shape begins to solidify and it is no longer a black mass with as arm and fingers.

The webs recoil and the mist slink back into the larger mass. In a matter of seconds the being is similar to a shadow or silhouette, and if it was not for its definite and three dimensional shape Waylon could have fooled himself into believing that it was indeed a shadow. But it is not, and the fingers wrapped around his ankle are much more solid and cold; the chill is so cold its burning his skin in the same manner that frostbite would. No longer able to hold the cry in, Waylon yelps and jerks back, but the being seems to be taken by surprise. It flinches, giving Waylon enough leverage to yank his foot from its hold and back away.

He could run, if he'd just turn around and do it. Do it. Flee. Allow that burning sensation in his gut to lead him back up the elevator and to relative 'safety.' His mind screams for him to run, but his body is frozen. Like a deer caught in headlights Waylon stares at the being, and it stares back. With each passing second its figure becomes more tangible until it is firm and in the form of a man. Wrinkles and folds wrap around his torso and compress until they take the semblance of clothing. A jacket and a collared shirt. Waylon glances at its hand and sees one that is stunted. He slides his foot back, prepared to turn away and sprint back to safety, but then suddenly the being before his changes.

"I need…" it – he whispers. His voice is raspy as if being tested after a long time of non-use. The dark mist covering him recedes into his skin and clothing, steadily revealing tanned skin and dusty clothing stained with dried blood. His ears appear first as the mists pulls centripetally. Soon, the only hint that he was ever a being of darkness is the cloud of black mist refusing to hide behind his eyes. It swarms around his iris, leaving only a thin area of white. His cheeks are sunken and the skin around his eyes look hollow; the exhausted look on his face rivals the one Waylon knows to be on his own. Although a sense of warning and alert has fallen on Waylon, the urge to flee is no longer as strong. He drags his foot forward to stand tall, although he is still shorter than the strange man, and balls his hands into fists to hide their trembling.

Hardening his stare as to not appear as delicate as he feels, Waylon swallows thickly and asks, "Who are you? Or what…what are you?" Anxiety spikes and his knees try to buckle. Waylon hides his shudder with a shift in stance. "Why were you just a black ball of webs a minute ago?" His voice rises as he speaks. Fear grips him tightly the more he thinks about the man's transformation, the more he questions why he is even here and not gone somewhere. Like cracked glass that has taken one too many blows, he begins to shatter and emotions kept in check start to pour forth. Anger, frustration, terror.

Fear, so much fear.

He can't help how his words escape in a shout. "Why are you just staring at me? I asked you a question, you need to answer me!" Waylon gestures in front of him at the man and quickly brings his arm back in, cautious of touching it. "What is your name?" he shouts. "What is your name?  You ask me for – for help, but you can't speak? What is wrong with you? Why won't you answer me?" He frowns and shakes his head, now pacing around the man.

Silence has captured him and it causes Waylon's rage to boil. The silent, almost disdainful and pitying expression on the other's face pricks his skin. Haunting, onyx eyes watch him closely. Waylon's thoughts are in a haze, and each passing second only increases his frustration. He doesn't understand  this silent being, just like he doesn't understand why he is stuck in this damned place. Where was Eddie? Why did he allow Trager to be with them? It was all Trager's fault – it's the second time he's thought this, but this time his emotions are running wild. Because Trager put him in this situation; Trager found him when he was trying to escape and sealed in his fate. To be trapped here until either Eddie or some freak ends his life.

Waylon's fist is slamming into the man's face without him realizing it, but the burst of energy excites his pounding heart and he refuses to reign in his blows even after his recognizes his actions.

Punch after punch, the being takes them like a ragdoll or sand bag, absorbing it effortlessly. He staggers without a groan, and Waylon takes the opportunity to shove him into a nearby wall with his shoulder and drag him down to the floor. Crimson splatters on to the pristine tile, but it is not from the man. Waylon cocks back his right fist and eyes the cut between his knuckles for half a second before bringing it down on the lifeless man again. He grits his teeth, annoyed with the lack of pain, and moves to stomping down on the man's gut. The man gasps and clutches Waylon's foot – another finger is missing, making Waylon's stomach churn – but the hold is too weak to keep him from doing it again.

How much time has passed, Waylon does not know. It could have been five, or ten, or maybe even two, but it is of little concern. However, his hits begin to weaken and he can no longer draw strength from past aggressions. Waylon sucks in air through an open mouth, flicking his tongue out to wet his lips, and tries to land another punch but his fist breaks halfway through and he ends of trailing fingers down the man's jacket. His legs tremble as a warning before giving out, and Waylon has to press his body against the wall to keep from crashing to the floor. Although, effort takes too much strength and he allows himself to slowly slide to sit beside the man.

No bruises, scratches, or any sign of abuse show on the man except for tears in his clothing and the slight, unnatural ruffle in his jacket and hair. Waylon drags his palm up his face and then opens his eyes to see black ones staring at him. The man's lips part as if he wanted to speak, but he quickly closes them and moves to stand. His movements are unnatural, suggesting supernatural grace and hurry. When he walks away Waylon notices the outline of black mist over his form, and he imagines that if it was white then the man would seem almost angelic. But thinking that angels could reside in a place like this is crazy; demons are much more fitting.

By the time the man comes back Waylon has settled into his space on the floor. He was too tired to move, and, surprisingly, did not feel any harm coming from the man. He felt nothing, and for now nothing will suffice.

The man clears his throat to alert Waylon of his presence, and when Waylon turns to look at him he is met with a roll of gauze and a safety pin. At first he just stares at it, and then has to snatch the items when they are practically shoved into his lap. "Thank you?" he says and drags out the 'you' to emphasize his confusion. The man shrugs – or at least Waylon thinks he shrugged – and goes to stand against the opposite wall. It isn't until he is boring into Waylon's soul that Waylon finally notices the small puddle of blood growing on his thigh where his cut knuckles rest.

"Oh!" Waylon exclaims and quickly unrolls some of the gauze, proceeding to wrap and secure his hand. As he bandages himself he can feel the being staring, almost fiercely, and it unnerves him. Yes, the act was generous, but should he take it as a gesture of mutuality? Whoever – whatever – this man is must have a motive, and just the thought is sinister enough.

And he is trying to subtly put some distance between them when a hoarse voice from above says, "Are you…a patient?"

Waylon has to stop his eyebrows from rising in surprise. An awkward silence passes over them before he answers. "No. I've been trapped here ever since the riots started." Pressing his back against the wall and using his unwounded hand for balance, Waylon slides to a stand. He cocks his head to the side. "You are?"

"I was told to come here," the man answers. He shifts slightly, exchanging his weight from one hip to the next, and folds his arm over his chest. Although his persona is that of a normal human his eyes still gleam with darkness and mist. As for his voice, it is deep in an almost soothing way; unnatural, reminding Waylon of TV programs about ghosts and haunting. In the back of his mind he cannot ignore the knowledge that this man is something supernatural, but for now he has to force himself not to dwell on it.

The man shakes his head. "So many deranged fucks… I shouldn't have come here. But my curiosity got the best of me, like a junky, and I came as fast as I could. That bastard," he spits, "some computer nerd working with Murkoff dragged me here. Realized the pile of shit he was in and called for help. I don't even remember," his voice cracks as Waylon's heart race, and the devastation in the man's tone only breaks the surface of what Waylon is feeling. "How long have I even been here?"

"Three days," Waylon says quickly, mentally placing every event in order and guessing at the time. It gives him something to focus on instead of the cold sweat trailing down his back. "Or four, maybe two if I'm making things happen too slowly but three sounds right. Everything happened so quickly."

The man nods, and then eyes Waylon suspiciously. He lifts a finger as if to point. "You said you were trapped, but why were you here in the first place? No one just walks into an asylum for the fun of it."

"I was called here too."

"By who?"

"He didn't send a name."

The man seems to consider this for a few strenuous seconds before taking Waylon's answers without question. But the doubt is still in the air, and Waylon can't make his next move unless he knows who this being is.

"What is your name?" he asks again, however, with less anger and more command. Perhaps it is because he is fully transformed, for this time there isn't a fight. In that cold, soothing voice that sparks a flame of memory in Waylon's mind, the man breathes his name.

He has memorized these halls before, outlined the walls with his hands and counted the amount of steps it took to reach each and every exit. He has visited one or two laboratories simply to figure out what the heck they were doing to the patients they brought in, and had been kicked out after about two or three minutes of interrogating the doctors. The technical room through those double doors? He knows it like the back of his hand. Has sat and worked it in plenty of times; leg trembling, fingers flying across the keyboard, eyes darting to the door in paranoia.

And the haunted man beside him? Miles Upshur ?

Yeah, that's familiar too.

Waylon balances the badly bruised video camera in his palms, quietly examining the cracked lens and blood crusted fingerprints. This is also familiar, the weight of a camera in his hands and the festering bubble of anxiety and alarm curling in his gut. His fingertips tingle when he turns the camcorder and flips open the screen to reveal a thick smear of dried blood right down the middle of it. The unsettling fact is how easily Waylon flicks his tongue over his thumb and rubs the blood away.

"It should still work," Miles says from the doorway and Waylon almost jumps out of skin from surprise. He had forgotten that Miles was still with him, too dazed with memory and curiosity. The man had refused to come into the hallway leading the Morphogenic Engine by vehemently shaking his head and clawing one nail into his wrist. The dark aura that had faded started to appear again, and that was when Waylon surrendered and just told him to stay at the doorway. He didn't want to go in there alone either, not when the sight of such an atrocity brought back flashes of black and white messages and Andrew, but Miles said that he had something important in there – something crucial – and he needed it back.

So here is Waylon now, pressing a little too harshly on the camera's "on" button and impatiently waiting for it to turn on. The screen flashes white for half a second before turning off. It takes much effort to not throw damn thing on the floor and suggest just retrieving his from Eddie – Waylon bites his lip. He tries turning it on again, this time with more care and hope.

He hears Miles mumble something before saying, "It might need batteries."

"That's obvious," Waylon snaps a tad harsher than intended but lacks the energy to apologize. He jams his thumb into the button while a stale silence passes over them. And then Miles is asking, "If so, then why are you still trying to turn it on?"

"Because –" he starts and then stops. Through the glass panel he spots something glittering in the dim, overhead light, small and cylindrical and coming straight from his memory. A godsend, he thinks as another round of shapes and colors blur his vision and drum against his temple. He grips the camera tightly until the daze passes, and then glances over his shoulder at Miles. "It's an act faith," he says, words coming straight from the mouth of a madman and sliding off his tongue too fairly. But he pushes the recollection to the back of his mind as actively tries not to focus on the swish of the automatic doors, or the cool, stale air that immediately rushes up his nostrils and in his mouth.

The laboratory smells of must and tastes like dust, if the small inhale that Waylon accidentally takes is reliable. Foolishly, he tries to hold his breath as he stares down at his feet and rushes towards the desk.

He can still hear the screams as clear as day. Rape! Rape! They cry and yell and repeat, wrapping around Waylon's mind and singing into his eardrums. Somebody help me! Somebody – he snatches the battery off of the table and swallows, choking on the air hauled in his lungs, trying to fight the voices invading his thoughts – you! I know you can stop this! You have to help me!"

Whap, whap, whap!

By the time he's back in the hallway Waylon is panting and leaning over his knees for balance, sweaty fingers curled over the battery tightly and camcorder pressed against his ribs. Miles is saying something from afar (is he still at the doorway?) but the words are lost on him; all he can hear is his own heavy breathing and the thunderous beat of his heart. He stands there a while longer, and soon a firm hand is on his back and ushering him through the doors and into the open space that leads to the elevator. He glances to his side and immediately sees a dead security officer slumped over the wooden desk.

"What happened in there?" Miles' voice is deeper, resembling the crude, raspy one during his transformation. His hand is still on Waylon's back and the pressure chills his spine. It's a wonder how Miles can be so cold, but then what should Waylon suspect from a possessed man? The camera fumbles out of his hands but Miles catches it before it can hit the ground and possibly destroy the entire lens. While straightening up he effortlessly takes the battery out of Waylon's hand and puts it in the camera, and this time when he repeats his question Waylon is ready to answer.

"I was just in shock, mostly. They never put me in the engine, but I was a…guinea pig for their experiments," he says, a shudder running through him at the memory. The flashes of light, the organic forms and abstract objects projected on the wall, and the clammy, gloved fingers that slapped and caressed him. Andrew was the worst of it all, but he does not take away from the torture of the hallucinations and images.

He feels Miles' pace slow and has to stop walking so that they are side by side again. Camera open, the other man presses the button to turn it on and stares blankly as the screen lights and stays on. He taps another button and Waylon's heart skips when he sees the world change to blinding white and lime green. It is too bright to have thermal on, so Miles turns it off, along with the camera as a whole and bows his head so that he can drape it around his neck. And Waylon, he is mesmerized by the peculiar display, understanding the necessity of having evidence but not how it will be received – or how anyone else will find it, especially if they don't make it out alive-

He shakes his head and scratches his arm. Those thoughts are forbidden. If he speaks it then it will come to pass, so he has to keep quiet. Does the same go for his thoughts? He isn't sure how the superstition goes, but never the less he doesn't want to stay in that dark, depressing place.

The pair stops in front of the elevator where they first met, and Waylon can't help the slight flush that spreads on his cheeks. He found Miles by stepping on him, and even though he was just a mass of webs and matter it is still embarrassing. Although, Miles seems not to think of their encounter and heads straight for the flashing green button, and the realization burns something within Waylon that has his anxiety spiking.

So at the very last second he jerks forward and wraps his hand around Mile's wrist, stopping him right before he called for the elevator. Despite the contact's brevity, Miles instantly yanked his hand back, the man's stare is borderline lethal.

"What are you doing?" he asks, more so snaps, and whatever request that was on Waylon's tongue immediately shatters. He opens his mouth and gapes like a fish out of water, explanations forming and then dissipating right after. Annoyed, Miles says, "We have what we need, Waylon. I didn't tell you to get this damned camera just so we can sit and watch my misery together. We have to leave." He goes for the elevator again but Waylon grabs his shoulder to stop him, pulling it back so that his body turns.

"Park," Miles snarls and shoves the younger man aside. There are inklings of mist now, black and sneaking out from behind Miles to wrap around his neck and arms. His eyes flare with darkness, and the pattern of mists matches the swirl of fear coiling in Waylon. But he can't let Miles call for the elevator. Because there are other exits, exits in the laboratory that every scientist and engineer used to avoid the asylum. It's quicker, and easier, and if he wasn't so distraught earlier he would have told Miles.

But he also can't go back up to the asylum. He can't go, because up there he only knows one exit – only has one exit. And if he goes up there, then he'll be pulled back into the hysteria and have to face… he'll have to face….

There's the sound of shutters closing and gears turning, and then green button on the wall begins to flash.

He hears the elevator moving, coming, arriving for his demise but he can no longer see Miles, can no longer see the white, icy walls or the emerald light. He hears a ticking that reminds him of locusts, swarms upon swarms of insects rushing to claim a land and destroy it. But the swarm is pitch black, and there's an outline of ghoulish muscles and a distinctly familiar face.

But by the time the shutters open and the swarm stills, Waylon is already unconscious.

Chapter Text

"Trager and I will meet you there. You have to go without worry, dear. We will be safe," he says, guaranteeing a promise that feels impossible to keep.

A raw throat leaves his voice sounding scratched; a chill creeps along his spine and sends his gut plummeting. The feeling of dread is vicious, like a tornado sweeping aside his insides and leaving devastation in its wake. Eddie looks at her - catches her stare and truly looks at her - and her face reflects the storm brewing within.

Terror lies behind the contortion of her expression; she wants to punch him, to fight tooth and nail until he gives and allow her to stay. "There're too many of them," Waylon has to shout in order to be heard over the crowd, and her voice cracks halfway through it. So desperate, it's all so clear on her face and it makes something in him break.

Her flushed cheeks are ravishing, he notes though his thoughts are flowing in rapid succession. Eddie presses closer to her while scanning the area, noting the variants' speed and proximity – too close for comfort, it's hard to breathe, and they're surrounded. Trager stands a bit apart from them bearing a smug expression that irks Eddie to no end. Bastard. But his attention strays from the doctor after about a second and he goes back to surveying his love.

Eddie cannot deny the aesthetic and silly romantic air to their situation. Internally, he compliments all of Waylon's features, wasting no time to dwell in order to imprint the entire image in his head. He hears the rioting all around him but in this moment his course of action seems so simple. Capture his love, his darling Waylon, and then set her free. Eddie's heart skips as he recognizes this, realizing that there are many paths to take but they will all lead to similar endings. The conclusion is the same – the end does not justify the means. Waylon is searching for answers in his eyes but he suspects that they are too dark to decipher. If she keeps staring she will sooner or later drown in them, and he is likely to perish in hers.

How can she look so beautiful in the mist of fear? A deep yearning pulls at his chest and all he desires is to hug her close and protect her, take her warmth and claim it as his own. If only he could take her to a place far from here, build her a home and give her as many children as she desires. They could be happy together – they could stay alive together. Her eyes are stunning as she parts her alluring lips to speak, and in this moment Eddie deeply wishes to pull her forward and lay their lips together in a fierce kiss.

Instead, he turns Waylon by her shoulders and allow Trager to shove her away until she is sprinting on her own, small form slipping past the variants mostly unscathed. Trager shouts in excitement and slaps his arm, twirling his bone shears with his other hand while Eddie follows Waylon's movement until she disappears. It pains him to see her leave; yet, knowing that she is safe removes the heavy weight of dread set on his shoulders. And he feels it too, as if the notion isn't figurative and is actually literal.

No matter, Eddie thinks as he lifts the knife in defense, ready for the first wave of variants to attack. Waylon will be safe until he can find her. And if he doesn't make it…well, at least he died fighting for the one he loves.

"Kill them!"

The fight is a dance of blurred limbs and fire-spitting agony. His swings are precise, aiming for the quickest and easiest kill so he can move on to the next one. Go for the face, stab them in the jugular, hit hard and fast until they are using each other for balance. Keep moving – move, move, move – so the variants never know where to look. Trager yanks Eddie to him a split second before a splintered plank of wood could be barreled down on him. Their glance is brief in tense appreciation before both turn on Eddie's attacker and stab him without second thought, Trager's shears in his gut while Eddie's knife is splitting his eye. The pair pull away with a sloppy sound.

"Eddie," he hears Trager say to his left before grunting around a variant that has decided to charge at him. The man's statue is a mountain in comparison, but immediately becomes a disadvantage when he shuffles in close range. Easily, the doctor slips under the variant's massive arm and catches the fat hanging from it with his shears. He snaps the blades closed just in time for Eddie to turn and be splashed in the face with disgustingly warm blood. Some seeps between his lips and an immense taste of iron cloud his senses.

Momentarily unaware of his surroundings, Eddie doesn't catch the two variants moving to restrain him until one is grabbing a fistful of hair and the other is being punched in the face by Trager. He jerks back, not out of it, a move the pale man wasn't expecting, and slams the top of his head into the variant's chin. A feral howl leaves the variant before it is replaced with a cry of pain and a gurgle, suddenly being strung up in the air by a sharp blade and strong arm. Eddie throws him to the ground and stomps on his chest for good measure.

The crowd is endless, creature after creature moving in to have their turn at the two. Some huddle in wide ovals to watch, while most either pick fights with each other or sprint in an attempt to catch Trager or Eddie off guard. Their screams are deafening, a torrent of broken words and chants resounding through the courtyard and spiraling up into the air. Trager calls Eddie again but he isn't sure where the voice is coming from. Time does not allow him to carefully target the doctor, and the sharp sting of something nipping his collar pulls him back to the fight. He was on the verge of giving up on looking for Trager when familiar fingers curl around his bicep and pull his backwards.

The next time Trager speaks, warm breath tickles Eddie's ear. "Over on that wall, behind me, there's a ladder. It's red. Look at it." Trager shoves Eddie behind him and jerks his head towards the brick wall. "See it?"

"Yes," Eddie says after spotting the camouflaged ladder. It leans against the high wall carefully, looking about stable enough to support a leaf. The red paint on the ladder matches the rusted brick, and if he hadn't known what he was looking for Eddie isn't sure that he would have found it so easily; although, the ladder is not all that grabs his attention. Variants crowd around it, too, but the groups are scattered and leave an open path that beelines straight to the ladder. It's narrow and would be a tight squeeze, but a short glimpse at Trager tells Eddie that his idea is not far-fetched.

It's insane.

They move quickly, fending off as many attackers as they can, but the punches and stabs come is a flurry that is hard to keep up with. While Eddie is lifting his arm to block a punch to his face, another variant comes and kicks him right in the side, knocking wind out of his lungs and causing him to stumble to the right. He gasps for air, vision crossing for a couple seconds before he blinks and tries to align the world. Screams ring in his ears, laughter sounds above it all, and Trager's stunted words are shouting at him to "Hurry the fuck up."

He obeys with a grunt, and accidentally cut his finger when he tried to holster his knife. They fight through another wave of amused variants before the ladder is finally within reach. Trager sprints to it – his legs wobble and his breathing is loud, more like hiccups – and shakes the base of the ladder. It wobbles, but doesn't teeter to the side so he twirls the shears into their place at his side and uses both of his hands to climb. Eddie is right behind him now, following the doctor closely. Eddie's hands replace Trager's feet as they climb, and he avoids looking at the ground (or directly up, for that matter).

He can still hear the variants below, cooing and shouting and making a mockery of any civility that was ever kept in the asylum. But these men were never civil, and the officials tortured them into being less than savages. Eddie feels a pang of anger in his chest and pain in his temple; his cheek feels warm but he has no free hand to scratch it. Above him, Trager's breath hitches and he curses, the word sounding like the whisper of a man on his deathbed.

"Buddy," he says quietly, only audible because of their distance over the others. "Stop moving."

Cocking his head to the side and frowning, Eddie obliges.

The air is cool up here, breezing past them lazily as if the chaos below is but a common occurrence. Which, technically, it is, yet after weeks of destruction the extreme anarchy still feels new. Fresh and revolting, it sits in the back of Eddie's mind when the silence stretches for far too long. His palms feel sweaty around the rusted metal, and the cut on his smallest finger bleeds gently. He has the urge to wipe it off but believes that if he lets go he will fall, so he settles for ignoring the thin trail. Another casual gust of wind wrap around him, and Eddie feels the question on his lips build until it becomes unbearable. He is opening his mouth to ask it when he notices the gentle shift of his feet.

They moved, to the right, without him actually moving. Eddie tightens his grip around the bar and glances down at his feet. They are still, one foot above the other since he stopped mid-climb. A moment of passes before the shift happens again, this time he feels his entire body move. And in the next, he lurches backward and then forward, banging his forehead against the bar.

"They're shaking us!" Trager shouts but Eddie can already hear those vile degenerates cat-calling them. He loops his arms through the bars until he is holding on by his elbows. The variants howl in laughter before shaking the ladder again, trying to jerk it in multiple directions at once which causes the ladder to wobble and slide on the grass. The end of the ladder taps the wall.

"We have to go!" Eddie yells and slaps the man's heel to send the message. He catches a glimpse of Trager nodding but hits his foot again until it moves.

Eddie's heart pounds in urgency, gaze dropping to the courtyard and noting how the ladder is giving more easily to the variants now. It lurches left and right, backwards and forwards, meanwhile sliding further down the grass. They are climbing at an angle now that the top of the ladder has lowered. Trager curses again when the ladder wobbles and he misses the step. His foot skids off the bar and slips through the hole, causing his pelvis to slam against the sides of the ladder. The variants must have noticed this, for their shoves increase in ferocity and the ladder actually creaks.

Eddie holds Trager by the thigh and tries to lift him from the hole. "They're going to knock this thing down, Trager."

"I fucking know that."

"Then get out of there before they do," Eddie growls and shoves Trager's thigh harshly. The doctor kicks back pathetically, probably aiming to hit Eddie, before pulling himself up by the arms and swinging out of the gap. They waste no time moving once Trager is out, Eddie viciously noting every tremble and waver from the ladder. Not too far ahead of them is a window, closed and to the side but close enough for them to open and slink inside if they moved fast enough.

It's difficult to remain balanced, but soon they are at the top of the ladder, Eddie holding on to Trager with one hand as the man tries to pull the window open. It refuses to give for far too long, coming down on Trager's fingers whenever he found leverage and making him repeat the process. Eddie is anxious, a cloud of doubt and distaste hovering over his senses as the ladder slowly slides further from the wall, steepness dropping to the point where they are climbing like monkeys on all fours.

"Trager-"

The window snaps open and Trager swats at Eddie's hand. "Opened. I'm going in," he says.

He shuffles from the ladder to the window and starts to move inside when the ladder makes an unexpected jolt down the wall. His chin hits the window sill, slamming Trager's mouth closed and the crack that follows sends a chill down Eddie's spine.

Silence is suffocating, but Eddie is too wary to break it. Instead, he places his hand on Trager's back. "Are you…?" He holds his breath until the body gives a shudder and Trager growls deep in his throat. Eddie recoils, heart back to thumping loudly, and watches as Trager moves his jaw as he crawls inside the building.

He follows Trager close behind, not testing his luck with how unstable the ladder - along with its aggressors - is. He is reminded of Columbus discovering the New World when he grabs onto the window sill and curls his fingers around it for a better grip. The feeling is exhilarating, grounding, and relieving. It is easier to breathe once his head is inside, and when he kicks off the ladder, sending it falling to the ground, and pulls his legs through the window the knot in gut loosens immensely.

Eddie allows himself a moment to breathe on the floor as Trager closes the window. They are in one of the Catholic dorms; he can tell from the array of rotated crosses on the wall and the perfectly made twin beds on either side of them. The only other set of bedrooms in the asylum are for the staff that had to stay here, and Eddie still isn't sure where those are located.

Trager maneuvers past him and sighs loudly, the stretch making his jaw crack again. He looks at Eddie with a wild gaze. "Any bruises?"

Eddie's pinky stings and he flexes it absentmindedly. His scalp aches, and now that he thinks about it there's a dull soreness on every part of his body; although, he doesn't spot any blood or concerning marks. Eddie uses the edge of the bed to help him stand as he says, "A couple here and there but nothing serious. How's your jaw?"

"Shit," Trager spits and frowns as he cups his chin. The action pulls his skin and reveals a diagonal cut running from the corner of his mouth to somewhere under his hand; blood has already coagulated there.

Chancing a glance out of the window, Eddie sees the variants scatter into individual groups again, similar to how they were before he and Trager had entered the courtyard. They're still yelling, but the volume has lowered.

Whores. Filthy, dirty, disgusting whores. Eddie's fist clench at his side and he grits his teeth, beginning to feel the burn of anger swell in his chest. His body aches, pain coursing through him; it radiates in some spots and simmers in others. He notes some of their faces and presses it into his memory for the next time he sees them. Oh, if he could have them to himself, they would regret ever trying to touch him or Trager. Or his darling.

There's an ache in his chest that isn't a result of pain. It rests low and hollow, empty, and he swallows thickly in an attempt to rid himself of the feeling. His darling; in the time of her departure he had almost forgotten about her, so concerned with his own safety. Is she safe? Did she make it to the church? Eddie looks across the courtyard to the church and sees the orange light of flames licking and shattering windows.

"Where are you-" Trager starts when Eddie storms past him and out the door.

Eddie doesn't slow down when he answers, "Waylon," and feels a bit of gratefulness when he hears Trager's footsteps trailing behind him.

"Have you kissed her yet?"

Eddie's cheeks warm; however, he's going to blame it on the smoke rising high on the ceiling. The smoke thickens as they near the church, burning their lungs and restricting air to the point where Eddie advised crouching so they could see and breathe easier. His clothes stick to him uncomfortably and he's drenched in sweat. Layers drip down his back and over his eyes, warm against hot skin. He would take off his vest and possibly his shirt, but that would slow him down and every second on the clock counts.

They turn a corner and is met with a low wall of flames burning brightly and creeping up the wall. Eddie doesn't speak until they've stepped over it. "Just the thought makes my heart flutter, but she is shy, and if I force myself upon her too quickly," he pauses, "she will…run away."

"Again."

"Again," Eddie nods.

Trager shakes his head. "You'll be waiting for an eternity then, my friend. Isaac recognized this."

"Who is Isaac?"

"Newton…" Trager answers and gives Eddie an incredulous look, but how could Eddie be blamed for not knowing who someone was when the bastard didn't think to mention his last name? He keeps his mouth shut though and waits for the doctor to continue. "First Law of Motion, Gluskin: an object at rest will stay at rest."

A window breaks somewhere behind them and the pair walk faster. Here, the hallway feels like Hell. Fire stretches all around them, burning from the ceiling and dropping little chips of wood like kindling over their shoulders. Just for protection (that's the excuse he's giving), Eddie strips out of his vest and holds it over his head. In his peripheral he can see Trager eyeing him with a smirk as if the fire is child's play and he's been through worse.

A quick glance at the stitches along the width of Trager's abdomen makes him rethink.

"What's your point?" he prompts once they're clear of most of the fire. The church's doors have been burned down, leaving it open to expel mushroom clouds of grey smoke and copious heat. Eddie wraps the vest around his mouth and nose in an attempt to filter the air.

Trager puts his hand over his nose. "My point is that your dear Waylon will stay at rest until an outside force is acted upon her."

"She will run," Eddie argues.

"She is afraid and lost and alone. She has you, only you, and the only way she'll recognize this is if you woo her." Trager kicks away a burning piece of something dark and grimaces immediately after. "You're like a lion, Gluskin. You can't lure in a gazelle if you make your intentions known."

"But she loves me and knows that we will marry soon. If I have to wait until after our marriage to claim her lips, then I will. I," something flashes in front of him and he narrows his eyes to peer through the smoke. The flashing light is green. "I want to avoid scaring her away again. Love is not something that I expect you to understand, Trager-"

Trager scoffs. "Offensive."

"But I must not tempt losing her again. She has… she is a dream, and I do not desire waking up."

They come to an elevator and stop there, Trager's curiosity perking faster than Eddie's and leading him inside. He inspects the small space by patting the walls and staring at the flashing light. A key is already turned in the keyhole.

"Do you think it still works?" Eddie asks as he steps inside, grateful for the lack of smoke in it. It must have been used recently.

Trager cracks his jaw as he runs his fingers along the single floor option. "Looks like it. Think someone has been in here recently?"

"Sure," Eddie says.

With a grin and glint in his eye far too mischievous to be good, Trager presses the green button and steps back as the metal gates close. "How about we go say hi to them, then?" he practically laughs before nudging Eddie's side with his elbow. "You said you didn't want to wake up."

It's not a question. Eddie remains quiet.

Trager clasps his hands behind his back and lifts his chin, looking at Eddie from the corner of his eye. His voice is low when he says, "Don't wait for it then."

Don't.

Wait.

The elevator jolts to a sudden stop, jerking the two forward. Eddie braces himself against the wall and groans, clenching his eyes shut because something is making them burn. As if hundreds of locusts were swarming the elevator, a roaring buzz wraps around them. He waves his arms to swat at them yet hits nothing. The insects evade him, but the longer he tries to fight them off the more confusing the buzzing becomes. Because he's not hitting anything. There's nothing but air; cold air, moving air, air that twists and turns and makes his skin prickle.

With great effort he manages to force his eyes open and see nothing but blackness. The dark is shifting, waving past him and contorting into semi-fluid forms. It is like mist. He cannot see or feel Trager and the realization strikes him hard.

Where is he? What is this? Eddie opens his mouth but no sound leaves his throat. He can't breathe, and the pressure building in his lungs is starting to suffocate him. He grabs blindly and the mist moves around him. He's floating, somehow floating although his feet are clearly on the ground. The floor is solid, right? It's not moving, the air around him is. He is solid, isn't he? Sturdy, still, solid – a wave of lightheadedness washes over him and he feels that he is on the verge of passing out.

His eyes close despite his efforts, and the ground beneath him slips away.

The Engine doesn't have any visuals today?

They must want him to dream – no, rape! Don't make me! Don't make me stop it NO – Eddie's body twitches.

"What did your father make you do, Mr. Gluskin?"

"Were you a good boy for him, Mr. Gluskin?"

"Can you show us what he did to you, Mr. Glus-"

Wait.

The world stops spinning, and the voices recede back into the dark, forgotten places in his mind. Eddie is slow to come to, fighting the blaring light because the darkness was much more comforting. There's a pressure on his chest, not too heavy but enough to limit how much he can breathe. It is solid, soft, and when he goes to push it off of him the thing groans and mumbles something inaudible.

Eddie's eyes shoot open and he sits up much too quickly.

Lying stretched out on his chest is Waylon, her eyebrows furrowed over closed eyes as if Eddie was interrupting her sleep (which he definitely is). An old camcorder lies at her side, and her short hair is a ruffled mess. They are on the floor of some place that reeks of déjà vu, with icy walls and the scent of chlorine bleach. Eddie wants to wake her up, he's so happy to see her, yet he lacks motivation to actually do it.

Well, maybe he should just wait for her to wake up before doing anything. With that decided, he lowers himself back to the pleasantly cool floor and closes his eyes, giving himself to the darkness that is reminiscent of mist.

Chapter Text

The next time Eddie comes to consciousness he is shivering and lying on his back with a familiar weight resting on his chest. They are no longer surrounded by icy walls, and the scent of chlorine has been replaced by a stale smell of death. Ceiling lights flicker, on...off...on..off. He counts the seconds between each flash of light until his head no longer feels like it's swimming, and then tests his voice by groaning.

The response is immediate. Something crashes relatively close behind him - either glass or a frail ceramic, he can't exactly place - and there is skittering across the floor. The stomp of bare feet against hardwood grows louder until the person possessing them is standing almost directly over Eddie and scoffing.

"Took you long enough."

"Where are we?" Eddie asks and moves to sit up; he stops when a sudden wave of nausea hits him. Waylon mumbles something in her sleep and curls into his left side, burrowing her head into the pit of his arm. His expression softens upon looking at her, but the confusion and aversion to their situation comes back when he raises his gaze to Trager.

The doctor's stance is typical, hands clasped behind his back and standing on the balls of his feet. He makes a show of looking around the room, smirking, before speaking. "My, you don't even recognize your own room."

Ignoring his earlier hesitation, Eddie sits up despite the spike of pain in his temples and the groan of disapproval from Waylon. The 'lights' on the ceiling is singular, now that he sees a lone bulb hanging loosely and flickering irregularly. Why the light is so bright, he does not know, but he decides that figuring out these strange occurrences can wait until his world has stopped spinning.

Gently, so as not to bother her unnecessarily, Eddie slides out from under Waylon and pushes himself off the ground.

Trager isn't lying. They are back in Eddie's workshop, standing in the same place where he first said Waylon's precious name. The memory feels extremely distant despite only happening three or four days ago. Time seems to have either slowed down exponentially or stopped at some point.

He runs his finger along the edge of his open sketch pad and lightly taps a few dress designs before placing his gaze back on Trager. The light flickers, somehow softening the doctor's features. The notion is unnerving.

"How long have Waylon and I been," Eddie glances at her, "out?"

"I'd say an hour since I woke up myself," Trager says.

"What happened back there?"

The doctor answers with silence. He averts his gaze to stare at the bundle of candles on the desk and inhales deeply.

"Trager," Eddie's voice is low, fitting the quiet, ominous atmosphere in the room. He carefully steps away from the table, eyes on Trager's body instead of his face now. The man's posture is rigid, muscles pulled taut, but his fingers flex at his side, occasionally touching his shears. "What happened?"

Trager's teeth grind loudly and the rigidity of his stance holds until he releases a breath. It seems to alleviate his muscles, Eddie notices, for the doctor is less of a statue and more of a human. Slowly, his energy begins to come back. Despite the exhaustion showing in his features, Trager's mouth twitches as if fighting a smirk and he turns on his heel to pace around the workspace.

Eddie watches this transformation in confusion; it is not unlike watching a child. One of Trager's hands toy with the handle of his shears while the other trails along the nearest available surface as he walks in wide ovals. He skips a step, smiles gleefully, and then stops long enough to lock eyes with Eddie.

Voice barely above a whisper, he coos, "He's here."

Eddie feels something in him shift. He hesitates before asking, "Who is here?"

"The one," is Trager's cryptic answer, but the person is so clear, so obvious. Wetting his bottom lip, Eddie leans back on the table with his palms against the wood. Waylon is still asleep, her beautiful mind too far away to hear or understand.

"Where?" Eddie asks.

"In the mist," Trager says, and here he starts walking again, each turn of his heel sharp and purposeful. "He was there in the elevator with us before we… He was there. And then when I woke up-"

"In the Engine?" Eddie interrupts and immediately regrets it when Trager frowns at him questionably. Eddie shakes his head. "Continue."

"Anyway, he was there when I woke up, covered in mist and webs and he didn't even seem to be alive. But buddy," Trager changes courses suddenly, jerking his body to the left and towards Eddie. Icy cold palms rest on Eddie's shoulders, shocking him, and Trager gives him a little shake, eyes wide. "He was there, alive, and I just wanted to… I need to find him again. Buddy, I can feel him. Somewhere in the distant air, I can feel his presence. I can see his trail," he says, words dragging on into a murmur. His eyes are focused on the wall now. Golden candle light dances in a light sway, similar to that of a pendulum. This close, Eddie can see the thick swallow Trager takes every few seconds, as if just the thought of catching Miles makes his mouth water. Which it might as well, for all Eddie knows.

He doesn't retreat from Trager's grasp until the doctor lets go of him, and from the looks of it Eddie assumes that Trager will start pacing again. However, the man keeps walking, leaving the workroom and heading in the direction of the sewing area.

The light flickers off, emphasizing the gold, and then Eddie is jogging to be by Trager's side. "You're leaving," he states the obvious.

"He's near."

"But we don't know what happened back there. Miles might-"

Trager pulls his shears from their holster. "Miles is going to have a sweet visitor waiting for him. Don't wait for me; I'll be in heaven for a while."

Eddie's face contorts in disgust. "Pray tell when heaven will ever let you in."

"Hell, fine, purgatory isn't an option for a businessman like me. But Miles took what he couldn't have and I want to return the favor. Consider it retribution."

"Waylon is safe and asleep, you don't have to do this alone."

"I need to do this alone-"

"I won't let you do this alone-"

"I don't need your permission!" Trager snaps and rounds on Eddie, glaring with the pierce of fire in his eyes. He narrows them and pulls his lips into a snarl, body rigid. "We made a deal, Gluskin. I get Miles if you get your precious Waylon. You don't have to worry about her surgery-"

"I wasn't-"

"Then stop badgering me," Trager cuts him off, and this time Eddie bites his tongue. "Don't wait for me," he says in a voice far too calm for a mad man. "I'll be back in a few hours, and in the morning, Waylon will be presented to you as a gift."

The doctor's retreating form is a conclusion, one that causes Eddie to watch until it is gone as if something will change. The darkness surrounds him, engulfs his mind, body, and soul, and suddenly he feels cold. So he turns 180 degrees and buries his hands into his pocket, repeating Trager's final words like a mantra while humming a familiar tune.

In the morning, she will be a gift.

Trager's departure has left a numb, practically hollow feeling in Eddie, and the reasoning for it is unexplainable. The tea in his styrofoam cup is now lukewarm; although, it was never really hot to begin with. There is only so much heat that can be given through a sink's faucet. Concurrent with his better judgment, Eddie had deemed the floor unfit for housing his dear Waylon and moved her into their bed, drawing the sheets over her shoulders before snuggling himself at her side.

The darkness lingers in the room mockingly, bringing forth images of scenes he wanted to forget. If he stares too long into the shadows figments of the Engine come back to mind and the shapes begin to form again: squares, triangles, organic symbols meshing together to create some sort of subliminal reaction in his thoughts. So he blinks, and sips his cool drink.

The crushed leaves are supposed to be oolong, but it tastes like a generic combination of sweet mint and vegetation. It seemed like a luxury when he found it in one of the desk drawers in the lab near the security office, having about a second to snag two before that behemoth of a man found him. What was his name? Watson? Chris? Nevertheless, the creature had chased him down the stretch of a dimly lit hallway until Eddie was out of his territory, the metal infusers and sticky note still in hand.

Which leads him to where he is now, back pressed against the wall adjacent to his bed and the taste of sweetness on his tongue. He takes another sip of the drink and allows it to cloud his taste buds and whisk him away to an oriental countryside. It is difficult to capture the soft breeze and ceremonious movement in his head when he has never experienced such peace before, but that doesn't stop him from trying. He chases after the tranquility, after the gently fluttering cherry blossoms and sway of tree branches. The liquid in his mouth grows stale and he replaces it with another cool sip, shifting the image in his mind to a scene of rain. The earth's cry is a light drizzle, and behind the collection of nimbus clouds he sees bright rays of sunshine. The yellow-orange contrasts with the blue-grey, and the spectacle is breathtaking.

Eddie takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, lost in the sensations that he has created. His heartbeat slows while his body relaxes, and the sheets wrapped around him are soft and warm. He exhales, and the world does too. He inhales, and the earth stills. He is on the brink of rectifying the cup's tilt when Waylon stirs at his side and lifts her head.

A few strands of hair hang over Waylon's eyes and her skin has a flushed tint to it. Like the swirl of roses in bath water, the colors seem to the blend in a twist around her cheeks. Eddie links the peculiar scheme to the light of the candles, but the knowledge does not negate her beauty. Waylon swallows but her throat must be too dry because she grimaces immediately afterwards, so Eddie offers her his tea.

"Hi," he says in an exhale.

"Hi," she repeats before taking the cup and downing the rest of the drink. Shifting around, Waylon leans away from Eddie to place the cup on the floor and then crawls out from the sheets. They drape around her thighs and cover her from there below. Eddie frowns when he recognizes that she's still wearing the shirt that they took from a variant after Trager released her, and feels a burning desire to rip it off of her. But that might scare her, so he quells the thought.

Waylon takes a moment to assess her surroundings with narrowed eyes, and then she brings her attention to Eddie. "You survived," she comments, the words sounding more surprised than anything. There's a twinge of annoyance that washes over him, yet who can blame her for thinking so?

"Yes, my little Sleeping Beauty, I survived," he says. "And so did Trager. We managed to get away from those whores before they realized that fighting us one on one was idiotic when attacking by three or more would've been more efficient." He chuckles at that and shakes his head, not particularly fond of the possibility or memory. Eddie rolls his head to the side to look at Waylon, who is staring intently at him, and decides that a little more contact won't hurt their situation. What surprises him, though, is that Waylon doesn't squirm away when he wraps his arm around her waist.

She's soft here too, albeit not as much as he had imagined. She hasn't been eating, has she? "We looked for you once we were free."

Waylon's tone is incredulous. "Really?"

"Yeah." Eddie nods slightly. "I was…worried when I realized that the church's fire was spreading faster and further than I initially thought. I sent you there to save you, but if something had happened…" He stops there, feeling his throat begin to dry and he tries to swallow the lump. Waylon remains silent, which he is grateful for until the silence shifts into something uncomfortably tangible. He opens his mouth to speak, however, Waylon's voice chimes before his.

"I knew you were coming," she says in a voice barely louder than a whisper, like that of a ghost, and it is Eddie's turn to be surprised.

"How?" He can't help asking. "Trager and I were surrounded. How did you hold on to such faith?"

"I knew that you wouldn't give up on finding me. You wouldn't leave me alone."

There is something in the way she says 'alone,' enunciating the word to stress all of its implications. Loneliness, isolation, independence, and fear all twisted into two syllables. Her eyes stray from Eddie's then but he cannot look away, as if her presence is a lodestone and he is a ferromagnetic.

Eddie is suddenly made excruciatingly aware of their proximity. His hand rests cold on his waist, fingers slightly toying with the hem of her ragged shirt. He pokes a spot that is significantly warmer than the rest of her, and Waylon jerks into his side. She cranes her neck to glare at Eddie and he dismisses her annoyance with a smile.

Here, with Waylon pressed against his side and the warmth of the bed and their bodies settled around them, life seems to stand upright and purposeful. It feels right to sit next to her, to be with her, and he is once again reminded of his love – of his desire to have Waylon to himself, and to keep her by his side forever. An eternity of affection is hardly sufficient time for him to express how much he cherishes her.

He chances a glance at her to see that she is content with sitting by him, her eyes glazed as she stares into a faraway place. Is she here, in the present? Eddie wants to peer into her mind and see what she sees, feel what she feels, but he knows that that would be an invasion of her space – no – rather, an invasion of the space he's building between them. It is a good one, he recognizes, one where Waylon has her own mind and can come to him out of her own volition. She can come to him because she wants to and needs to, not because he is forcing her to.

Trager wouldn't understand.

He holds Waylon a little tighter. If his darling is…an object at rest, then perhaps he should wait alongside her. It is the safest, more reasonable answer; however, with each passing second the idea becomes less exciting and more fruitless. He has her right here, alone and pliant and safe. She is neither moving away from him nor coming closer, causing a sort of malfunction in Eddie that makes his heartbeat quicken while his blood runs cold. The light flickers on the ceiling, on and then off, and the bundles of candles throughout the workshop glow dimly.

He tests his luck with a subtle change in position.

He relishes in the warmth of her skin as he begins to caress her nape, dragging his fingertips through waves of hair. The strands slip past his grip like sand. Eddie tries to trap them by pinching them between his thumb and forefinger. He feels Waylon stiffen at his side, but she relaxes just as quickly as she grew taut, which sends a boost of confidence to Eddie's ego.

So he pushes their boundaries further by shuffling perpendicular to Waylon until he is in front of her slightly. She watches him with a frown, confusion displayed clearly on her face. And oh, how alluring is her gaze. Lips apart, brilliant eyes trained on him, and cheeks flushed in that spiraling pink, Eddie is mesmerized by her appearance. He removes his hand from her hair only to tease the arch of her ear. Her eyes widen and she looks about to ask a question, but Eddie silences her by tipping his nose over hers.

"Darling," he sings in a deep voice that is riveting for how close they are. Waylon tries to move but Eddie's hand is back on her neck, now circling the base of her collar with his thumb. He presses into the space there and Waylon gasps, involuntarily drawing them closer. "Darling," he repeats.

"Eddie," she practically whimpers, and it is either the submission or discomfort in her voice that drags a deep growl from him.

The atmosphere is thick. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that it is tangible; wispy tendrils laden with unadulterated desires whip past them at simultaneously the speed of light and at a state of rest. They cancel each other out and leave empty space that is perfectly replicated here: Eddie is at rest, and so is Waylon, but his entire being is begging to move.

He can feel her breaths mingle with his, and if the heat rising up her neck is any indication of what he assumes to be acceptance, then he isn't going to waste her submission. Eddie's heart seems to flutter in that moment between conception and action, and then he is leaning forward and pressing his lips on to Waylon's.

The ability to think is a valuable skill that leaves him instantly; all he knows now is to allow his body to guide him and help Waylon along the way. She is stoic, possibly frozen, but that does not stop him from breaking for breath and then moving in for another kiss. And another. And another. And now he can't get enough of her soft lips and body heat. Her kisses are intoxicating even though she still hasn't moved, but he is grateful to have this opportunity. On a particularly forceful kiss, he feels Waylon's arms tremble and lock, and her chin tilt for air.

Waylon swallows thickly and the motion sends shrills down Eddie's spine. "Eddie, I don't think we should," she stops there, closes her eyes, and bites her lower lip under the force of Eddie kissing a deep crimson bruise on her neck.

"Why not?" he breathes between kisses, lips trailing to the sensitive spot where her collar and neck meet.

Waylon jerks away from his tongue. "Trager could come back at anytime."

"Trager is busy, Darling."

"But he could come back."

"And what do you fear?" He counters before pulling away from her tantalizing throat. His gaze is cold over her frightened one, but he can't find it in himself to yield his simmering frustration. "After all of the hardship that we've endured, you want to make a mockery of my – our – passion and say 'wait'? How long do you wish for Trager to be gone for us to have time? My affection only grows hotter by the minute, and I am content with negating my friend for the pleasure of being with you."

She clasps her hands together. "But you are with me," she says, and Eddie wants to laugh; instead, he rests his hands on the wall behind Waylon's precious head and leans close, backing her against it so that she is trapped and pliant. He tilts his head, and she parts her lips, expecting a kiss, but is greeted with a wave of heat when Eddie whispers into her ear, "I want to be with you intimately, my dear Waylon."

He moves to kiss her, to secure his desires, but he is pushed away by a pair of small hands and nimble fingers. "Darling?" Eddie says, dejected, trying to ignore the sharp knife of rejection stabbing his gut.

"I'm not ready yet," Waylon says loudly, crawling to the side of the bed with a bewildered expression on her face.

Ugly, Eddie thinks, her face is ugly like that. "That is true; however, I am willing to bypass that fact for now, my love. I have waited long enough-"

"But you promised to wait! You don't want this, Eddie. We can wait until I am perfect."

He catches her by the arm before she could launch herself off the bed and slip away. She hisses, that nasty look on her face contorting into that of a witch's, and Eddie's fist tighten around her elbow. "Perfection is impossible in the eyes of man," he retorts while yanking Waylon down on the bed and twisting her arm to render her immobile. Her cry is piercing, breaking some part of his heart, but it is not enough to convince him to stop.

Why does she reject his love?

"I understand that we are running the risk of impurity, but I cannot wait any longer." He says this forcefully, having to grind the words from between his teeth. Waylon is trembling under him, under his powerful hold, and he knows that he is hurting her – degrading and scaring her – but he also knows that Waylon has a rebellious streak and tends to not listen unless force is applied. So he hikes her arm above her head with one hand while wrapping his other hand around her throat. If he squeezes, he can almost close his whole hand around her – she gasps for air, eyes dreadfully wet, and Eddie stares in amazement as a single tear breaks from its confines and trails down her rosy cheek.

"Darling, I wanted to wait, I honestly did. But after almost losing you twice… What if you leave me before we can consummate our love? What if you get lost, or I'm attacked, and we never see each other again? Doesn't that hurt, Waylon? Anything can happen to us, and I cannot control that." He pleas silently, feeling his heart pound thunderously in his chest, and waits for Waylon to answer.

It comes after far too long. "But you can control this," she tries, her voice cracked and crushed under his hand. Eddie watches her carefully for a moment before a small smile pulls on the corner of his lips.

"Yes," he says, "that I do."

Beauty is a quality that comes from the inside, and not out. It took a while for Eddie to understand this. He tested this theory through many means, most consisting of unwilling participates and whores, while some were tried through willing sinners. Yet, no matter how hard he tried he could never recreate the beauty that he knew was existent in the world. Those worthless beings were nothing without his dazzling dresses and cloths; their wretchedness seeped through the fibers and inevitably twisted his masterpieces into works of demonic nature.

How can one find beauty in a world filled with ugliness? How can beauty prevail over vulgarity's devastation? He searched and waited for love's parsimonious hand to gift him with a moment of clarity; he waited for a moment of pure, grandeur beauty, and it soon it dawned upon him that this desire was drawn from naivety.

Beauty would evade him for all of his days, and no matter how hard he fought for it, love would evade him too. He thought this, believed this, and was on the verge of giving up when god sent an angel and gave him exactly what he was looking for.

He waited, and now everything is clear.

Waylon's mouth is gorgeous when it is spread wide around his cock.

Eddie is kneeling on the bed, hands holding Waylon's head still as he thrusts gently into her mouth. The warmth envelops him, guides his movements through a steady rhythm that falters whenever Waylon twirls her tongue around his sensitive head. She does it unintentionally, Eddie is sure.

Face tinted a deep crimson and cheeks stained by tears, Eddie thinks that Waylon is the epitome of perfection. She cries gently around him, her slight hiccups sending sensations through him that are unnatural. The pleasure is impossible. He pulls out of her mouth and moans at the feel of her lips giving way with a wet pop. She hiccups again and tries to lean back but Eddie's hands tighten in her hair.

"You know what I ask of you, Darling," he warns, pressing the tip of his length to her lips. Her eyelids flutter open momentarily before they close and she nods like a good girl, relaxing her reflexes to allow Eddie to push deep into her.

Is it sick of him to revel in how her body is fighting him? He twist his fingers and tilt her head up, giving himself more leverage to thrust into her mouth and watch her submit and choke on his girth. She gags and the reflex causes a wave of pleasure to rush up his body. Eddie growls and thrusts faster; her little noises are a melody unprecedented, rivaling that of even Mozart. An orchestra of delirious moans and gagging plays loudly in the room, reverberating off the walls and travelling through his workshop. It is all he can hear, can sense, can almost taste and he basks in it – drowns in the bliss of pounding into his love's open mouth and feeling her lips wrapped tight around him. He wants to yank her hair and make her jump, beg for him to fill her, leave her with her mouth agape and tears flowing down to her chin. He hears something akin to a whimper and presses further into her mouth, down her throat, before stilling.

Waylon tries to swallow but her attempt it fruitless: there's spit coming from the side of her mouth that drops to her chin. Eddie caresses her cheek with his thumb and whispers sweet nothings to her, encouraging her to hold still for a little longer, to be patient until he is satisfied. Foolishly, she tries to reply only to choke on his cock, but Eddie finds her effort to be endearing. His sweet, beautiful Waylon. He smiles softly at her when she meets his gaze, and after a moment of reluctance, slowly begins to release her.

She is quick to spit what's in her mouth on to the bed without sparing Eddie a glance. He allows her time to recover; he isn't in a rush. Taking himself in hand, Eddie strokes languidly, not focused of receiving pleasure but more so on calming his heart and bringing himself down from his high. He was close, and if Waylon had used her tongue like before he surely would have came relentlessly down her pretty little throat. But he has…more pressing desires that need to come to fruition.

Cocking his head, Eddie shuffles on the bed before snapping for Waylon's attention. The sound is like thunder in the silent space, and Waylon trembles under it. "On your knees," he commands. Her eyes widen in panic, body clearly shaking, and she looks completely ravaged; her lips are a bruised red and her skin tone borderlines pale, hair a tangled mess on her head. She takes in a shaky breath and Eddie raises an eyebrow. "I won't ask you again, Way-"

"E-Eddie, please," she says, not crawling away from him but clearly trying to put distance between them. She curls into herself and wipes her mouth. "I'll finish you with…with my mouth, but please, I'm not."

"You're only making this harder for yourself." Eddie narrows his eyes and straightens his posture, casting a shadow over Waylon that almost completely covers her. He reaches out to her with an open palm but she jerks away, breathing heavily, and turns around to run but he grabs her by the legs and hold her still, fingers digging into the back of her knee.

Waylon cries out in pain and shakes her head vigorously, twisting her body in search of leverage or release. "I'm not ready!" she screams. "Please, Eddie, please I don't want t-this!" She kicks, knocking the wind out of Eddie with one particular hit, but Eddie recovers quickly and strikes her thigh. She groans, burying her face into the mattress, and her shirt rides up to expose more skin.

"Waylon," he says in a deep growl and slaps her thigh again. Her skin burns brightly and she cries out, shouting something, wiping her tears on the mattress and wiggling to no avail. He moves to kneel between her thighs in order to spread her legs, and grabs her by the collar of her shirt, reigning in some of her fight by choking her.

Neglecting to strip her was a lack of foresight on his part; however, a sudden idea comes to mind and he wastes no time implementing it. Dragging her pants past her hips, he uses Waylon's struggling to tear them from her legs, baring her and the purple panties he gave her so long ago, and jerks one of her arms behind her back. It's difficult to accomplish while she is fighting him, but soon Eddie is tying a knot around her wrists, bounding them together, and then he leans back to examine his work.

Her entire body seems to burn with aggression, skin taut and muscles flexed, captivating in a way that should be impossible. His stomach flips in anticipation just from looking at her – at his creation – and who can blame him if he takes pride in her. Eddie's smile shifts into something twisted, a little more animalisticl, yet he is unconscious of it. All he knows is Waylon, and the burn in the pit of his gut is insatiable.

Waylon's scream rips through the air as he tears into her unprepared body. The stretch is forceful, powerful, and Eddie regrets moving in so quickly until his movements are eased by a thin, unconventional lubricate. He thrusts into her mercilessly; it is not so much about pleasure now than it is about control and shutting her up. He moans into her back, crushing her arms and bringing about pain that he knows settles into her shoulders. Her cries have reached an unacceptable level, he deems, so he tears her panties in two and shoves the pieces into her mouth. He pushes it as far as he can with his fingers and she gags around them, breath hitching, and body following the push and pull of his thrusts.

He loves her. He loves Waylon and goddamn it he needs her to feel his ferocious, draining, exhilarating love. So he pounds into her, twisting her arms and holding her in place with an arm wrapped around her waist. She is weak against him, like an exhausted and used doll, yet her voice is resilient. She cries, and he moans; it is a grotesque combination.

Eddie, beyond his better judgment, lowers his hand to grab her – to his surpise– semi-hard vulgarity. A surge of disgust rushes through him, but the throes of passion have placed their lethal grips on him and he is no longer in control of his actions. Eddie shoves her filthy shirt farther up her back.

"Waylon," he says through clenched teeth. "Say my name."

She moans in pain and shakes her head, tries to wiggle out from under Eddie but his grip is too strong. He forces her lips apart and pulls the bundle of drenched panties from her mouth, throwing them somewhere off to the side. Grabbing Waylon by her hips and pulling out until only his head is left inside, Eddie repeats, "Say my name."

"N-no-"

He thrusts into her harshly for her defiance, causing her to scream and writhe. "Say it," he commands.

Waylon gasps and presses her chest into the mattress. He is pulling out again to repeat his action when he hears over the slap of skin Waylon whisper his name. Smirking, Eddie pumps her now hard cock gingerly. "Louder."

"Ed…Eddie," she moans before a sharp shout escapes her lips.

"Again," he says, and she calls his name, louder this time. He's close again, feeling the need to release radiate from his groin to pulse up his spine and to his toes. It spreads quickly through his body, and soon his thrusts lose their rhythm and become erratic jerks of his hips. "Darling," he gasps and strokes Waylon a little faster.

She hiccups in what sounds like a sob before weakly calling Eddie's name. He kisses her back and thrusts deep into her, closing his eyes, and his mind becomes a blank space. She is burning, and her scent is intoxicating. He inhales deeply and feels her twitch in his hand as he thrusts into her, hitting something that causes her to yelp and twist her back. Her moan is delightful, so he aims for that spot relentlessly, nearing his end, and when she clenches around him and comes in his hand, he finishes not long after.

The lights flicker, on and then off again. The scent of sex is strong in the air, but he can't complain. Their breathing is the only sound in the entire workshop and absently Eddie wonders where Trager is. But that is a question for another time, especially since his thoughts are buzzed and Waylon has collapsed on to the bed. Gently, he pulls out of her and wipes himself clean with the sheets before undoing the pants tied around her wrists. Red welts decorate her skin intricately, like a work of art, and Eddie does not hesitate to trail his finger along the lines.

Waylon's hiss and grumble coaxes him to stop; he does so with a smile. Wetting his lips, Eddie places a hand on Waylon's back, more so tapping her, and she turns her head to look at him.

"Darling, I-" he starts, but then the words dissipate before he can speak them. Waylon is watching him now, tears welling in her eyes and body trembling, and although she looks so beautiful and he knows what he wants to say, he simply cannot. It is bizarre, yet it feels natural. So he settles into his lost of words and shakes his head. Instead, he waves Waylon closer until she is nestled into his side with her head on his chest, just like earlier.

The memory is a blur, but Eddie is convinced that he said "I love you" before the crash outside of his workshop dragged him back into the pits of Hell, and that Waylon, in her daze, whispered it too.

Chapter Text

"So you've finally decided to come, buddy? Huh?" Trager's voice is followed with another loud crash, like glass shattering, and a series of metal parts follow suit and slam against the floor.

Waylon clings to the back of his shirt tightly as he hastens his steps and round the corner, fuming down the hall toward the machinery room.

" Eddie," Waylon mumbles to the side of him, but he raises a palm to shush her, not caring to hear her or try to calm down when Trager is in there destroying something. The gall of the man—the audacity to ruin their consummation runs cold in Eddie's veins yet boils his blood. As if his innards are on fire, he feels extremely hot despite the knowledge that the vocational halls are almost always freezing. His hands curl into fists at his side. Walls and shadows shift and tilt as he half-jogs, the hollow thud of his feet thunderous in the vacuum of a hallway. It transforms into a pitch black tunnel where all he can see is the light from the room and all he can hear is the maniac throwing his stuff.

His stuff.

Eddie snarls as he enters the room, back straight and stiff as he rolls the sleeves of his sweater vest halfway up his forearm. He takes another step forward but Waylon's lack of movement holds him back, so he wrenches her hand off and shoves her away when she tries to stay. "I don't need you by my side," he says without sparing her a glance; instead, he takes in the disaster before him.

Many of the tables that had once stood erect are now turned over or are laid flat with broken or torn off legs. Clutters of fabrics, thread, and decorative pieces lie around the tables, some of the smaller ones rolling away and clanking into each other. Beside one torn table leg is a circle of glass shards and beads. Mixed in the mess are countless dented and broken sewing machines; a couple lie against the wall in shambles, with metal plates completely ripped off or hanging by a mere screw. And in the mist of all this stands one Richard Trager with a glint in his eye that screams murder and a sickeningly mocking grin splitting his lips.

The doctor's enthusiasm seems to spark when he catches Eddie's gaze. "The man of the hour has arrived!"

"You piece of shit."

"Harsh words for a sinner himself," Trager tilts his head. "What? Did I hurt your feelings?"

Eddie slams his foot down on one of the metal plates and sends it skidding across the room. "The complete disregard for my home is-"

"You were too busy fucking your precious Waylon to bother with me-"

He takes another step forward. "Don't you ever put my darling's name in your mouth."

"Or what, huh? You'd kill me, buddy?" Trager's expression darkens. "You wouldn't touch me."

"Watch your words before you regret them, Tra-"

"We had a deal, Gluskin!" Trager shouts and grabs one of the broken table legs. He digs his nails into it for a second before throwing it against the wall and reveling in the loud smack that resounds.

In his peripheral Eddie catches Waylon flinch, and a small part of him wishes to pull her to him again, but from the way that she is leaning on the wall for support he suspects that she'll fall if the contact is lost. No matter, because his focus needs to be elsewhere, and if the hostile aura radiating from Trager is ever directed solely on Eddie—which it very well may be in a matter of moments— he wouldn't want Waylon near.

Eyeing Trager cautiously, Eddie says, "What does our deal have to do with you destroying a part of my home? There is no reason for that."

"No reason? Are you," the doctor swings his head back and howls a brutal laugh. It's hysterical and raw, sounding more like a battered sob than anything else. "Are you serious? Our deal is the very reason why he's still here!" He yells, but his voice carries something much more piercing than anger. "You help me, I help you. That was the deal, but it seems like you're the only one winning here and I'm losing."

Trager's body jerks, the motion flowing as well as a haphazardly stringed marionette doll. The contortions in his body are grotesque and ill, emphasizing the jut of his ribs and hip, the long gash on his abdomen that weeps crimson despite the tight stitching, and the many tears and lines that mark his muscles. He approaches Eddie with false calm and presses his finger into his sternum when they're close enough for his arm to be bent at the elbow.

Trager's eyes hold betrayal. "I called for you."

"When?" He hadn't heard anything, nothing at all. Eddie tries to recall the doctor's voice but finds no evidence of this interruption; all he can hear is the sound of Waylon's sweet screams and ragged breaths. "You were gone for the past hour!"

"I needed you but you weren't there," Trager's voice drops. "You were too caught up in 'consummating your love' or whatever bullshit you call it to hear me, Gluskin. You don't… You disregarded me, you neglected our friendship—" Eddie scoffs, "—when he was right there. When we could have finally, finally gotten to him." The finger prodding Eddie's chest turns into knuckles before Trager pulls away and turns his body so that he is presenting himself to Waylon.

Spreading his arms wide, he lifts his voice as if talking to an audience. "Is this what you wanted? Is this what you were planning?"

"She isn't a part of your failure, Trager," Eddie spits while angling himself between the doctor and Waylon. "You didn't call for me, you weren't nearby. I would have heard you if you did so leave her out of this."

Trager bites back a growl. His voice is seething, ominous, and he punctuates each word with a pause, "You don't understand me."

"What is there to understand?" Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration before saying, "By god, we can go out later and look for him but that does excuse your blunt disrespect and-"

His words die as something suddenly hits his chest and lands in his free hand. He recognizes the shape almost immediately, rectangular as a base but with little knobs here and there and a screen that can be flipped open and closed. He is momentarily taken aback, images colliding in his head that paint their first encounter, but when he finally brings himself to look at the device in his hand he sees that the camera is merely similar.

"What is this?" he asks after a while. Though the camera is lightweight, it leaves his hand and head feeling heavy and swollen. He tries to remind himself that the device is just that, a camera that is irrelevant and not connected to anything, but if it was just so then why is it making his heart pound just a little faster?

He's unnerving himself, he knows, recognizes it, especially since Trager still hasn't spoken—or maybe he has and Eddie just isn't listening? Is that not what led him here in the first place? The world around him gives a warning shake and Eddie has to press his feet against the floor to keep from wavering. Between dry lips he repeats, "What is this?"

"He had it around his goddamn neck." Trager's hand clenches, about to close into a fist but he stops through the motion and flexes his fingers instead. "Somehow it fell, so I took it and," he pauses here to shift his gaze from his hand. Noticing Trager's silence, Eddie follows the doctor's eyes until it lands on Waylon.

Her back is fully pressed against the wall to keep her standing, for her legs are trembling and her skin is paling by the second. Fear clouds her eyes as she looks between them, and Eddie has no idea of what to make of it. He opens his mouth to speak, to ask her why she looks so afraid, but Eddie's words are caught in his throat and the weight in his hand grows more solid.

"Play the very end, and maybe you'll understand," is all Trager says, but the command is taken wordlessly and Eddie finds himself desperately curious and overwhelmed. So he holds down the power button on the camera to find that it was never actually off, and scrolls through the footage until he finds the most recent video.

The scene before him is of familiar whitish-blue walls that look like stone and metal doors. The world shifts and tilts too often for a clear picture, zooming in on one of the laboratory doors and then fixing itself after a couple seconds. It's as if the user is just checking the camera's functionality from how random the taping is, and that idea proves itself when thermal is turned on despite the hall being well lit. Eddie squints to lessen the intensity of the bright white light and lime green shadows. Soon enough, the thermal is turned off and the picture is back to normal, but the user is only focusing the shot on the hallway and Eddie feels a punch in his gut. He shouldn't have trusted Trager—the madman, the one who brought chaos to his home over his own, personal failure—to show him something useful, but in retrospect Eddie was giving him too much credit. He felt compromised and lost, and Trager's words had seemed guiding.

Eddie goes to close the screen but the hand on the back of his arm stops him. The doctor's look is earnest; a sort of pleading that is far from the word's denotation but fits Trager's expression perfectly. He doesn't necessarily want to obey the man's silent command. It feels like a power play or a shift in their dynamic, but the warmth that seeps from Trager's hand into his arm is disgusting, so he shrugs away and briefly catches the image on the screen.

Standing in the hallway that leads to the cursed Engine is Waylon; her eyes are wide, puffy, and tinged pink around the edges which announces past tears. Her eyebrows are furrowed up in concern, and she looks nervous. This must have been recorded when he and Trager were still in the courtyard, because when had he ever left her alone? He hadn't, and the realization causes dread to settle heavy in his heart and gut.

The camera moves so that it is no longer on Waylon but is showing the end of the hallway instead. Eddie recognizes the elevator on screen as the one he and Trager entered into at the church, and flashes of the events that happened in there realign themselves and connect like jigsaw pieces; fitting together in rushed, jagged ways that Eddie never thought to combine before.

Waylon had been down in the laboratory with Miles—who else? He stares at the footage and spots a few black, web-like tendrils curling in and out of view. Eddie told Waylon to stay in the church, but the church was on fire and the elevator was probably the first route Waylon saw. She didn't know Miles was down there. She couldn't have known.

Even so, why hadn't Miles attacked her, and why is she walking (rather closely) with him? Ignorance does not justify actions that occur after one's eyes have opened, and Miles had no obligation to not harm Waylon.

The pair comes to a stop in front of the elevator, and the camera is suddenly turned to Waylon.

"What are you doing?"

Eddie clenches the camera tighter. He watches as Waylon's mouth opens and close in a loss for words, the obvious fear on his darling's face rejected as Miles snaps harshly, "We have what we need, Waylon. I didn't tell you to get this damned camera just so we can sit and watch my misery together. We have to leave." The camera swings wildly as Miles turns sharply to enter the elevator but is stopped by some force.

"Park."

The name is said with so much filth and annoyance that it causes a spike of hatred to fill Eddie. For someone to speak to his darling like that is just begging for a slow, painful death, and if Miles was near right now Eddie has enough adrenaline coursing through him to try to strangle him to death. Yet, all of that dies when the camera stops shaking and settles on Waylon's face.

Waylon, whose godforsaken eyes are filled with desperation and horror.

Waylon, whose arm is reaching out to Miles, holding onto him, in what Eddie can only assume to be a sign for the creature to stay.

Waylon, whom is refusing to get into the elevator, the very elevator that would have led her straight to Eddie's welcoming arms, but isn't disagreeing with the idea of leaving with Miles.

Waylon, whom is staring at Eddie from across the room with her arms wrapped tightly around her chest and body screaming to be swallowed whole by the wall or floor, whichever comes first.

His eyes never straying from hers, Eddie powers off the camera and closes it with a snap.

"E-Eddie."

He hands the device to Trager and is thankful for the doctor's silence when he takes it and walks away, circling around one of the damaged tables in order to return to the spot he was in when Eddie entered the room.

Waylon, the poor, beautiful idiot, is backing herself into a corner of the wall. "I didn't mean anything by that. Eddie, I-I wasn't… I didn't even know who he was or," she draws a shaky breath. "Eddie I'm here with you n-now."

Stopping a foot or so in front of her, Eddie can see that every part of her is flinching and curling away from him. Her arms twitch and her legs tremble like jello; if he were to kick them they would give and she'd crumble to the floor. She'd try to fight and crawl and scream and run away but Eddie wouldn't allow any of that, he'd just watch and listen. He'd bask in her cries until she realized her stupidity and came back to him like a wounded puppy. Once she was calm again, he'd forgive her and kiss away the pain embedded in her bones.

But he isn't going to kick her. Walking is already hard enough.

Grabbing a fistful of the hair at her nape, Eddie yanks her head back until her throat is exposed and she is staring directly up at him. "Is that what you want to do, Waylon? After all this time we've spent together, you still want to leave me?!"

"I wasn't going to leave!" She cries and tries to lean into his fist to lessen the pain but he jerks her head to the right to fix that problem.

"Then why didn't you want to go in the elevator?"

"I was afraid!"

"And how does he know your name?"

Silence. Eddie squeezes her neck but she only groans and chokes on a sob. Her knees knock against his legs violently, and the longer he holds her the more he can feel her slipping. She tries to fix her stance, but traction is impossible to find and she is left struggling fruitlessly.

"How does he knows your name, Waylon, if you weren't planning on leaving with him?" 

She responds with a barely audible plea.

Here, watching Waylon weakly fight and wiggle, Eddie's feels the flame of anger die and fade into a sensation that can only be described as melancholy. He holds her for a moment longer, no more than five seconds, and then drop his grip and stare as she fumbles into the wall. Her body remains tense, but when nothing happens to her afterwards she opens her eyes and look at him.

Hesitantly, she whispers, "Eddie?"

"I want you to go find Miles again and bring him to the front lobby by tomorrow morning," he says while turning on his heel. "That's more than enough time, but accounting for your…walking situation, I'm giving you leeway." His heartbeat sounds like the steady drum of a hammer on a nail. Loud, regular, engulfing. Eddie kicks away all destruction in his path with lack of interest until he is passing Trager and heading out of the sewing room.

However, before he leaves he pauses at the doorway and says over his shoulder, "If you try to escape, I will find you. If you try to hide and not bring him to the lobby, I will not only eventually find you, Darling, but I will hunt you down like prey and hang you from the ceiling like all of the other whores. So please, for your own sake, do not disappoint."

 It all hurts so badly.

Collapsing to the floor with little luster or flourish, Waylon draws in his legs to act as a cushion for his pelvis. Although the pain has dulled some throughout the day, walking for god knows how long in the darkness while trying to be as quiet as possible did nothing to help the bruises on his body or, especially, the burning pain in his ass and hips. Nor does it help that he's been spotting blood on his pants or dripping down his legs; a sure sign that something is fucked up, but comparatively, this will heal while other issues may never be mended.

Sighing, Waylon reaches for the nearest shelf and grabs a dented can of peaches. It's fortunate how hobbling down a random hallway led Waylon back to the storage room Eddie decided to claim and fill with food. The room is mostly empty, but Waylon knows that it is probably the only place left in the entire asylum that hasn't been scavenged and contains food that is actually edible. It's a wonder he's still even alive with how long it has been since he's had a proper meal, but one can assume that constant adrenaline rushes and the fear of death can keep a person alive for much longer than if he were in normal circumstances.

Which brings him back to the predicament that he is in right now: Eddie…let him go. With a leash, Waylon supposes, but the idea of the very man who claimed Waylon as his own suddenly setting him loose does not sit well, and makes Waylon want to vomit the one peach he managed to swallow. It doesn't make sense. No matter what angle Waylon tries to use it simply contradicts itself—contradicts everything the Groom is—and leaves Waylon more flustered and disheveled than before.

Bring Miles to the front lobby tomorrow morning.

He has his orders, a mission with a threat of death, and the decision should be simple. Disobey Eddie and make a run for it with or without Miles. The preferable option is with Miles, since the guy is basically a demon and can probably handle both Trager and Eddie easily, but for some reason Waylon can hardly bring himself to dwell on that option. Yet, he also doesn't want to sacrifice Miles.

Feeling a wave of paranoia wash over him, Waylon tries to distract himself by scooping out another peach. It slides everywhere, slipping between his fingers when he tries to pluck it and at some point Waylon groans in frustration and pulls his fingers out. He sucks the juice from his fingers and then grabs the bottom of the can and holds it above it mouth, letting gravity do the work this time.

And since his eyes and mind are focused elsewhere, he misses the sudden haze that forms in the room and the mist that builds at the door, fumbling over webs of ink until a silhouette is formed and solidified.

When Waylon pulls the can away from his face, two possessed eyes are staring back at him.

"Why are you alone?"

Chapter Text

Waylon almost spits the peach juice back up and on Miles.

He chokes, the syrup lodged painfully in his throat and when it starts to go down again it feels warmer and tastes terrible. Placing the empty can by his side, he wipes his mouth and levels Miles a half-hearted glare. "Thanks."

"Welcome," Miles says. He looks around the room once more before asking, "Where's Trager?"

The question is expected and expectant, leaving Waylon falling back into the well of dismay he figured he could escape from for a while longer. But Miles' abysmal eyes are on him, and the scrutiny in them gives Waylon the feeling that the being already knows what happened. Waylon crosses an arm over his knees and, with his free hand, scratches the can's aluminum lining. He mumbles, "I don't know."

"How do you not know?"

"They-" he pauses, not sure whether to tell Miles the whole truth or not. He hasn't even cleared his thoughts enough to properly think yet. Drawing in a breath, Waylon says, "They sent me away for a while, said I needed to eat," he lifts the can and gives it a shake, "and sleep if possible. This is the safest place here and I'm sure they'll be back soon to check on me." That last part makes something in Waylon ache, and he tries to ignore it by biting his lower lip and focusing on Miles.

The man is still a mess of shadowy mist and revolving tendrils. Arms crossed, he stands above Waylon with an expression on his face that seems searching, as if he is seeing past him; the notion is enough to cause a small shiver to ripple through Waylon which he tries to hide. After what feels like an eternity, Miles raises his arm to his shoulder and points his thumb towards the door. "If that's the case," he says, "we better get moving then."

"Moving?" Waylon uses the back wall to push himself to his feet, hesitating on unsure legs before taking a step out. "I told you that Eddie and Trager will be back soon."

As he says this a burst of mist falls from Miles' hand to the floor. It bubbles there before the pieces flatten and spread, but not necessarily disappear. If he looks close enough he can pinpoint individual groups of black vibrating in place and sticking together if two groups are near. They're like small magnets, repelling on same ends and attracting opposites, and it seems as though some pieces are completely polarized while others, the ones not attracting anything, aren't.

Waylon is careful to avoid the bundle of mist when crossing the room and stops only a foot or so from Miles. He turns on his heel a little too sharply and scrunches his nose. "What even is that?"

"It's my essence, I suppose. I can attack with it, or leave it somewhere and it'll create a link that can be traced back to me," he forms a ball that looks like tar and throws it at the ground, where it shatters and then swarms back into his body. "If we leave we can easily find the room again."

He sounds very sure of himself, and Waylon wonders if he has ever used this skill before. Well, obviously, but when and why? If Miles is so powerful, why is he still here? There are vents scattered around the asylum, simple escape routes to the outside world; those could be his underground railroad.

Waylon eyes the being warily, his hips burning and toes curling, and makes a move for the door after Miles. Once outside the room he closes the door without a sound and huffs.

"Backtracking is wonderful and all, but what does that have to do with you taking me somewhere? I mean, I get that we can leave the room and return if need be but how will we know when to come back? I don't suppose you've set a timer." He scuffs the floor with his big toe and scrapes a line of crust. His face twists in disgust and he sidesteps until the floor feels smooth again, and glances up, catching a split in Mile's lips that reveal an outline of grey teeth that are more like canines, sharp and imperfect and lethal. They bear ugly and raw and Waylon feels something drop in the pit of his stomach as Miles turns to him.

The mist seems to thicken into armor. "I think you've seen the answer to that question."

And as quickly as it came, the moment flees. Miles' teeth are shielded by a wave of webs, and then the darkness begins to recede back into his body, thinning out the mist until it is a slight barrier between himself and natural air. He reaches for Waylon but his hand is slapped away quickly.

"Where are you taking me?" Waylon recoils, bewilderment clear on his face.

"What?" Miles, to his credit, doesn't try to touch Waylon again, but he moves closer while Waylon walks backwards into the hallway.

"You heard me, Miles. Where are we going?"

"I wanted to show you something. Why are you backing away?" He holds his palms out in surrender. "I'm not going to take you anywhere that would hurt you, if you're thinking that. It's a little surprise." Miles runs a three fingered hand through his hair. "Waylon, don't you trust me?"

It's a single word spoken to render Waylon frozen and fearful. Frowning, Waylon tries to widen the gap between them but his legs feel like jelly again and are extremely hard to move, so he staggers until the world tilts and the floor welcomes him with open arms, yanking his feet from under him and causing him to crash to the ground with the slam of his knee; yet even as the pain shoots right to his pelvis, Waylon's thoughts are trapped elsewhere—in the past, revolving around a raspy voice and four words.

In his mind's eye he sees a multitude of bloody scars marking the side of a face and sapphire eyes drowning in anguish and disappointment, but all of that is masked with vicious, overwhelming anger.

Waylon is snapped back to reality by the feeling of ice cupping his face. His eyes fly open as he jerks away, leveling his gaze on Miles when his heart's sprint turns into a steady jog. Although his body is in its human state, Miles' eyes remain a blur of mist and darkness.

"You good?" he asks when Waylon makes no effort to speak. After a moment the smaller man nods and moves to sit up. Miles follows his movement and then stands with little grace, possibly unbalanced from having his feet touch the ground. He holds out a hand for Waylon to take and helps lift him, even going the extra mile of holding Waylon's shoulder while the technician centers himself.

Once the wave of dizziness leaves Waylon and he feels as normal as expected, he nudges Miles' elbow (partially to disperse the tension in the air and partially to add an extra inch of space). "So," he begins, "taking a leap a faith… Where is this place you want to show me?"

As of right now, Waylon is sure that Miles does not want to harm him.

The realization comes suddenly, albeit unsurprisingly. They are like two seeds from the same flower; while their paths may defer they spring from the same place, and Mount Massive has treated neither with any more favor than the other. However, to place a label on their relationship seems to simultaneously understate and emphasize what may or may not be there. Waylon isn't sure, but he feels the oxymoron is sufficient enough since other words fail to capture their fragile bond—a bond which has been borne from circumstance and little else, linking them through the familiarity of normalcy, victimization, and alienation, because they don't belong in a place like this and were never meant to be here.

But fate…fate is an unreadable bastard that finds humor in placing people in dire situations and surveying their reactions. This place has been nothing more than test after test of will and psychology and to find someone like Miles here who isn't a part of the lunacy makes Waylon's lungs clench and his stomach twist and his thoughts race with treachery despite his most valiant efforts.

Somehow being with Miles takes away the fear and replaces it with—what Waylon would like to believe is—hope. Deep, resonating hope. It is unknown what the hope is for, but just having a sense of future quells even the darkest parts of Waylon's mind. He also knows that he is being extremely naïve to put his trust in a being that is as human as it is demon; it's hard to forget the fact when Miles' body occasionally shimmers and black webs hastily spring from his spine to hold his limbs in place, reminding Waylon that the form he sees is just a shell and beneath its casing is a monstrosity.

They roam the halls in relative silence. The only time Miles speaks to Waylon is to alert him of upcoming variants or to give directions. He remembers this area distinctly, having traversed in haste as another screamed for his blood and sang with a bone saw, becoming lost so many times that he could draw the floor on a blueprint. And it is because of those memories that Waylon picks up his speed, forcing Miles to raise a curious eyebrow and increase his pace until they have ditched the plastic-covered walls for wooden boards and Waylon felt safe enough to slow down.

The two enter a room that is riddled with busted computers, and as Waylon takes the corner he miscalculates his step and catches his hip on the doorway, sparking a bout of electricity up the length of his side. He chokes out a gasp and doubles over as Miles rushes to his side and places an icy hand above his waist. It stays there, carefully, until Waylon flashes Miles a small, troubled smile and takes a shaky step forward. He tries to forget curious expression on Miles' face.

After that incident, time seems to elude Waylon as he and Miles tread the hallways of Hell. One foot in front of the other, Waylon is careful to avoid putting too much weight on one leg or else it'll flare a part of his hip and make his entire pelvis ache; he's sure that he's not bleeding anymore, although, when his thighs occasionally rub together he can feel thin pieces of dried blood breaking. To have been brought so low makes his stomach churn and dread consume him, wrapping its crushing hands around his every thought. Depression swarms like a storm when he thinks about how he was defiled and taken with no reprieve or voice or power. It makes him sick. It causes his steps to falter and his body to go numb despite the way Miles keeps staring at him as if he won't notice.

Eddie did this to him; he did this, and he has been the cause of every single thing that has happened since Frank chased Waylon into oblivion — Eddie and his lurid gaze and smile, with half of his face chewed by toxins and the other half twisted in demented sincerity. Why can't Waylon just leave him? What's holding him here? He has since lost the fear of death and at times has welcomed its cold embrace because this, this running and hiding and lying, is more torment than he can bear. He shouldn't be able to bear; so why is it that just the thought of warning Miles makes his head spin and his gut twist? Waylon has no idea, which is why he remains silent and avoids Miles' questioning looks.

The block they have entered into is filled with movement and chatter as a multitude of variants crowd into groups or toy with themselves. Sunlight shines from three open windows and cascades over most of the room, but in the areas where darkness prevail the variants seem to meld into the walls and act as silhouettes. The sight is unnerving; he had noticed the asylum's degradation as days passed, but to see its effect on the variants solidifies the idea that he, too, must be no more than a broken shell. Waylon raises his hand and frowns at the grey tint of his skin and the dry cracks around his knuckles. When was the last time he's seen his face? He scans the room for a mirror and spies a piece of glass on the floor; it's a decent size and round enough so he could hold it without worry of being cut, but he loses bravado soon after noticing it.

It is when they come across two variants huddled together that Miles abruptly stops and Waylon has to dig his feet into the floor to avoid crashing into him.

Waylon sees the two variants and decides to keep his distance. "Why are we stopping?" He asks.

"They're talking."

Waylon makes a gesture to the rest of the room. "They're all talking. What's so special about…uh," his words die in his throat as he takes notice of what exactly the two variants are doing. They're sitting a few feet ahead of Miles and Waylon, bodies crammed into the tight space under a desk with one sitting in the other's lap to accommodate for the lack of space. The one holding the other variant is petting his head and talking into his ear, speaking of old times and peace as the other's shoulders shake and his head bows in submission. Voices too loud, the conversation travels far into the room but Waylon has a feeling that it is not meant for the ears of bystanders. And apparently the other variants have recognized this, too, for no one else is paying the two any attention — their solitude seems too deliberate for any other explanation.

Ditching his hiding place, Waylon moves from behind Miles' back to stand by his side. Quietly, he says, "What are you thinking?"

"It's strange." Not only is the answer clipped but it comes too quickly, urging Waylon to pry the full answer from Miles' lips. The being speaks before Waylon can open his mouth. "Someone else should be watching them, not just us. They're loud; that one is crying and the other is comforting him. I'd expect some other person to be laughing or watching them, but everyone's ignoring them." Miles crosses his arms. "They're even giving these two space. Why? When did they start doing this?"

Waylon lifts a finger to interject but stops himself, instead turning around to face the rest of the room and running his gaze over as many of the variants as he can see. Miles has a point. Where there is one variant idly sitting there is another staring at him, either in suspicion or boredom or some other emotion. And where there weren't any individual variants there was a group of three or four. They had all glared at Miles and Waylon when they crossed paths and then turned away once the two outsiders were out of reach, but no one came close to the variants huddled under the table. Distance was kept, and any sort of contact was lost. The air here felt heavy with understanding that neither Waylon nor Miles could grasp, so fault rested on their shoulders.

Shifting his weight to the other foot, Waylon forces himself to shrug and walk forward, determined to leave the mystery unsolved. "I don't know, but I don't think we should try to figure it out." He pinches his elbow. "You're supposed to be showing me something, anyway."

Miles hesitates to follow Waylon for what felt like an eternity (although it could not have been more than thirty seconds). They leave the room as quickly as possible, but the feeling of eyes upon his back stays with Waylon far longer than he would have liked.

He's been here before.

Déjà vu slams into Waylon like a freight train once he steps into the security room. Lined along the wall is a row of radios and intercoms, and each has a small monitor in front of it. The images on the screens are either blurred by static or a colorful display of liquid crystals, and at the end of the table an open notepad, blinking pager, and pen lay dangling off the edge. Beside him a wired telephone hangs off of its hook and he can hear a steady dial tone coming from its speaker.

The room is different, but that doesn't stop Waylon from seeing himself run to a working radio and listen to a voice announce, "Leadville police." Police. The room is different but it doesn't stop Waylon from tasting freedom on his tongue and feeling hope surge in his chest. He had been so close, so close, and then, like everything else, it all came crashing down. Down into the drain. Down into an uncertainty that is far too abysmal.

Waylon blinks slowly. He can feel his lower back ache in pain from how rigid he is, but he lacks the control to fix his posture. It's as if he is beyond his body, floating somewhere behind it so that he can see watch his body stand lifelessly and stare into a monitor's black and white static. If only his life was so simple — black and white — and not gray; if only Frank caught him-

"Waylon?"

As if he is submerged under water, Waylon hears his name being called but it is muffled. He tries to face the voice yet his body refuses to move. A dulled pierce of electricity in his hip is the only sign that he is still even alive despite feeling tremendously distant. The voice calls for him again, a little clearer now, but he still cannot turn his head.

Waylon listens to the voice tsk and then disappear into silence; after a few seconds, another voice sounds. It is rougher than the previous one, causing something within Waylon to shift.

"Goddamn it, Blair, this is Murkoff Delta Four. If you do not pick up right fucking now I'm coming in."

His fingers jerk at that name, and Waylon is suddenly pulled back into his body. The pain in his hip sharpens but he ignores it for now, closing the distance between him and Miles swiftly.

Miles smirks. "Welcome back to Earth," he teases. Frowning, Waylon eyes the radio's flashing number, 3, and taps its antenna.

"Do they all work?"

"Not sure. I doubt it, because they're all turned off and their screens are static, but this one had an answer machine built into it." Leaning closer to the radio, and therefore pressing against Waylon's side, Miles touches the play option. The number on the radio drops to 2 when the recording begins to play.

"Alright you fucker, I'm sending in troops. Hope your ass is dead for causing so much trouble." A door slams and is followed by a faint trudge of feet hitting the ground. A cacophony of marching boots ring loud until the commanding man on the radio comes back. "Heard everything about that Hope kid, by the way. Do you think it worked? Well, shit, must have if Alpha was shredded." The call breaks for a moment, and Waylon is about to switch to the next recording when a cough interrupts the silence and gunfire fills the space. "What the fuck did you do, Blair-"

The recording stutters to a stop. Waylon's hand hovers over the play button as he swallows and looks back at Miles, unsure of what exactly he's searching for, but whatever it is, it's not given, and Miles simply encourages him with a nod.

So they listen to the last two recordings in silence, Waylon's heart racing as guttural screams and gunshots echo in the small room. They listen to the man describe their battle and call for Blair, demand that he come and tame his beast. His beast, whom is standing at Waylon's side silently, eyes a pit of dark mist as thin, thorny webs crawl from under Miles' skin. Waylon can feel them wiggle from where his and Miles' arms are pressed and he wants to move away but is afraid that doing so would cause a web to lash out at him. So he stands there quietly, willing the recordings to end and for Miles to move so that he can breathe. Waylon prays for the gunshots to cease, and then when they do he holds his breath and waits.

Miles' meticulous retreat allows Waylon to exhale. He watches as the being, now levitating again, toys with every radio in the room without sparing Waylon a glance. Exhaustion is clear in the way his shoulders slump, so when Miles reaches the hanging telephone and places it back on the hook Waylon speaks up.

"How long ago was this?" he asks while picking up the radio and flipping through the messages. None include a time stamp.

"A couple hours ago," Miles says. His voice is back to that raspy form from when he and Waylon first met, but Waylon is relieved to note the decreased amount of webs twisting around Miles' arms. Miles narrows his eyes at a spot over Waylon's shoulder. "Happened before I found you."

Putting the radio down, Waylon says, "Oh… Is this what you wanted to show me, then?"

"No."

"No?"

The other man shakes his head before approaching one of the better monitors. Its screen is still overwhelmed by rainbow radiance, but there is enough clarity for a gray image to show beneath it. Waylon steps closer in order to decipher the blur of gray, and sees an empty car parked neatly behind a wall of Humvees. The red jeep stands out among the military vehicles, and Waylon can't help but ask, "Whose car is that?"

"Mine," Miles answers and Waylon almost laughs.

"You wanted to show me your jeep?" He holds his fist up to his mouth to keep from laughing. This is ridiculous. This is crazy. "You brought me all the way here just to show me your jeep, Miles? Really?"

Ignoring Waylon's incredulity, Miles presses his finger against the screen. "It has a full tank and the keys are still inside. Looks like no one has touched it."

"And what am I supposed to do about it?" Waylon asks. But his emotions are running faster than his brain, and when they finally catch up he shuts his mouth and stares wildly at Miles, fingers twitching at his side. He bites his tongue by accident but the pain is nothing compared to the shock coursing through his system. Shakily, Waylon forces himself to speak. "Are you…? Are you serious?"

"I could help you, fight off anyone who stands in your way. Once you're out there Waylon, you're free. No more Gluskin or Trager or any one of those insane patients." An aura of mist begins to thicken around Miles, but from the way the man focuses only on Waylon he must not have has noticed it yet. Even if he did, though, Waylon is sure the other's gaze would still be locked on him.

"But when? And where? All of the exits are locked or barred in some way. How would we even get out there?"

Miles must have thought of this, because there is no time for consideration. "The main lobby. Those doors should still be open from earlier, and I can help you get there. Once you're outside my car is right fucking there, it's grab and go."

Waylon swallows thickly as the clutches of dread find its way back to him. He stares as Miles pleads with his body, reigning in the webs even more to appear more human. Although the black aura continues to solidify, Waylon cannot see the demon anymore. He sees darkness that is masked by determination. He is too weak to combat Miles' energy, and the realization only serves to make a comfortable bed for despair to sleep in. He wants to speak but his throat is excruciatingly dry; agony shoots up his spine.

Waylon tries to wet his lips but fails. His voice is nothing more than a croak as he asks, "And what, what about you?"

An expression of pain takes Miles' face and Waylon has to close his eyes to shield himself from it. Even before Miles' explains his answer Waylon already knows: Miles is a product of this place, just as Billy is.

How to express how desperately he wants to say no? He'll be saying no to his one chance of escape in Miles' eyes, and that idea is ludicrous. Who would want to stay in this hell? But that's not the case, and Waylon knows it. He knows and knows and feels despair's teeth sink into his back and he clenches his eyes and opens his mouth to shout "Ambush!" He hears nothing because he screamed for silence. A violent shiver rakes through his body and spikes the pain in his hips.

He can feel tears building in his eyes and wants to scream for how horrible Miles' offer is. No, he doesn't want to go to the lobby — stay away, please, stop trying to save him because to do so is to bring death and just the thought causes Waylon's soul to cry. He feels tormented-

Dead, as Miles suddenly jerks forward and grabs Waylon by the wrist. The aura of mist extends out to wrap Waylon in a cold embrace that chills him inside and out. Dread is replaced by confusion, and Miles' must be able to feel his shock for he answers in a hush of breath, "Trager and Eddie are near. I have to get you back to the storage room."

Waylon chokes. "Now?"

Miles nods and pushes past the half-open door, his body beginning to shift and take Waylon with it. "Right the fuck now," he says, and before Waylon can refute his vision is being stolen by darkness.

Chapter Text

Somewhere along the way it has become common occurrence for the world to fade to black and for dreams to be snatched away by shadows.

Light does not permeate here; however, beams of consciousness shine in dull breaks irregularly, just strong enough for Waylon to grasp on to and ride until the abyss engulfing him takes over and demands comatose again.

He is not dreaming; this state is new. The darkness is not stagnate, but is shifting and active. He is aware of its movement without being able to see it; speed's relativity means nothing when there are no objects to compare it to. Trying to remember the events that led to his suspension from reality makes Waylon's temples ache and thoughts hum, so he stops trying after the first couple attempts. Now, he just sits in whatever mess of shadowy webs he's in and stares at the wall of darkness in front of him.

Webs. Darkness. Everything about this place is excruciatingly familiar, yet the knowledge evades him. He bites his lower lip gently at first and then harder until a sharp pain radiates under his teeth. Sucking in air, Waylon prods the small cut on his lip with his finger.

"Shit," he mumbles and hears about five echoes sound after. He looks around but sees nothing. He waves finds air, touches what should be ground and finds air, twists his body to face behind him and finds air; air is all around him but the webs and walls are still present. How? He feels cold - so very cold and immensely lonely. The wave of consciousness that woke him begins to slowly bleed back into nothingness. Waylon stretches his hand to touch its essence yet his fingers simply tread air.

His thoughts slow. The humming in his ears fades. In the far distance he can see a shadow, standing at the center of combining spirals of webs, but the image dissolves into nothing right as the silhouette clarifies.

This whore is loud.

Her screams fill the clinic in a cacophony which carries an uncanny semblance to that of a banshee's screech. She howls and claws at the bed's bare mattress, tearing its padding into long strips with frayed edges. There's blood pooling beneath her, squirting into the air, dripping off the side of the bed, coating the wall behind the bed's headboard, and the only thing that comes to mind is: where is all that blood coming from?

He watches as the wrench scratches her face until ribbons of crimson trail from her eyebrows to a fold in her neck; it settles at the base of her collar. Curiosity is a sneaky son of a bitch and forces him to approach the bed recklessly, and he's a few feet away from her outstretched hand when the wry of the drill moves from distant to right in his face. Blood flies on to his nose and Eddie jumps back, shouting and swiping at his face. "Why?" his words twist in disgust at the wet smear on his fingers.

"Stay away from the operating table, you contaminate," Trager waves the drill dangerously, jerking its cord and the wave wiggles the tongs in the power socket. Their attention is drawn back to the woman when she whimpers, and, in an unexpected show of mercy, Trager grabs a fistful of sheets and shoves them into her mouth. She tries to spit it out but he holds the bundle with a firm hand. He doesn't remove his hand until the only sounds she makes are sniffles, and then he pulls away with an apathetic expression. He flicks his finger and the drill starts up. "Bite on that if it gets too painful," he says before thumbing her thigh and starting the process over again.

Trager's precision is amazing as he drills into the festering hole between her legs. She's pink and ripe here again, like a baby girl, and the disgusting appendage that was once there is laid flaccid and useless below her naval. Why Trager is waiting so long to snip it off he does not know, but the doctor is moving with enough confidence to convince Eddie that he knows what he's doing. And it sure looks like it, with how the variant has stayed conscious for almost the entire operation with a minimal, albeit consistent, blood flow. There's so much of it, yet somehow she's still alive.

The doctor bends his knee and leans close to her opening, shutting the drill off and placing it on a nearby stand. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he points at the surgical tray. "Needle and thread, please," he pauses and then adds, "scissors too. Should be somewhere in the clutter."

Eddie wordlessly obeys and circles around Trager to the tray. Clutter is an overstatement since there aren't that many tools in the tray, just enough to have some scalpels and tweezers overlapping, so he finds the tools easily. Trager takes them without looking away from her, and when he begins to sew her closed the new woman moans and cries in pain, her tears and spit now staining the cloth in her mouth. Eddie stares as she manages to snag the corner of her mouth and follows the dribble of blood onto the cloth. It hits a wet spot and spreads like food coloring.

His attention is drawn back to the doctor when he notices Trager fumbling with the mutilated penis, pulling and twisting and folding it until the head disappears under something covered by Trager's shoulder. He steps closer, trying to see what the man is doing, and is immediately stopped by a sharp glare.

"Go."

"I'm not interrupting your operation at all by-"

"You're interrupting it by bothering me," Trager glowers. "Now go wait over there and leave me alone. I'll call you over when it's done."

"How much longer will that be?"

"I don't know, maybe sooner if you'd stop watching me. Now go." He shucks Eddie away and turns back to the surgery with a snap, completely ignoring Eddie's presence.

Shoulders dropping in resignation, Eddie stands there for a couple more seconds before walking away slowly to his seat across the room. He crumbles into it as the variant screams and picks up the pen; blue ink smears over the paper's corner and creates a blob right beside his sketch. The drawing is of an androgynous figure with arms outstretched. Lines are slashed here and there, accompanied by waves and spirals to create the outline and design concepts of a wedding gown.

The dress is strapless and has a low cut that drops slightly below the figure's shoulders. It flows down like water down the figure's torso, cupping its breasts that are like the plains of Wyoming, until the cloth reaches the figure's waist. Here the dress hugs the figure's hips and puffs out gracefully. Eddie imagines a gust of wind blowing the dress and draws quick lines to represent movement. He lifts the paper and looks it over critically. The dress itself is beautiful, a piece he actually wants to get started on right away, but the figure's faceless void is…off-putting. He taps the end of the pen against the paper and then lays it flat on the table. Ten seconds of quick sketching later, the figure's face is hidden behind a thin veil.

Petite frame, expressionless — cold — eyes, innocent preposition. He knows this figure, has felt its tug and drag and pull and shove. The veil covers its face but the essence remains; Eddie drums his fingers over the sketch, listening to the muffled cries of the variant and in the mist of it he picks out Trager humming a low tune. He sounds content, and in this moment Eddie envies him. He envies his lackadaisical attitude and appearance, his drive when the doctor finds something to tear apart and hunt. Eddie envies his ability to disconnect himself from all things except Miles.

Eddie supposes that it's the same for him; they parallel each other in how they have a single desire that's keeping them grounded. Similar in their hunt and dedication, however, the difference arises in the fundamentals of their motives. Trager wants to kill, whereas he wants to love. Trager seeks out vengeance and hatred while he fights for trust and loyalty.

And the more Waylon pushes him away the worse the deep depravity in his soul becomes. There's a pit in his being that acts as a black hole without consent, and the only time it's ever filled is when Waylon is by his side. When Waylon willing comes to him and the force of hand is unnecessary. He doesn't want to hurt her, but she's so…so…

The whore's scream pierces his ears and jerks him out of his thoughts. Metal clinks a few feet away, followed by the sound of wheels squeaking and skin clapping. Dropping the pen, Eddie looks up to see Trager wheeling away the cart with the surgical tray and wiping off blood on a dry towel. The doctor grumbles when the blood stains his hands, but he's undisturbed and shrugs his shoulders before turning to Eddie with a devilish grin.

Eddie doesn't wait to rush over to the bed and Trager's call after him lands on deaf ears.

He check's the variant's pulse and she winces at the contact, then, carefully, shuffles down the bed to her spread legs. His breath catches in his throat at the sight. Where there used to be a vulgarity is nothing more than a bloodied mess up empty space and a wide, gaping wound. Above the wound is a spongy bulge that can only be one thing poking out of a grotesque, circular hole, and Eddie's eyes widen in amazement.

His stomach churns, and although a harsh wave of nausea surges through him and causes bile to threaten his throat, he leans a little closer for a better look. The wound is disgusting, but in time it will heal. Scar tissue will close what space it can but the skin won't reconnect, and the spongy tip above it will stop festering soon, and the woman will be able to feel pleasure, he assumes — no, knows. Because Trager is grinning like a madman behind him and walking towards them like a god.

Eddie straightens and makes room for the crazed doctor to stand by him. He can't take his eyes off the expanse of the slut. "She's…she's alive," he stutters out with barely enough breath.

Trager crosses his arms. "Impressive, right? What did I tell you, buddy."

"You told me to leave you alone."

"I told you to trust me."

Eddie finally breaks away from the now unconscious variant after noting the regular, if not steady, rise and fall of her chest. He meets Trager's gaze and hopes the doctor didn't catch his hesitation. "I had to be sure."

"And are you?"

He focuses on a spot behind Trager's shoulder. "…Yes," he says, and flinches when Trager abruptly grabs his shoulder and squeezes. The man's grin is predatory, with sharp teeth and broken, mechanical glasses, and Eddie wonders when that look was first associated with comfort.

Trager tilts his head. "Good. I only ever asked for your trust, Gluskin. I would never intentionally harm your Waylon," he says and his eye glints mischievously, "without your permission."

"Your jest makes me wary," Eddie rolls his eyes and, surprisingly, finds himself leaning into the touch. The touch is familiar, warm, and consistent. There's no complication of secret motives, no hidden desires, no pain. And he now welcomes it with open arms. Like a parasite's host.

They spend the next few hours meticulously examining the woman, checking over every orifice and vital area, monitoring her pulse, breathing, and temperature. By chance they stumble upon a half filled water bottle and Trager is more than giddy to have the woman drink. She falls asleep soon after, which gives Trager the opportunity to wrap her hips and surgery without interruption. Eddie helps where he can; he follows Trager's instruction perfectly and soaks in all of the information like a sponge, storing it in the recesses of his mind in preparation for the promised day. Although they have absolutely no reason to, they end up cleaning up the blood from the work area, talking and making small, teasing quips the entire time. Trager mocks him for doting over Waylon, and Eddie chides him for chasing after Miles.

"You're relentless, Trager," Eddie says while wiping the surgical tools. "Like a moth to flame."

Trager glares at him from his place at the bed. "Says the one sending his precious 'darling' out as bait."

A slight of anger flares before Eddie can calm it, and he drops the tube in his hand for a long knife with rigid edges. The blade is dull enough for him to touch it, and he rests it in his palm. He speaks carefully, trying to force neutrality into his tone. "He tried to take Waylon away with him, and she almost went with him. My beloved is too…vulnerable; she would have caved to his command. Upshur needs to pay," he grits out, to which Trager chuckles.

"You give her too much credit."

"You don't know her."

"And you don't know Waylon as much as you think you do," Trager puts down whatever was in his hand and leans against the bed. "I'm not saying she's gonna run off with Miles — he won't be afforded the chance to even do that — but how sure are you that she will even bring him to the lobby tomorrow? How will she even find him?"

"She will because I told her to, and she needs me in the same way that I need her. She's just rebellious and slow to learn." He swipes the knife through a rag then flips it over. "Waylon is conflicted."

Trager snorts. "Clearly," he says and smiles when Eddie's frown deepens. "And what about finding Miles? You think he's so involved with her that he's going to seek her out or something, or that she knows where he is?"

"How did you know where to find him?"

The question makes Trager go silent, and Eddie takes guiltless reprieve in stomping him. Eddie begins wiping the rest of the knives until the blood on them acts more as a hue than anything else, and he is about to tell Trager to forget the topic when the doctor answers in a tired, perplexed voice. "I felt him," he says, and Eddie thinks back to earlier when Trager returned to his workshop.

Broken, distressed, hurt that he was left alone to face his demon without aid, saying that he could feel Miles. Eddie had stared at him in bewilderment and annoyance because he had been with Waylon, confirming their love, and Trager was blaming everything on him for it.

Can Waylon sense Miles' presence too? Is she drawn to Miles similar to how Trager is? He feels revolted just thinking about it, but to forgo such a notion would be idiotic. He can guarantee that Waylon will find Miles, but how she does is beyond him.

Eddie wipes down the last scalpel. It is no matter, especially when the end goal for both himself and Trager includes a dead spirit. So he shakes his head and places the rag beside the tray, now looking at Trager who is toying with his bone shears.

"It doesn't matter," he says and Trager's expression contorts strangely. So Eddie takes a deep breath. "It doesn't matter how Waylon finds Miles or convinces him to come to the lobby, because she knows who she belongs to and won't betray me. Not after earlier, at least, so I put my full faith in her," he clasps his hands behind his back and broadens his shoulders, and the overhead light catches the fire in his eyes. "You should too."

How does one kill a monster that seems to regenerate and has exceptional strength? Attacking it won't do anything, especially when it can just as easily rip throats out and shove itself inside bodies. Trager bears the scars of having battled it, and despite the fight being brisk and more like a confrontation the array of bruises and slices cross-cutting his body makes Eddie internally wary. This fact doesn't shake his resolve, though, so when Trager begins brainstorming on ways to destroy the creature Eddie is quick to join.

Miles Upshur must die, if not by human standards than by any means possible. And by doing so, Waylon will be his.

Completely.

He uses the knowledge as fuel, and with every tick of the clock the anticipation builds and furthers his bloodlust. He must look deranged right now but so does Trager; two minds will always work better than one so he doesn't complain when Trager decides to walk the halls of the asylum like scavengers, and Trager doesn't mind when Eddie takes the lead because he knows these corridors all too well.

It happens when Eddie leads Trager through two connecting rooms in order to enter the opposite hallway that had been barricaded at the start of the riots. The route is very familiar; he walks it often out of pleasure if not need, for it is a shortcut to his food supply and storage room. The darkness is so familiar here that he puts no effort into seeing the way and closes his eyes, tilting his chin towards the ceiling and humming softly to himself. Their steps create a steady rhythm in the silent hallway, and the creak of the floorboard serves to accentuate their music. Contentment begins to fill him, and he is actually beginning to feel calm when Trager suddenly stops and makes some animalistic noise.

The growl erupts from deep within his throat, startling Eddie into stepping aside and staring at his shaking form. The man bares his teeth in a snarl and, like the strike of lightning, pulls forth his shears and makes to sprint. Eddie catches him by the wrist by sheer luck and fights to still the man, yanking his arm back and grabbing Trager's shoulder with a firm grip.

Eddie can't catch Trager's eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

"He's here," Trager practically vibrates and shoves Eddie's chest. "Now."

"Miles?"

"We have to go now," is the last thing Trager says before he shoulders Eddie's elbow to break the man's grasp. He doesn't wait for Eddie to follow before he starts sprinting down the hall with his sheers held tightly in his hand. And Eddie doesn't hesitate. He reflexively pulls out his knife and runs behind Trager, tailing him all the way to the end of the hall and then right.

His heart is pounding in his chest; excitement and anxiety taste like copper in his mouth. The thrill is what makes the rush worth it, and he knows that Trager can feel it too, has to feel it, must be dying from how much it consumes it. And Eddie has stopped paying attention to his surroundings. He focuses solely on keeping up with Trager's maniacal howls and run, so much that he misses out of the shadows and twists in the hall that he claimed as his own. He misses the air that smells of himself; the atmosphere that has been created by his very own hand.

He misses the room that Frank Manera died in.

And when they swing the door to his supply room open, and Trager walks in with crimson in his eyes and blood in his mouth, Eddie almost misses the pale angel lying on the floor in the midst of preternatural mist.

Trager's sheers come down with a swing, and the scream that follows is shattering.

Chapter Text

"Trager stop!"

Waylon doesn't realize he's conscious again until his face slams into a row of canned goods. He inhales a choked gasp and clenches his eyes shut, gritting against the agony of rapid movement and sharp sensations. The once void of mollifying air has been replaced by aches everywhere, and it's all so much to take in in the matter of a second. Too much, actually, to the point where he feels like simply lying there for god knows how long until his body gets used to reality; however, the shouting and chaos behind him seems to have other plans.

Something, or rather someone, crashes to the ground right beside Waylon's foot.

"He was here! I could feel him, all of him, here. You felt him too!"

"If you don't get away from Waylon I swear-"

"Just wait for me to-"

"Trager!"

"Why aren't you listening to me?!"

Suddenly, Trager grabs Waylon's ankle in a vice grip and yanks him back, digging his nails into flesh hard enough to bruise. Waylon kicks at the man but he's too weak, mind and body having not recovered from the shift from comatose. Regardless of the futility, he struggles against the iron grip tightening around his ankle, squeezing skin and bone, sending Waylon into a blind panic because of his own weakness. He tries to kick again and succeeds in landing a blow to Trager's shoulder, yet the doctor's hold does not yield.

Another hand comes to grab Waylon's hip which sends a spiral of pain up his side.

"If you won't help me, then fine!" Trager is screaming now, voice hoarse from how torn his vocals are, delving deeper and deeper into rage. He tugs at Waylon's hips firmly, and Waylon is sure that he is going to be pulled back into the other's hold until the jerk never comes; it is replaced by a heavy weight barreling down on his back.

Trager is crawling over him, dragging his body across the floor, and Waylon's chest is being pressed down. He can't breathe like this, and the hand on his hip begins to claw at his side at the bruises and welts there, drawing out wave after wave of pain. "I need to bring him back," Trager shouts like a madman. "If you won't help me then I'll do it myself!"

There is a moment of tension – a pause that incites dread and fear into the soul of its victim – and then the calm gives way to the storm. Waylon is only slightly aware of the weight abruptly being lifted off of him three seconds after Trager had squeezed his throat with the intention to snap it in half; he immediately draws in his knees and begins to swallow as much air as possible, never mind how his stomach revolts and threatens to spill.

When he does finally look to see what had dragged Trager away, he is faced with a sight to behold:

A whisper of a shadow, warping around the forms of hatred that breed violence, the mist curls around Eddie's arm and spreads from where the Groom's grip meets Trager's throat. It spawns from the floor in a heap of tangled webs, reaching out like undead hands to grab at Eddie's feet and lick the soles of Trager's. The doctor is suspended in air, held up by the supernatural strength in Eddie's arm and the sight is so unnatural, so grotesque to Waylon. He swallows against fear and tastes disgust on his tongue.

"Miles," he says, voice nothing more than a broken whisper yet he recognizes the slight hesitance in the expanse of mist. The coils over Eddie's arm darken as more mist crawls over him, and Trager lets out a hiss of air. He kicks his feet in search of support but there is none.

Everything inside of Waylon's body is protesting as he slowly drags himself off his knees; he grits his teeth as he pushes off his thighs, ignoring the ripples of pain striking his hips and ass, a reminder of what may possibly be an injury but he can't think about that right now. He can't think about it because what takes precedence over the pain is the blank expression on Eddie's face — how his eyebrows and mouth may be contorted in rage yet his eyes remain void of emotion. Void of anger, sadness, pain, anything that constitutes as human and Waylon has become all too familiar with its owner.

This isn't Eddie, for if the being choking Trager was Eddie then its eyes would be alight with passionate fury.

"Miles, you need to let go of Eddie," Waylon says carefully, taking one step closer to the scene. His fingers are trembling so he balls them into fists. "You've done enough. Hurt Trager all you want b-but you can't use Eddie to do it."

The mist boils up from the floor, snapping at Trager's ankles and lashing out from Eddie's arm. Steadily, it begins to swallow Eddie's person.

Waylon takes another step towards them, wary of where the webs begin to stem from the floor, and lifts a hand in front of him. "This isn't what I want. Eddie was trying to protect me and you know it." Another step and the webs tag his bare toes before receding. He watches them squirm out of the way before moving closer. "You're just using Eddie and you know it."

"Bu-ddy," he hears Trager groan despite the way Eddie's hand clenches around his throat. The doctor is staring at Eddie with one eye half open, his entire body all but slack. He struggles to raise a hand to grab Eddie's, and Waylon expects him to try and wrench the Groom's vicious grip away but is surprised when Trager doesn't even attempt it.

There is nothing hostile about the way he places his hand over Eddie's as gentle as a surrender, layering his fingers over the mist covered ones in a way that makes Waylon feel his warmth, his care and camaraderie all in one motion. Trager tilts his head to rest on his shoulder, and actually chuckles, although, it sounds more like weak wheezing. The corner of his lips split into a broken smile.

Between heavy inhales and minor wheezing, Trager forces out a whisper. "Heh... You'd do anything for...for your Darling...won't cha?"

One exhale.

A tired laugh.

And then, his head drops.

The Walrider is a machine built upon dreams and nightmares; a physical manifestation of fear and sorrow and hatred, strong emotions that have the ability to either tear down or build. Strength is held within humanity's mind and heart, and the Walrider is a concentrated, physical form of that power — a being brought into existence by abysmal thoughts; a concept, or monster, drawn into reality.

He's afraid right now (he has always been afraid) but what else can he do? How does he control the power he possesses when he was never given the choice to even accept it? When his humanity and morality was completely stripped from him, torched away by the flames of death, and all that was left of himself was tossed into a smoldering heap of rich sorrow and confusion? To be a backseat driver to this...this being would be a blessing, but blessings don't come to demons.

So he followed the lead of the being he had taken over (the being that had taken over him) and did as it willed, never giving true consent, only saying 'yes' to the carnal needs it ripped out of him. It seemed as though he would spend the rest of eternity in this gritty hell without hope of change, but that was before the elevator to the lab ascended to higher ground and he felt the presence of a stranger.

There was an anomaly in the asylum — someone just the same as he once was — and to preserve it had almost immediately took priority.

The lobby. They just needed to survive until then and they could leave, escape, disappear from this place of deprivation and ugliness and live in the world of ignorance and joy. Normal, human life. Even if he could no longer divulge in its innocent pleasures he could aid Waylon in going back to it. Back to his home, his family, and so much more. So many little things that they had all taken for granted; life looked so wondrous when all one saw was death.

It was all he wanted, all that was feasible enough to desire. Why didn't Waylon want the same?

Miles stares at Waylon through the veil of mist covering his sight. He watches him from all angles, not yet having shifted from the mess of black essence into the form of a man, and moves his vision from various points across Eddie's body and the floor.

Something must be off with what he's seeing. This simply cannot be real, not with what has transpired between them, not with what had threatened his life only moments ago. But Waylon is right there, tearing at the mist and webs surrounding the Groom frantically, eyes blown in rage and fear and tears yet all the while determined to pull the older man out of Miles' hold.

Miles raises a few tendrils to prod Waylon away, but the younger man lets out a guttural growl and grabs them from the air, breaking them off from the rest of Miles' body. He shifts his eyes to see Trager's frail body fall from his grasp to the ground, crumbling in on itself like a rag doll.

"Eddie, please come back!"

Miles feels another fistful of himself being torn away and jerks from the pinch, inadvertently giving more leeway for Waylon pull at the edges where his webs and mist meet the Groom's skin.

Like a caged animal Waylon claws at the mist furiously, digging into as much as possible so he can expose at least some of Eddie's skin, crying out for him as he does so. "You can fight this-" He says, a hiccup interrupting his words. Waylon fumbles over his own tongue to regain control.

"Can't you hear my voice, Eddie? I know you can hear me. I just need you to-to answer me, I need," he slaps a waning tendril away and lets out a howl of agony. But Miles wasn't trying to hurt him, so why does he sound so pained?

Miles retreats some of the mist back into himself, just enough to show the pale skin of the man beneath him, and feels something strange bubble to life as he watches Waylon's expression contort in relief. The young engineer wipes at a stray tear before cupping Eddie's cheek, unbothered by the expanse of scar tissue there. He caresses the mist over Eddie's face slowly, rubbing a soft circle over the man's scars, and then scratches underneath its surface, carefully prying it piece by piece off of Eddie.

And Miles, despite his immense strength and supernatural ability, is helpless to do anything but watch. He watches as Waylon gives himself to saving Eddie the best way he knows how, self-preservation thrown out the window for Eddie. The same man who chased him through the asylum and forced his love upon him; the same man who tortured men due to a misconception of women.

Eddie Gluskin, the one who lived downstairs, the one you avoided, the Groom. Miles was going to lead Waylon to safety but Waylon had never intended on going – he couldn't have, not with the desperation and anxiety pouring out of him in this moment. Waylon wouldn't have been able to leave with Miles even if he had wanted to. Even if Miles had forced him to, the joy of life that Miles so desired to feel on his skin again would not have come. It would have died, along with any remaining thread of comfort Waylon felt in his heart.

The strange feeling welling within him surfaces once more and this time he allows it to consume him, to mask the humanity in his being and take over the mist and webs and darkness that have come to life around and through him. Miles feels the mist being dragged back into him; it slithers from Eddie's arm and legs back into the bundle of black on the floor and coils from the cooling body of the doctor.

Retracting, compacting, and then solidifying, Miles opens his eyes to find actual eye sockets and the lack of a mist barrier before his eyes. He examines every limb he wiggles, wary of phantom sensations, and then trails his gaze to the pair now kneeling on the floor.

Despite being exhausted, Waylon holds Eddie up by his shoulder and cries into the crease of his collar, his choked tears breaking in a combination of disbelief and solace. While Eddie may not be conscious yet, his hold on Waylon looks to be somehow aware and strong, as if his body knows to hold on to the other.

Miles shifts his gaze to the battered doctor behind him and simply blinks when he sees the man's chest rise.

"Miles…I don't think I can do this."

The way Waylon says his name is beyond grief and submission – it is a heavy burden that falls off the younger's tongue with a thud. Miles does not approach Waylon when he turns back to him; instead, he stands as still as a statue, a small part of his mind willing himself to disappear into the room's shadows. He reigns in his essence to appear more like a man.

Waylon shakes his head and focuses on the floor, hesitating to continue, but then he squeezes Eddie's shoulder and lifts his head. The gleam in his eyes is reminiscent of Eddie's own striking glance, as if the fire had transferred between the two.

"I have nothing to do with whatever is going on with you and Trager, but I know that I can't…do this." Waylon pulls himself closer to Eddie and gestures out with his arm, eyes widening in a frantic manner. "I can't stay in this place any longer. Not with those patients, or the darkness, or Trager, or you-"

"I wasn't trying to make you stay, Waylon!" It wasn't his intention to yell, or to take a step towards them, but that sensation inside of Miles is simmering again and he doesn't understand. "We were supposed to leave, Way. You and I, together, walking away from this fucking hell hole-"

"And what about Eddie?"

"He sent you away to find me so he could kill me."

"You were going to kill both him and Trager if they tried to stop us," Waylon exclaims and slaps his palm against the ground, the thud ringing like thunder. "You possessed them, Miles. Eddie wasn't even himself when you made him choke Trager! And is Trager even breathing anymore? Is he dead? Do you even know?"

"He's alive."

"Because I was there to pull you off of him," Waylon says.

Miles rakes a hand through the mist surrounding his head, sighing in annoyance and exasperation. "What does it matter to you, Waylon? Why do you care if they live or die when they're the ones who have been torturing you since you came here? Why can't you just leave it all behind like you say you want to?"

Flashbacks to his recordings filter through his mind; memories of dread and waning hope fill his heart. Miles remembers the wave of maniacal freedom he felt when he watched the Walrider crawl into Chris Walker's skin. The joy of seeing his nightmare end. The terror he felt toward this creature briefly alleviated before it came after him. The thrill of knowing that there was an end to this place somewhere in the not too far distance.

It had all been taken away from him, but Waylon had so much more to hope for.

And perhaps the man knew it; perhaps Waylon tastes the dream of freedom on his tongue right now and that is why he's refusing to let Eddie go. Because Waylon knows, just as well as Miles does, how feeble hope is, and that this may be the last inkling of it that any of them may ever see. And if Miles places himself in Waylon's shoes, if only for a moment, then he'd be able to understand, too.

Oh, how the broken scramble to mend each other.

Miles expels a ripple of webs from his hand to slither along the floor opposite the pair across from him. He wants to do something, anything, say what needs to said, but the words and actions elude him. Frustration radiates from him, and Waylon must have picked up on it too because he is gradually sinking further into Eddie and away from Miles, his once intense stare now completely docile and cautious.

The creaks and echoing groans that have become background noise within the asylum are quiet now, nothing but a mere whisper in the storage room they are wallowing in. While Miles can sense the presence of others, the prickling sensations are dull and negligible which only serves to add to the lonely atmosphere beginning to dawn upon him. It would be an easy escape to simply fade into a dark shadow and seep into the depths of the asylum that way, away from the disarray of the three men before him, but right as he begins to disappear he sees Eddie shift from Waylon's arm.

The Groom blinks rapidly as, Miles presumes, he comes to terms with being in full control of himself again. Eddie must be groggy from the way his gaze looks glazed over and he pats his scarred cheek, while Waylon remains quiet and still, acting only as a loose support. Some time passes like this before Eddie finally sees Waylon.

"Darling?" he inquires, awestruck. "What are you doing- Are you hurt?" Eddie goes to check Waylon's chest and sides but the man grabs Eddie's wrists to stop him. "Did he hurt you? Please, I need to know."

Waylon gives a sad smile before saying, "No, I'm fine. Nothing is in pain."

"Where is he?"

"On the floor somewhere over there," Waylon answers and flicks his finger in Trager's general direction. He doesn't care to look for the doctor, especially not with Eddie's almost-panicked movements. Eddie is scanning the room while still relying on Waylon for support, his eyes darting from corner to corner, only briefly pausing on the abnormally dark silhouette standing in front of them. He must still be a little dazed since he has yet to mention it, which Miles is grateful for.

After adjusting their positions so that Eddie isn't bearing all of his weight on his arm, Waylon chances another glance at Miles. Their eyes meet in mute understanding, contemplation crossing Waylon's features before a wall of wavering determination takes its place. He breathes, and Miles can feel his breath ruffle the air around them.

"I refuse to waste away and die here," Waylon begins, and although he puts up the pretense of speaking to no one in particular Miles knows that the words are meant for him. "This place, this hell, will not become my grave; or yours, or Eddie's."

"So what are you thinking, then?" Miles asks without thinking of the way his form shimmers in mist and webs. Because he can already see it: the sun, the sky, the light that shines from heaven.

Eddie frowns up at Miles and moves just a little away from him. "Darling, you do not mean with Upshur in tow," he reaches for Waylon's hand, "do you?"

And Waylon squeezes his tightly. "I promise this will all be over soon. We just need to get to the main lobby."

Chapter Text

This form of symbiosis is volatile, yet somehow, someway, it has become a part of him. Drilled into his thoughts, hammered into his mind, carved into the very fabric of time-space that seems to have left him months ago. A pinprick image of a ghost of a smile wafts past his vision and he turns his head to chase after it, only to find that it never existed.

Eddie ends up trailing behind Wayon as they tread through the hallways, his gaze shifting from the slim back of a broken man to the gorging shadows that flit about. The darkness isn't as threatening as it once was, although it is still rather consuming, and he wonders if he's become so accustomed to the lack of light that he's now a shy away from being nocturnal. It wouldn't be too much a stretch, considering how long he's gone without proper sunlight.

It is a wonder how tides have shifted since that fateful day waking up to white lights and a beautiful nurse, tethered down to a soft bed. The eccentric patient with an ill tongue and sarcastic mannerisms, who looked upon Eddie and saw a distorted reflection, a prodigy, and a master whose skill needed sharpening and growth. Eddie allowed himself to be taken under such a strong wing because what other choice did he have? Was there even one to begin with when the prosthetic eye staring down at him was filled to the brim with unspeakable pride and ambition?

Who is to say? Whatever the reason, despite what was most logical, Eddie had followed Trager with no quarrel and accepted his guidance with a skeptical openness. It was interesting, to say the least, and what had started out as companable mutualism changed into an honest friendship; inconspicuous, like a thief in the night.

Like his favorite parasite, and it was good, until another anomaly forced itself upon him.

An angel, pristine and blinding and so pure, lost and weak inside his home. Abiding by no hospitiable manners, she ran about blindly and hid in places that no girl should have been. And oh, did she shine much too bright to be camouflaged. He couldn't contain himself. He needed her in the same way that humans need oxygen or a barren wilderness needs sunlight, and she was his star. His one and only glimpse of hope, his radiant being, his angel, his darling, his -

Waylon limps when she walks now. Her gait is hardly noticeable, but he's been staring at her back for the past few minutes and can make out the slight twist in her step when she has to put weight on her hips. Sprinkles of dried blood create little freckles down the inside of her ragged pants, trailing from her womanly place to the back of her knees. Eddie wonders if she's bleeding now; he can imagine the crimson driblets creating a tree of life, marking her thighs with a reminder of what passionate disobedience causes. And he wants to reach out and touch her, dig his fingernails into the stained flesh, but he resigns his hand to stay at his side and allows Waylon to gain half a step. She must have noticed his reluctance because she glances over her shoulder at him, but Eddie just flashes a smile to reassure her.

They continue this way for what feels like hours, Eddie keeping a certain distance from Waylon while she leads him to the exit. Walking through the many halls like this reminds Eddie of how much of a labyrinth this asylum truly is: almost all direct paths to and from have been either barricaded or completely destroyed, and without reliable electricity most of the elevators are shut down. Overhead lights dangle from the ceiling and flicker with fading light, and a few times they even have to climb over makeshift steps in order to crawl through the air vents (those took a lot longer to get through since Eddie is so broad in comparison to Waylon). Then there are the variants.

Eddie eyes one closely as they walk by. The variant is hunched over with its back against the wall and face to its knees, wailing about something unintelligible. Loud, grating cries scrape at their ears, and Eddie covers the distance between him and Waylon to have her closer to his side.

Waylon angles their stride away from the variant. "I don't think he's going to-" she starts, but then fades off when the variant lifts its head. Tears roll down its cheeks and puddles in its lap, the streaks glistening in the dim light like a waterfall. Its eyes are more bloodshot than Eddie's own and its cheeks seem to be nonexistent by the sullen way its skin stretches over bone. Its eyes lock on Waylon, so Eddie nudges her further and glares down at the variant.

It meets his stare with a deep set scowl and a growl that drags itself from some crevice within its throat. Eddie shoves Waylon a little too hastily and commands, "Just ignore him, Darling."

"You think you can escape?" the variant hisses, eyes widening and teeth baring from its raw lips. "Think you can leave…"

"Don't look at it."

"You can't escape. Even if you leave you're still tied here," the variant drones on. His voice is a wave crashing against the hull of a ship, relentlessly thrashing despite what the captain does. It is the coo of a desperate ghost, and Eddie's defenses are weak enough. "Resistance is futile, Gluskin. You're the Groom, and you always will be." He crackles with choked laughter, gurgling on either spit or blood. "Leaving will serve you nothing."

You know nothing, Eddie wants to retort but instead he bites the inside of his cheek, chewing the flesh to keep his tongue tied. They don't have time for this, not now, not when these mangled creatures are meaningless. So he stares straight ahead and keeps his stride, trying to ignore the snickers despite how loud they are. Echoing in the pregnant quiet of the hallway.

"Run, Gluskin, run. But no matter how far you go you can never escape. So just run...run while your little legs can."

"Just ignore him, alright?" This time it's Waylon who draws Eddie closer. The Groom raises an eyebrow at her as he allows himself to be drawn closer, and Waylon locks their arms together by the elbow. Although she does not meet his gaze, he can see the tension melt from her features once they enter a small opening with a staircase and proceeding elevator shaft; the sound of choked laughter and mockery is merely white noise here.

While the room itself is well lit, the staircase is shrouded in messy shadows. It's the first sign that clues Eddie in on what's to come.

Waylon fidgets at his side before stepping away toward the staircase and stopping at the top stair. She peers into the darkness for about a second before crouching and resting her arms over her knees. "Do you sense anything?" she asks the air, and for a while there's no response. No shifts in the air or mist surging from the mass of darkness, and Eddie finds himself flexing his fingers impatiently.

He's about to tell Waylon to move on when he sees a single web uncoil from the waving shadows. It stretches over Waylon's head and begins to branch out into smaller tendrils, linking together in the shape of a skull. Eddie rushes to Waylon's side right as the mess of webs takes on the form of a man.

Miles refuses to look Eddie in the eye. "No distinguishable heat signatures coming from the lobby that I could feel. It looks all clear."

"What about those men from the recordings we heard earlier? Where are they?"

There's a beat of hesitation where Miles appears ashamed, as if hashing out his words for the best phrasing, but it passes without consequence. "I didn't sense any heat signatures at all...You'll see when you're down there."

"Oh," is all Waylon says, yet somehow that one word bears the weight of a mountain. Even without being able to truly empathize, since the lives of those lost carries no relevance to him, Eddie can feel the regret coming from Waylon, so he lightly strokes her back in an attempt to comfort her. He smiles when he feels her relax into the touch.

Miles drags them out of their moment when a sharp, "I'll do one more scan just to make sure there aren't any patients to interrupt us, Way. You two can just wait up here before I-"

"No."

If Miles had an actual face, Eddie is positive that he'd look shocked. A spiral of webs whip out with a snap before Miles asks incredulously, "What do you mean?"

"You said that you didn't sense any heat signatures while you were down there, right? Well, I trust your judgment," Waylon slowly begins, her eyes cast down while she speaks. She is hesitant and calm, as if offering a tribute. "I want this nightmare to be over with already. I'm ready to go, and I don't want to wait any longer." A billow of striking blue, cresting over dark pupils, surge up to claim not only Eddie's gaze but his lungs, snatching away any air he had stored. They hold contact and then move on to strike a hole into Miles' abysmal stare. "So we're leaving. Now."

A declaration, bold enough to convey its finality. Waylon clenches her fist as the last trumpet sounds. "Thank you, but you don't have to worry about me anymore," she says, right before immersing herself in the tide of murky shadows and webs.

Miles splits himself for her, shredding his webs into pieces to allow her space to walk down the stairs without interference. Forlorn mist dissipates into the railing until all that is left is Miles' morphing figure. Neither man nor creature, Miles fades into the ghastly silhouette of the original Walrider, more mist and webs than anything else, and Eddie finds himself growing less comfortable by the minute. He makes to slip past Miles with a passing glance and catch up to Waylon, but the being grabs his arm before he could make it.

Eddie shrugs off Miles' freezing hand and fixes him with a frown. Thoughtfully, Eddie palms the bit of webbing that makes up Miles' shoulder and isn't surprised when it immediately gives and disappears.

"You can't leave from here, can you?" he asks, although he doesn't need an answer to already know it.

Miles makes a face that resembles a grimace and the mist around him stiffens. He doesn't answer, so Eddie continues, "What happens to you once this place clears out and there's no one left? Do you just...disappear, or roam the halls despite nothing being left? How would you exist after...everything?" Eddie inquiries without pause, delving into questions that surely neither of them know or understand. How does a supernatural being created from rage exist without a source? And what happens to it once its host's body rots away? Are the spirits of the Walrider and Miles forever inseparable, or is this fragment of Uphsur only present because of the creature feeding off of him?"

He isn't sure, but can make an educated guess from how Miles seems to simultaneously shrink into himself and boil with loathing.

As for Eddie...he feels no sympathy.

Pivoting to face the staircase, Eddie hears a low grumble: "I'm not alone here, Gluskin, and don't forget that. The person who deserves to be free from this place is Waylon and you know it. I'm just here to help him along the way."

Eddie huffs out a bout of humorless laughter and raises a hand in farewell, his knife somehow shining in the darkness. "And on that, Upshur, we can agree."

Somebody's been telling stories outside of class.

There's a security guard dead on the floor, his hat and hair matted to his forehead from dried blood. The laceration on his face is still raw, with blood gradually trailing out, but what's there is not fresh since his heart stopped a while ago.

Somehow dumb enough to think that a borrowed laptop, onion router, and firewall patch would be enough to fool the world's leading supplier of biometric security.

There's a forgone battery laying beside some wooden boards and tanks, and a document with a bullet hole through it that reads: "This is the gift of the Walrider. The Gospel of Sand."

Stupid, Mr. Park. More than stupid, in fact, that was crazy.

It's bright outside. Naturally so, an orange glow that has been missing from his sight for who knows how long. He can feel its warmth, taste the heat on his tongue, and just imagining it sends a shrill down his spine. His heart beats to the melody of his feet, his steps quicken, his eyes widen, and he wants to fall into a sprint just because he can. Because it's right there in front of him.

Waylon Park. You couldn't just…

Sunlight. Sunshine. The light of early dawn.

You couldn't just keep your mouth shut.

He wants it.

Do me a favor-

He needs it. So he pushes himself forward and begins to jog, gaze set on the sky that he had almost forgotten.

And die here, Park.

"Mr. Park. How the fuck are you still alive?"

Waylon stops dead in his tracks, freezing so suddenly that his stomach feels as if it's plummeting into the ocean. Ice grips his lungs so he gasps for air, but the intake is too quick and he chokes on it, coughing out all that was in him and only winding himself further. Why, for Christ's sake, is this happening?

Waylon jabs his chest to get the rest of the cough out and then straightens, forcing himself to meet the man kneeling against the exit door. Jeremy Blair is bleeding, but there's enough determination in his eyes to suggest capability.

"Let's...make a deal," Blair continues, his head tilting in an unnaturally soft way that poses less of a threat than Waylon would have assumed (it's like seeing an injured lion after witnessing the strength of its jaws). "You help me, I'll help you."

Waylon refuses to move.

"God, I'm stuck like a pig," Blair mutters lowly while trying to adjust his position. He's..squirming, leg giving out whenever he tries to push himself up and the blood seeping from some hidden wound seems to make him lose his grip. The wound must aggravate him when he twists a certain way because he grits his teeth and groans every two seconds. Waylon wonders if Blair was shot during the raid earlier. Regardless, Waylon finds it pitiful to watch, tortuous even, to bask in the grief of another. Waylon's stomach lurches and he takes a step forward by accident, but Blair views it as an invitation.

He reaches out a hand, spitting a bit of blood out from the corner of his mouth. "Help me up. Please."

And like a fool, Waylon feels compelled to do just that.

There's a crisp slice of air, and then Blair's voice is bellowing right into his ear. "Fuckng die already!"

He doesn't realise that he's become a human sheath until the knife is buried deep into his side, and he doesn't realise that he is not alone when this happens, either. Both are important factors, but right now the intense agony splitting his abdomen in half overwhelms any ability he has to survey his surroundings.

It burns, dear God it burns and Waylon cries out as he steps back, side twisting in on him but doubling over only sends the knife deeper into his flesh. Waylon's hands twitch and shake at his side to do something, but mustering up the energy to even touch the knife feels impossible. Acrid acid crawls up his throat and he coughs it onto the floor, gasping, blinded by tears. Waylon moans weakly and tumbles forward, forcing himself to finally grab the knife's handle. His vision creates a blurred image of Blair standing over him.

"No one can know!" the madman screams, holding his own side and dowsing his fingers in red. "No one was supposed to know, Park! But you ruined that!"

Waylon's mouth hangs open as he tries to steady his ever quickening breath. Panic courses through him like venom, gripping every movement he makes, no matter how minute, and sending it straight to his brain as pain pain PAIN. His eyes roll to the back of his head for a half second before he forces himself to blink and follow the lucid form of Blair. Who, as Waylon focuses on this, wavers in his own stance and almost crumbles to his knees.

Blair just barely manages to miss the knife when he kicks Waylon in the stomach, flattening the younger man on to his back and stomping down on his sternum. A brutal twist of his heel has Waylon wheezing and clawing at his ankle. "If you had just played along then none of this would have happened, you know? I wouldn't be here bleeding," Blair emphasizes with a wet cough and a splatter of warm blood, "and you wouldn't be under my foot about to die."

Blair raises his foot for another stomp but this time Waylon is prepared to catch the assault. Waylon's palms take the brunt of the impact, but the sharp edge of Blair's shoe falls short of cutting him open, allowing him an opportunity to yank Blair's heel away and roll onto his side. A sharp, white-hot crackle of searing heat shoots up from the wound almost immediately, and Waylon realizes that he turned on to the side with the knife.

"Shi-it," he groans, saliva falling from the corner of his mouth as he finishes the flip and pushes off the floor. He crawls - a low crawl that should be considered more of a slither with bending knees - desperately toward the door, clenching his eyes shut against bright sunlight while allowing it to guide him forward. An accidental brush on the floor wiggles the knife and Waylon bites down hard on his tongue to keep from crying.

"Ah, fuck," he grits his teeth, gripping the tile painfully, and bites back another moan, "hnnn."

Behind him, Blair stumbles upright and pierces Waylon's back with a glare and bared teeth. Dark purple splotches line his cheek and temples from where he fell, and a bit of blood trails from his nose. "You're dead!" he screams, and Waylon's heart skips when he hears the tell-tale smack of shoes on tile. He closes his eyes then, preparing himself for a blow that will probably make him vomit.

The air stills, and then a surgence of immense energy fills the room and collides with mass.

"Grah! What the fu-" Waylon twists his neck to see Blair being propelled into the air by vicious tendrils and mist. They pull at his limbs and cover his mouth, clawing at him with preternatural force that has Waylon both wincing and staring in disbelief. Grabbing hold of the knife in his side, Waylon rises from his knees to sit back on his arms.

When the mist moves from his mouth, Blair screeches. "Oh, God! Oh, Christ in Heaven! How did it get out?" He fights the mist but the more he moves the more tendrils come to restrain his arms and legs. He screams and gnashes his teeth in horror, thrashing fruitlessly, resisting what only appears to be inevitable.

The many scientists at Murkoff would have laughed at his display of fear, making noncommittal notes on how hard he struggles and what he says to try to convince it all to end. Blair himself would have done the same, and the poetic justice of this situation does not seem to miss Blair, yet he tries anyway. He faces the inevitable knowledge of his own death with the same reaction as the patients who were tortured in this very building, and it is…

The first crack of bone creates a wet echo. "No! No, please! No! No!" He gurgles on his own blood and spits it out to splatter on the floor beside Waylon's feet. Their eyes meet, and with one final scream Miles completely crushes Blair's body.

"Darling!"

Although it takes a matter of seconds, the sprint to his love feels like an eternity to Eddie and he should have been there. Nausea curls in his gut, but Eddie refuses to acknowledge the bile when Waylon is so close to him and hurt. Eddie lunges over the lobby's desk counter to reach Waylon quicker and drops to his knees the moment he's by her side, carefully gathering her in his arms.

Eddie cups her cheek firmly. "I'm so sorry, Waylon. I should have been here," he apologises and thumbs a mix of tears and spit from her lips. "I am a failure, my darling, an utterly useless man. I am not a man if I allow the one I love to come to harm." He goes to hold Waylon closer, but she trembles and pushes away from him when his hand grazes something wooden.

There, stabbed into Waylon's side is a knife in so deep that only the handle is out. Eddie grinds his teeth until his jaw cracks from the pressure and feels the rage barreling down on him boil his blood into acid. It's lethal, this venomous grip that begins to constrict his heart, and he finds himself wishing that Blair was still alive so that he could fillet him.

However, Eddie settles for caressing Waylon's back and gently moving her hand away from the wound. "You might agitate it," he warns and after a moment Waylon nods in understanding. The knife itself is stopping the wound from bleeding too much, but at some point she is going to need to have it taken out, and Eddie has neither resources nor stability to do it right now. He hates himself for such cowardice and doubt that he assumed had been snuffed out of him a while ago, but in the face of true turmoil he is helpless.

A child, when his darling needs him the most. Eddie's throat burns and his eyes are stinging, but it would be selfish to sob. Steeling his defeatedness, Eddie instead cradles Waylon and looks to Miles...and instantly feels chilled.

Miles stands a couple feet in front of them, but it is not the figure of a man that so disturbs Eddie but the cloak of mist and webs that curdle and lash out all around him. The webs crown Miles' shape like the hood of a cobra, and Eddie realizes that he is witnessing a shift in Miles' form. The tendrils, albeit wispy and mystified, are hardening and slice through the air like icy swords; Miles himself even takes on a sharper persona, and if Blair was still around then Eddie could understand why Miles was changing, but Blair isn't, and the only people left in the lobby are himself and Waylon.

"Darling," Eddie whispers, the tension in his muscles catching her attention. She jerks upright and her eyes widen, finally noticing Miles' transformation. He supports her as they slowly come to stand. He braces himself against her. "Are you able to run?"

She bites her lower lip before answering, "I think- Not by myself."

"And if I support you?" Eddie asks, but the question probably misses Waylon's ears due to the incredible howl of wind and energy that explodes from where Miles stands. The webs launch Miles into the air again, but this time it is uncertain if the figure is even him. The shape is just of a man, a silhouette, a mold to tie the beast within to the physical world and when Eddie meets this creature's eyes he only sees the nightmarish, hollow gaze of the Walrider.

There is no time to warn Waylon before Eddie is wrapping an arm around the small of her back and turning them around. The sprint is awkward but it's as fast as his legs and Waylon's faulting ones can carry them. She tries to match his pace, but trips over her feet and the only thing propelling her is Eddie's death grip on her back. Glass shatters and rains down over them as furniture and walls are torn apart and thrown. The Walrider roars behind them, eliciting a fearful choke from Eddie, and the tornado of mist and webs swarms above them to cover the ceiling and edge towards the door.

"Eddie!" Waylon shouts as she stumbles, but they can't stop now. He pushes her harder, stomps his heels into the ground for more power, and the entire doorway plummets the very second they burst through.

The first thing he feels and sees is heat and orange light shining over a cloudy, blue sky; the second thing he feels and sees is a bunch of little glass shards piercing his feet and the desk counter from the lobby crashing into the window of one of the humvees. The vehicles' car horn goes off in their ears and then fades into the clusterfuck of noise from the Walrider's reckless dismantling. Something whips at Eddie's calf and he almost falls from the pain but Waylon steadies him without losing speed.

She strikes out an arm to point at a car by the gate near the entrance. "There! Have to go there!" she yells and Eddie obliges without hesitation. They cross the threshold of military vehicles and sprint toward the jeep all the while avoiding raining calamity and mist. A haunting growl comes from someplace too close for Eddie's liking, however, he has no time to even think about it. When they reach the red jeep, Eddie swings the door open and jumps inside to shuffle into the passenger seat so Waylon can take the driver's.

She bleeds into the seat without grace, yet Eddie admires the determination set in her face when she finds the key in the ignition and revs the engine. Outside becomes a blur with how fast Waylon maneuvers the car, her sore arms steering with hasty movements and precision, adrenaline lending to her ability to avoid the sheer amount of collateral Miles - the Walrider is causing. Waylon swerves around a snapped tree and then they're heading straight for the gate.

Eddie holds on to the door tightly. "Gate's closed," he announces and takes a quick glance back to the approaching demon.

Waylon nods with one hand, the other coming around to grasp his own tightly. Warmth spreads from his palm up his arm, and in that moment the fallout behind them seems to disappear. In his peripheral, he sees a storm of mist crowding the side of the car that almost completely blocks out the windows. The jeep begins to shake, bouncing on air through turbulence that has no right to exist, yet for some reason Eddie begins to feel his fear of it drain. As if the threat has lessened.

Intertwining their fingers into a solid grip, Eddie finds a spot on the window that had avoided being covered in mist. It hurts, but he strains his neck to peer back at Mount Massive. The mist and webs continue to swirl in a dark tornado, but at its center is once again the figure of a man. Of Miles.

This form of symbiosis is volatile, parasitic, and detrimental, but as he faces the front of the jeep again and hears his darling mutter a rather calm, "I know," Eddie sees no reason to reject it.

Chapter Text

For a few minutes, the jeep bounces and shutters over rough patches of gravel and dirt, following the tread of past vehicles, and then the marked trail subsides to fairly even roads and tree roots. The car still jumps regularly, but they are both relieved with how non-aggressive it is now.

Beside him, Waylon drives with her left hand on the wheel and her right clutching the knife buried deep into her side; however, Eddie finds his focus dragged from her dreary situation to the greenery surrounding them.

The trees are robust skyscrapers, breathing out fresh air which fills Eddie's lungs with crisp clarity. They reach for the sun with open branches, spreading their leaves to overlap their neighbors, and crowd space until a canopy of thick branches blocks out the sunlight for the ground directly underneath. They are taller than he remembers, more radiant than he could have dreamed, with vibrant colors ranging from deep green to brown, red, and yellow. Golden leaves are strewn about and carried with the wind; the rustling it causes is simultaneously melancholy and idyllic. The trees secure the road in an air of solitude and tranquility, and Eddie is having some trouble remembering the last time he's felt so free.

Fiddling with the small notch by the door handle, Eddie takes in the environment with wide eyes until the window suddenly jerks and the glass slides down. Cool air floods the jeep immediately, whipping around their ragged clothing and hair. It feels profoundly wonderful against his scarred cheek, like a relaxing yet firm touch, and Eddie audibly drowns himself in the feeling. He closes his eyes to frame this into his memory before closing the window (leaving the top open so air can still flow) and putting his attention back on Waylon.

It is not her paleness that brings his joy to a stutter, rather the way her skin appears clammy with sweat and oil, as if she were drenched. He lifts a hand to touch her but pauses mid-air when a violent tremble rips through Waylon's spine. Wincing, she coughs into her elbow, somehow managing not the swerve the car, for a solid minute before pulling away with a frown. Yet when she looks at him there is a forced smile on her face.

Eddie swallows. "Darling-"

"I'll be fine," she assures, a blatant lie. "Don't worry. I just… Eddie, we did it." She grips both the steering wheel and the knife a little tighter and then relaxes her hands, the bright sunlight catching in her eyes. "It's over."

Over. Completely and utterly finished. Done. Is it really? He has his doubts - rampid little visions of kaleidoscope images skirt across the skyline every couple of minutes - but when he looks at Wayon all he can see is completion, and a turning page. A new beginning to the horror story of his life and his darling is a genre change. She is the fresh start that he had always dreamed of, and just one glance at her makes all of his doubts disappear. At the very least, he wants to believe that it's all over.

So he nods and finally touches her shoulder, squeezing it to strengthen them both with hope. "You are right, my dear. We're finally free," he says, and speaking it feels like solidifying reality. He hadn't realized that he was holding his breath until Waylon releases hers and sinks into the seat. Her body folds a bit into itself as if her bones had been liquified, but Eddie figures that it's just her letting go of all her pent up tension.

Inconspicuously, Eddie eyes the handle sticking out of her side. "We need to get that out," he states.

"I'd lose too much blood."

"But it can't stay in much longer, either," Eddie says, dredging up a handful of flashbacks to his and Trager's little...experiments when he first took up the epithe 'The Groom.' Although it is best to leave the knife in, sooner or later it will need to come out, and Eddie would rather have it out now before any more blood drips onto the jeep's floor. Waylon is already too pale as is, and a sudden fear of her having chills washes over him. "We need to get you to a-"

"A what, Eddie?" she suddenly snaps and this time the jeep swerves. Her fingers drum against the wheel and she bites her lower lip, scowling. "How am I supposed to explain something like this? How am I supposed to explain you?"

It's a bite at him so he bares his teeth; guilt flourishes in his chest, budding from somewhere carnal and forgiving, but he ignores it. "Is it necessary for me to be seen? I don't presume that it is a requirement for me to enter the hospital with you."

"And where are you supposed to wait? Are you supposed to hide?" she glares at him sharply. "What if you're caught carried away somewhere, probably some other psychiatric ward that'll treat just the same as Murkoff did. We have to go somewhere else-"

"What other place is there, Darling?"

She grits her teeth, perhaps due to the pain or her own anguish. After a moment, she grounds out an exasperated "I don't know" and focuses on the road and nowhere else. Her entire body is as rigid as a pole, back stiff and arms somehow stiffer, and Eddie struggles to find the words to convince her. She needs a doctor - he's ignorant of medical practices, having only studied under the tutelage of Trager for a week at most, and even then he simply watched and grabbed supplies. Trager would know more than him, the damned man always did, and a spark of heat flares in Eddie's sternum because of the thought.

Trager is still alive back there. Doing what, he has no way of knowing, but Miles confirmed it. He hadn't killed Trager in his attack (who the he is in this instance is unknown, for Miles had slipped into Eddie's body, however, the one physically abusing Trager was Eddie himself), but the man is still alive in that mess and the knowledge is like a hammer against his heart.

It's a subconscious tick, but Eddie rests his forearm against the window and begins to toy with the dagger holstered to his belt. He scratches the handle absently, thoughts rolling over memories of whores and Trager; the gray scale of psychotic images flash in front of his eyes again so he clenches them shut to force the visions away. They linger behind his eyelids even after their prominence dissipates, creating an after-shadow of ink splotches and sensory stimuli. They cover the beauty of deciduous trees with every blink, refusing to fully disappear even after a full two minutes, and Eddie begins to feel like he's going crazy.

The hand on the window sill grabs a corner of the door and squeezes, digging his nails into the leather until there's an imprint, and then he drops his hand from the door to instead rub his eyes. That does nothing. One of his nails catch on a particularly forward scar on his cheek and he pulls his hand away to see a small spot of blood in his palm. The morphing images make the blood appear a lot darker than it actually is.

Eddie is in the process of scratching at his eyes again when a freezing hand abruptly yanks his wrist away. "Stop doing that," Waylon commands, tone dripping with concern, and Eddie just stares at her for a second before nodding and dropping his hand. To his shock, the images are actually gone now despite how much his eyes are burning.

Residual ice continues to chill his wrist from where Waylon grabbed him, so Eddie looks over the wound again. "Darling," Eddie's eyes widen and he reaches out to hold the bit of Waylon's ribs above the wound. Alarm ringing through his own chest, Eddie uses his other hand to grab hold of the steering wheel. "We need to get you to a hospital, right now."

Waylon shakes her head sluggishly, yet the action doesn't even appear to be human. "No, no," she mumbles over chapped lips, eyelids practically fighting itself to remain open. "I don't need it. We can fix me ourselves… We just need," she stifles a hiccup which seems to physically pain her, "needle...and thread...bandages."

"Tell me how to get to the nearest hospital," Eddie demands, to which Waylon pathetically rolls her eyes and slumps deeper into her seat. She grunts something along the lines of, "You don't know how to drive," and it takes all of Eddie's control not to squeeze her sides. They don't have time for this. "Stop the car."

"Stopping isn't gonna make us get anywhere faster," Waylon growls but effectively brings the car to a stop. She lulls her head against the headrest and to the side, gaze unsteady on Eddie's face. Her chilled skin creates a striking contrast to her eyes. She slurs, "Whaddaya want now, Darling?"

"Tell me the directions to the nearest hospital."

She blinks slowly, the only sign of clarity flashing across her face in the past five minutes. "Is it...that bad?"

His tongue feels tied, so instead of speaking Eddie just opens the door to the jeep and gets out. He walks across the front and then heads to the driver's side door, ignoring the tremor in his hand when he grabs the handle, and bites back the drop in his throat as he unceremoniously pulls Waylon into his arms, wary of the knife. She says nothing while he carries her over to the passenger seat, nor does she speak when he climbs into the driver's and starts the car. He gives her a pointed look, and then the directions to the nearest emergency room can't seem to fall from her lips fast enough.

Sticky shirt over bruised bones, horizontal scratches on battered arms, and bloodshot eyes that will never clear; Eddie stares into the many mirrors in the jeep. He simultaneously does and does not recognize his own reflection, and finds himself trailing a finger or two down whatever body part he's analyzing just to make sure that it truly is him. His skin, it feels...warm. Passive. The patchwork vest's texture reminds him of cow skin, and the bow tie around his neck feels like plastic. Funny, he remembers it feeling like silk not too long ago.

Another vision clouds his peripheral but it isn't striking enough to deter him, so he presses on, continuing to drag his hands down to his waist, pants, and shoes. The light scenery of mountains and trees contrasts darkly with the tattered clothing he's wearing, and it could be difficult to dub his attire as anything other than purely depressing.

Sighing, Eddie slouches into the driver's seat cushion and drops his hand beneath the side of the seat. His fingertips bristle when they touch something hard; it's a knob, so he grips it and pulls. The seat swings back with a whoosh and Eddie bounces from the impact, lucky to have the headrest keep him from slamming his head. A smile breaks across his face, and from his position he has no way of seeing how it looks.

How much time has passed since Waylon stumbled into the hospital? Eddie glances at the small screen by the jeep's stereo; a large crack runs across the glass that obstructs about 70% of it. Although it feels like an eternity has passed since they arrived at the hospital, Eddie is positive that it's only been two or three hours max, by way of the sun's movement across the sky. He's parked a ways from the actual building and any parking lot, but not too far to appear as suspicious. Waylon warned against parking by the woods because that would scream 'red flag' to any police officers. It apparently was a good choice because no one has come to bother him yet, in spite of the regular patrols from parking lot security.

Eddie shifts over to his side so he can be a little more comfortable in such a cramped space. Exhaustion sweeps through and then covers him like a blanket, but he shouldn't go to sleep. Well, not until Waylon returns, at least, and how long that will take…

Grrrrup.

He cups his stomach in the hopes of silencing it.

Something raps against one of the windows and Eddie jolts forward, his neck twisting sharply to face the passenger window. His heart almost stops when he sees Waylon hurriedly, albeit lightly, knocking on the glass. She mouths for him to unlock the door but he's already on it.

"By god, are you alright?" Eddie leans over to help her in as much as he can, noting how she maneuvers so as not to put too much pressure on her right side. He pulls away when she's safely in and the door is locked, but then frowns when he realizes that she is shirtless. His throat dries. "Why are you exposed, my dear?"

Her eyes widen in alarm before settling. She touches the bandages wrapping her side sheepishly, answering, "The doctors panicked when they saw what I was wearing. I mean, who wouldn't freak out if they saw some guy bleeding out with filth all over these rags." She shakes her head, coughs, and then continues. "I don't think they would have fixed me up if I didn't talk, though. Just said that I was a part of a construction company in the mountains and got injured on the job."

Decent enough lie, but it doesn't explain something. "How would that explain the knife?" Eddie asks. "I supposed getting stabbed on the job wasn't a part of the description for a construction worker."

It is the way she hesitates before speaking that makes Eddie's stomach drop. "I, uh," she begins, chewing over her bottom lip. "I took it out."

"When? I saw you walk through the door. You still had the knife in."

"I took it out once I knew you couldn't see me," she mutters.

"But why? You could have done more damage by pulling it out," he almost shouts and Waylon cowers from him. No...That isn't what he wanted. Eddie swallows hard, takes a deep breath. "I just… The idea of you hurting yourself even more pains me," he grasps Waylon's hand gently, coaxing her back into his space. "Did they operate on you?"

"It wasn't anything that needed surgery," she says. "An observation, x-ray, and then they put me under and I woke up like this."

"And they cleared you to leave, without any further questioning?"

For that, Waylon gives not a verbal answer but rather a desperate look to the side and rear windows. "We should go."

"You walked out, didn't you," Eddie affirms while turning on the car and giving their surroundings a scan; nothing seems out of the ordinary right now, but he'd prefer to not test his estimate of how much time they have to leave before the police start searching. Although Eddie can't remember the last time he's driven - those memories of his life before the asylum have been stomped out and incinerated - his body has no trouble relying on muscle memory to keep them from crashing. They loop around the back of the hospital as leisurely as they can afford, and it is only when the hospital has become a spec on the mountainside that both he and Waylon let out a breath.

Soon, the forestry begins to fade into the background as more highways cut through them and a city landscape forms in its stead. Eddie sits amazed by it all, taking in as much as possible while trying to abide by Waylon's commands to "Not go past the speed limit" and "Stop whenever you see x, x, and x." Driving and listening is a difficult task, but Eddie thinks that he handles it without too much trouble; although, the occasional flare of visions blinds him and they have to pull over until Eddie can see again. Each one makes his head pound a little bit harder than before, but the pain is nothing in comparison to the adrenaline pumping through him. To tell the truth, the smile on his face feels permanent at this point.

Waylon sits up slightly, hand holding her side gingerly, and points at an upcoming intersection. "Turn right at the light," she orders and Eddie follows with a hum. He's been obeying her commands without query, more concerned about not crashing than questioning her, but the turn leads them into a neighborhood with large houses and emerald lawns.

Picturesque homes with fences and playing children line the asphalt in shades of white, brown, blue, and even yellow. Trees grow on the sidelines as centerfolds, crossing over fences to tug on the branches on nearby ones, and street lamps glow dimly in preparation for evening. The sound of laughter and joyful screams fill the jeep like a tunnel, rebounding through the confined air so pleasantly, so plainly, so free and loving that Eddie feels his throat sting and soul burn in awakened envy.

What a twisted emotion that rips through him like a band-aid protecting a cut (or the bandages securing Waylon's puncture wound). It feels as though he is both melting and boiling, but he can't avert his gaze. He watches the children with the same smile plastered over his lips, witnesses their purity and innocence with his own eyes, and a deep clawing of something overtakes him.

"Eddie, are you alright?" Waylon's eyebrows are furrowed in worry, but she also looks distraught. "Can you hear me?"

It takes a moment, then a weak, "Yes, my love."

"Why did we stop?"

Eddie lets off the brake; he hadn't realised how heavy his foot was. Clearing his throat, Eddie lightly taps the gas to get them moving again. "My apologies," he whispers, although he doubts that Waylon even heard him.

"It's okay," she says to his surprise. "Did you hear what I said?"

"...No."

She points at sign that reads Private Road, Dead End. "There's a house at the end of that street, could you go there?" she asks, yet for some reason her voice wavers. He gives her a quick glance but she assures him with a nod that hardly satisfies his curiosity. Nevertheless, Eddie follows her command and turns them down the road.

The area is sparse here, unlike the bulk of the fine neighborhood they've entered, with only three houses in the cul de sac instead of five or six. Waylon points to the house on the left corner, says something about parking at the entrance of the road rather than in front of the house, but Eddie grabs her shoulder right as she makes to get out. She turns around as if annoyed, but her eyes are wide and she refuses to make eye contact. It's worrying, her behavior churning in his stomach along with the unsettling envy still present, and he feels his breath quicken.

Eddie trails his hand up from her shoulder to her neck, cups it for a second or two, and then folds his fingers around her ear. "Why did you have me drive you to this house, Darling? And I want you to be honest with me. What do you want from here?"

She shivers against his hand, from anxiety or fear he can not tell, but it isn't the same as before when she wanted to run away. Waylon is...docile, submissive, and Eddie supposes that her stress is keeping him from tipping over. He brings her face a little closer, kisses her softly, and her eyes flutter shut for a breath.

It is enough to coax her out of her shell. "I just need to grab something, for the two of us. I promise it won't take long."

"Is this your home, Waylon?"

She pauses, musing over his phrasing, and then shakes her head. "I don't think so… But I won't be long, Eddie. I promise you."

"I'll come with you, then," he makes to unlock his door but she stops him with a touch to his scarred cheek. A press of fingertips that warms his face like no other. So he stills under her hold and loosens his grip on her face, allowing Waylon room to back away.

As she opens the door, she presses another kiss to the back of Eddie's hand and whispers to his skin, "I'll be right back, okay? Just wait for me."

And despite him feeling an honest tug in her direction - a wave of nausea that speaks not just to his body but his spirit - Eddie resigns himself to trusting her word, and setting up a mental clock in his head.

Chapter Text

"Hey, you're Waylon…Park, right?"

Waylon lifts his head from the book he was immersed in and finds a young woman, about his age, standing over him. A clipboard is cupped in her arms and with her free hand she is clutching a ballpoint pen. Blue ink stains the tips of her middle and index fingers. Her brown hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and a light array of freckles decorate slightly rosy cheeks. But the most piercing aspect of the woman's features are her eyes: a sea of green and hazel that strikes violently in the light. Waylon glances around them, taking note of the lack of customers in the coffee shop, and decides that yes, he is indeed the only 'Waylon Park' there.

Smiling, albeit a tad awkwardly, Waylon offers a slow nod and answers curtly, "Yes. Is there something I can help you with?"

"No," the woman sighs before pulling out one of chairs at the table. The metal scoots across the floor loudly, scratching at Waylon's ears annoyingly, but soon it is over and the woman is settling across from him. She lays the clipboard and pen on the table but not close enough for him to see what's written on it, and then leans forward with an outstretched hand. An olive branch, of sorts.

"The name's Lisa," she says joyously, the name sliding off her tongue like silk. "We're in the same department."

Department? Oh. From school. Waylon blinks a few times, trying to match her face and name to anything familiar but coming up short. He clicks his tongue and twists his smile to appear apologetic. "You're talking about Berkley, right?" he asks.

"Of course!" Lisa exclaims with far more enthusiasm than Waylon thought necessary and taps her finger on the table. "Computer science major, specifics in software engineering, minor in applied mathematics," she says, listing off each area with another finger joining the first on the table. "We had Professor Donworth's theoretical application course together."

"We..." did. Yes. Eyes widening, Waylon pushes off the back of his seat and rests his elbows on the table, almost but not quite knocking his open coffee on to his lap. He snaps in recognition. "Yeah! I remember now. You sat toward the front of class, didn't you? Close to Donworth's desk."

Lisa's lips spread in a wide grin. "Mm-hm," she agrees, "Every day." She drums her fingers on the table idly and hums, calming down from her high state to look over the clipboard and then back to Waylon. Her eyebrows furrow slightly. "I'm surprised you remembered something like that. That's a pretty small detail."

His neck warms almost instantly. Pulling his hands back into his lap, Waylon looks aside and stumbles over his next words. Now that she mentioned it, he just saw her in lecture every day or so, it wasn't anything creepy. She sat in the same seat, and it was close to the teacher anyway so of course he would notice. But none of those reasons sounded innocent enough to not be misconstrued, so he settles for neither and instead deflects the conversation back to topic.

"A-anyway, what do you have the clipboard for? And is my name on it or something?"

Lisa almost looks shocked when he mentions the board, her hand twitching near the corner of it, and then something dawns and she's letting out a hardy chuckle, both hands coming to cover her mouth and nose. Her right eye glistens with an unshed tear. "Oh, I am so sorry, Park," she says between giggles, moving to wipe her eye and breathing deep to calm herself. One deep inhale, exhale, and then she shakes her head as if knocking off the rest of her outburst. All the while, Waylon remains in his seat and fidgets, deciding if moving to grab his coffee is safe or not. The warmth on his neck spreads accordingly to his face, and by the time Lisa stops laughing he can guarantee that his cheeks are fairly peachy.

He wets his lips. "Uh, are you ok-"

She waves him off eagerly, saying, "Yeah, yeah I'm good. I just forgot that I never explained to you why I'm here, so that's a little awkward." She laughs again, but this time it is more controlled. It makes some of Waylon's tension wash away. Rotating the clipboard, she nudges it across the table so he can finally see. "Here," she announces as she points at a bold line, "this is what I am here for."

The scent in the house is almost pungent; rancid as it crawls up the walls and spreads through the air, crowding the space in lilies and lavender, in flower petals and earth. So strong that it caresses his skin like a devil's kiss, framing his neck and arms and waist in an unwanted embrace. He feels nauseous. Standing is unbearable so he moves, tossing the emergency key he found outside (in its usual spot, underneath a broken stone tile) and walks across the threshold that separates the kitchen from the living room. Absently, he wonders if he is going insane.

Perhaps this is due to the workings of the Morphogenic Engine? Because this…this cannot be real.

Warily, Waylon approaches the coffee table at the center of the room. It lies between a long couch and armchair (he can feel its texture on his skin, warm and smooth, like leather) and atop it are three collected picture frames. He picks one up gingerly, as if the frame will fall apart at a moment's notice, and thumbs the vines carved into the wood. Travels until he meets the corner of the frame and then pauses, hesitating, knowing exactly what he is about to see but is also completely unsure. Because of Murkoff. Because of the asylum. Because of Eddie –

"Oh God," Waylon gasps, stumbling backwards and slamming his palm to his mouth. Tears blind his vision before he blinks them away, and his other hand is trembling with vigor, pushing the wood into his skin; however, the sting helps to ground him. He tries inhaling through his mouth but all he receives is a sloppy whimper and heartache, so he searches until he finds the edge of the couch and then crumbles into it, sinking into such luxurious comfort that it pains him. Something sends a spike of electricity through his wound so he reaches around and pulls out a pillow from his side; it could not have been shucked any farther if tried. Waylon cares even less about where it landed.

Dragging his spirit, and henceforth body, up from its slouch, he manages to sit up high enough to no longer be in a fetal position and drops the frame into his lap, eyes closed. And then, he waits. For how long is beyond him, but he waits until his heartbeat slows and he can actually breathe without choking. Waits for the churning in his gut and hammering of his heart to quiet before gathering all of his strength (or what little is left) and forcing his eyes to open.

He is greeted by sparking emerald and piercing hazel. Long, flowing brown hair. Pink lips. A tongue. Smile. A constellation of small, almost inconceivable freckles paint the space of her skin with solar distinctions, and if he had not already known where to look he would have completely missed the thin lines marking the corners of her eyes. A flaw from laughter and joy, but those were what she wanted. She would have wanted nothing less.

Lisa Park. The name has a ring to it, doesn't it? Waylon exhales a broken chuckle and scratches at his scalp, prying off some of the scabs that had developed there. Blood tints his fingertips when he pulls his hand back, but he just wipes it on the cushion.

With a solid clink, the picture is placed back in its spot on the table and another is grabbed, this one wider than the previous. He holds it at an angle to catch some of the light coming from a window so that it reflects on the frame instead of the actual photo, and is slightly taken aback by what he sees: emerald again, but this time they are only slivers due to laughter, and a complementary pair of sapphire that watches her adoringly. A tuxedo, bow tie, and crystal white dress. A veil.

Oh, he can still hear the bells.

He places this one down with extreme care, breath stopped until the picture settles on the table. Then while going to grab the third, and final, photograph his hand brushes it a little too early and the frame shifts to face him. The sunlight refracts off of the frame, striking a blinding spot of light on the bandage over his heart right as he feels it clench and tug and drag out of him a deep, dying groan. Body collapsing from the impact of the photo – puffy cheeks, small mouth, tiny red-tipped ears, ice cream, and overalls, a backdrop of trees and a lake – Waylon somehow manages to flip the photograph over and shove himself off of the couch. His movements are zombified as he trudges from the living area into a bedroom. The curtains are closed and the lights are off, which significantly darkens the room in comparison to the one he was previously in, but this level is darkness is hardly considerable to what he just left.

He trails his hand along every surface he can as he paces the room, taking in an unfamiliar comforter and new pillows, but the scent has remained the same. He snags one of the pillows from the head of the bed and presses his face into it, inhaling deeply in a feeble attempt to capture the feel, smell, and…taste into his memory. And he wants to hold the pillow there. Breathe the beautiful smell until it suffocates him, or the police comes to arrest him, or his wi- Lisa comes home to kill him all over again, but alas, he doesn't. He can't. So he clenches his teeth and yanks the pillow away, fights the urge to slam it into a wall and scream and tear it apart for all of the feathers to fly and scatter everywhere, then gently puts it back.

His wound aches when he straightens out, probably from all of the bending, so Waylon scans the room until he finds the bathroom door. He makes no effort to turn the light on when he enters, instead focusing on remembering where they kept the medical supplies. After a minute of prodding around cabinets and drawers, he finds the small, medical kit in the back of one of the shelves. There is a bottle of rubbing alcohol, thread and needle, gauze, Band-Aids, scissors, antiseptic wipes, and few other miscellaneous items in the container when he sifts through it, and a quick bout of jealously flashes through him for a moment. Thoughts rampage his mind in quick succession, but he immediately snuffs it when "If only I had these…" surfaces. No time for regrets, he reminds himself while taking out the gauze. It takes no more than a minute for him to wrap his side just enough for there to be a decent amount of pressure again, and then he bundles the rest of it and tosses the mesh back into the kit. He is about to leave the bathroom when a second thought has him grabbing the kit's handle and bringing it along.

This time, he neglects the rest of the room and its associated memories by heading straight for the dresser that used to be his. A silent prayer (to what god he does not know) and then he yanks open the bottom drawer. His heart practically leaps in relief when he sees that it is still full. For the next handful of minutes, Waylon proceeds to take out whatever clothing items he deems worthy, searching for long sleeves and sweaters and jackets, excitement bubbling when he finds items that had once been dubbed "too big" and tossed aside to be donated later. He thanks his past self for being too lazy to actually get rid of them as he scurries into the kitchen to find a large trash bag for his treasures. Dropping the bag by his feet when he returns to the bedroom, he hurries to shove all of the clothes into the bag and scavenges through the other drawers in hopes of finding something useful. And he's about to give up after another two drawers (mostly underwear and socks) when he brushes something very soft.

Curious, Waylon stretches his arm so that he can reach the back of the drawer and pulls out a velvety, pink nightgown. It drapes over his forearms easily and bundles in his lap like a whirlpool, silk sliding over silk; he pauses, swallows thickly, and then shoves it into the trash bag.

"Alright," he says in a breath, panic building in his sternum again, "gotta go. Gotta go, gotta go." Biting his lower lip, he heaves the bag over a bony shoulder and grabs the medical kit with his free hand. He leaves the bedroom without looking back, and completely ignores the flipped photograph on the coffee table as he passes by. Strange how the surrealism from before is coming back, but he doesn't have time to think about it. How long has he been gone, anyway? Eddie must be worried by now, so he needs to go. He's wasted so much time already-

"Shit," Waylon stops, biting a strip of skin off his lip, and drops the bag to the floor. He looks around the kitchen frantically, gaze darting from the refrigerator to the cabinets and drawers. He rushes over to one of the cabinets and yanks it open, slapping cans of corn and peas out of the way so he can tap his fingers over the wood. A mantra of "C'mon, c'mon," spills over his lips as he searches, closing his eyes to better visualize the landscape. He knocks on wood until something hollow echoes, and a relieved yelp escapes his lips before he could stop it. He taps the spot again just to be sure, and then digs into the wood with his nails. It hurts, trauma from the asylum far from being healed, but he ignores the intense sting long enough for his fingers to peel up a notch.

A plank of wood splinters from the cupboard, and beneath it is a rectangular pocket. Waylon gathers the contents of the cavity and slams it shut, along with the cabinet door, before slinging the trash bag back over his shoulder and dumping everything in his hand into his pants pocket. He snags the emergency house key from where he tossed it earlier and exits the home - his home. He doesn't bother with hiding the key again (where had he gotten it from anyway? He can't seem to remember) and just leaves it next to the sidewalk.

He feels incomplete, rushed, but he shakes his head and tries not to dwell on the emptiness. He came and got what he needed, that is all. That was all. So there is nothing to think about. And that's how he wants to feel, how he knows he should feel, but at the same time he just can't seem to stop.

So he allows himself to be pulled away by the present.

"Darling," Eddie calls from outside of the car, apparently two steps from sprinting into the house and dragging Waylon out of there. It is obvious by how white the Groom's knuckles are, clenched in an absurdly tight fist, and in a second of sadism Waylon wonders how exactly that course of action would have ended. He waves the thought away with a blink and instead shows a small, hesitant smile for the man. Eddie meets him at the footsteps of the house before Waylon could even make an effort to greet him. Icy hands grip his shoulders and Waylon relishes the normalcy.

Around them, the wind sweeps and trees dance to its pattern, waving in the cool air. The sound of cars in the distance create a sort of tempo to the neighborhood, and the general noise of life itself sets the atmosphere. It is all so…real. So normal, the realization tears at Waylon and his throat dries in that way that signifies a deep sorrow, a sadness that is struggling to escape. He leans into the embrace in a futile attempt to relieve himself from it all, burying his chin into Eddie's disgusting chest. The older man smells horrible; odors of blood and sweat and dirt clog Waylon's nostrils, leading him to wonder if he too smells this bad, but, nevertheless, he stays there. He feels himself drifting off into an exhausted slumber when the icy hands slide from his shoulders to his face, shocking him back into consciousness, and lift his face so that they can make eye contact. A deep frown is settled into Eddie's face.

Naturally, Waylon tenses and tries to pull away, but Eddie's strength is unyielding. Stilling his movements before he could hurt himself (either from dislocating something or pissing Eddie off enough), Waylon licks his lips and then tries to apologize, but Eddie simply squeezes his cheeks to shush him.

Disappointment emanates from the way Eddie shakes his head and looks away, as if ashamed to continue their contact. Another gust of wind blows around them, yet in the blur of air Waylon hears an arrow piercing its target.

"Why did you lie to me?"

A question, simple, but the words are from Eddie and Waylon trembles in anxiety. No, no, no. He swallows thickly. "What d-do you mean? When did I lie to you-"

Eddie squeezes his cheeks until he can feel teeth. "Don't play innocent, dear," the man spits, jerking Waylon's body with just a flick of his wrist. "This is your home."

"Eddie, just let me explain," Waylon grits through his teeth, feeling spit slip from his lips. He waits for a response with clenched shut eyes, preparing for some verbal abuse or physical assault, but when nothing comes he takes his chances and glances up at Eddie. The other is no longer staring at him, but at the house. Dread drops into the pit of Waylon's stomach. "Eddie… No, don't do – just listen to me, okay? I didn't mean to lie to you," he pleads, pitch rising in panic. "This is where I used to live."

"Your home," Eddie says dejectedly.

Waylon squirms under his grip. "Yes! But not anymore. I can't go back there."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't…" Waylon starts, but his voice catches in his throat and he can hardly breathe, the grip on his jaw too constricting for him to process anything outside of the reflex to squirm and fight. It won't work, he knows it won't, but still he tries to yank his face away. He yelps when the pressure vanishes and he's stumbling backwards, coughing up spit and dry air. Perplexed, he looks up and finds Eddie still looming over him. Same expression, same stance, but he is not attacking. Not ready to look a gift horse in the mouth, Waylon tries to stand and only manages a version with horrible posture, but at this point it does not matter. He takes a quick, nauseating glance behind, solidifying the house in his mind for the last time, before settling on Eddie. Unconsciously, he grips his side to keep the pain from his wound low.

"I don't belong there anymore, Eddie. I went in and I couldn't take it. I," he shakes his head, arms trembling, foot scraping the trash bag dropped to the ground. He's made his decision. "I don't belong anywhere. I don't have a home. But, that doesn't matter anymore."

He pauses, allowing himself time to breathe, but Eddie takes the bait. "And why is that?" the man asks, voice sincere and damn near heart-wrenching. It drags Waylon's breath away, but before it could completely disappear he manages to get out a resounding, desperate, declaration of submission: "Because I am yours."

Chapter Text

The knowledge of submission curls woefully in Eddie's stomach. He shifts his gaze and body, feeling his skin itch where it touches the back of the passenger seat and behind his eyes sting from where blaring sunlight hits it. So he squints and watches the form of trees and streetlights blur into an indistinguishable mess as Waylon drives them…somewhere. Breckenridge, he thinks he remembers Waylon saying. About an hour away. Waylon mentioned something about a "ski resort," but what that entails Eddie has no idea.

He…doesn't know much in general, does he? Eddie realizes with a start and sits a little straighter in his seat, glancing at Waylon (whose attention is hard set on the road and not him), and then leans against the window. Cupping his cheek, Eddie's fingers scratch a row of bruises and mangled flesh near his ear.

The memory of how his scars came about precedes him, floating somewhere above his head where he cannot reach. It feels as though the memory is vivid, but when he tries to recall it the images are jumbled with missing pieces and all he receives is an incomprehensible rehashing of abstract flashbacks; although, the strangest part of it all is when he tries to recall anything that transpired before he met Trager. Every moment that should have been ingrained him is either fragmented or entirely not there. How was he brought to the asylum? What did he do there? Was he in a cell, or out in the courtyards? How was he given the title the "Groom?" What Eddie is positive of is that he used to know the answers to all of these questions, yet somehow almost everything has slipped away.

He leans against the window sill, allowing his cheek to press against the cool glass. The hum of the jeep lulls him gently, wiping away his doubts and confusion until his eyelids grow heavy. He should stay up to watch after his darling, but when he tries to lift his head again the world seems to tilt and moving becomes unbearably heavy. So he sneaks a peak at Waylon with eyes half-lidded and a small, shy smile forming on his mouth. Beautiful, he absently praises her. He adores the sheen of sunlight gracing her pale skin between the trees, shading her with soft hues and even warmer colors. In the distance he sees the mountain range the sun is inching towards and takes in the array of colors spilling across the sky from it. Violet curls around oranges and reds, teasing their edges without blending, and Eddie imagines what a dress would look like with that palette. He pictures Waylon adorned in its glory, wrapped in clouds and a sunset, veil shielding her face from the brightness of it. He imagines her being swept up by a gust of dark wind, gray and black contrasting with her purple, and the sweetness of her dress will only resonate. His eyes close, but his mind is awake, and as he drifts off to sleep he finds a face lost in the dark wind, one that is reminiscent of his own.

Something prods his shoulder.

"Hey Eddie, we're here."

The Groom shakes his head groggily and groans, jaw sore from the awkward position and arm numb from being rested on for so long. He flexes his elbow without feeling anything before attempting to open his eyes and immediately regretting it. Direct light blinds him so he blinks and slams a palm over his face for cover. Behind his eyelids a variety of yellow pulse in and out of existence. He blinks with eyes closed to reduce some of the sting, and then, once he can blink without seeing a new splash of yellow, Eddie tries again but this time with his head down. Above him he hears a serene bout of laughter.

"There's a bed upstairs if you're tired," Waylon says with a quick look over Eddie's head. His eyebrows raise in question, not really understanding what Waylon meant by 'bed,' and 'upstairs' for that matter. Swiping the side of his mouth to catch some dried drool, Eddie sits up and unbuckles his seat belt, eyes widening when he catches sight of a blaring, neon yellow and red sign that reads: "Super 8."

He squints at it, but the words remain unfamiliar. "What is this?" he asks with a hint of suspicion, but Eddie has no recollection of what a Super 8 might be and how it would have a bed in there for him, so the skepticism in his tone should be excusable. However, Waylon's expression of comfort does succeed in keeping him from completely hightailing the idea and refusing the offer altogether. Eddie supposes, at least for right now, that he is just curious. With no intention of actually opening the door, Eddie holds the handle and peers up at the well-lit building.

There is nothing exciting about the building that screams at his attention except for the too bright sign broadcasting its name. It stands about four stories tall, with each story containing a large amount of rooms and a few balconies. A handful of jigsaw pieces click in his head, and then Eddie is looking back at Waylon, who was apparently watching him this entire time. "You bought us a hotel?" he asks, wincing internally at the inherent weakness in his voice but he felt so tired and beyond confused.

Instead of commenting on his almost childish resistance to get out of the car, Waylon smiles softly at him and nods. "I thought we deserved a good night's sleep," she says as if that was completely normal, "so I bought a nice room." Straightening out, she looks over the parking lot and steps away. As soon as Waylon disappeared from his sight Eddie automatically tensed up, the hairs on his arms and neck standing on edge, and he is about to jump out of the car to search for her when one of the backseat doors open and she is climbing over the seat to grab the trash bag she took from her house. He lets out a breath of air in relief, but the tension in his limbs doesn't seem ready to let him go yet so he quietly sits there and watches as Waylon gathers her things.

A minute later Waylon backs from the jeep and closes the door with her hip, hands busy holding the trash bag, before walking over to Eddie's side. Having yet opened the door, a dawning sense of stupidity washes over him once she comes into view, and his hand twitches over the door handle without actually moving. The look she levels him with is a mixture of quizzical and humorous, like when a mother reproaches her child for getting stuck in its shirt while trying to get dressed, which causes a bit of warmth to blossom up his cheeks. She waves at him, to which he mirrors, but apparently that wasn't what she wanted because right after she is yanking the door open herself.

Another pointed look and then she is jostling the bag in her hands. "Doesn't look like there's too many people coming in right now so we shouldn't have anything to worry about," she says, moving aside to allow Eddie room to get out.

He hesitates, one foot out of the jeep while everything else is firmly planted, and then rolls his eyes to get over himself. Just a simple, bland hotel; what was there to worry about? He was working himself up for nothing. So, with an excessive amount of willpower and frustration, Eddie slinks out of the jeep and closes the door behind him, crossing his arms over his chest defensively and glaring at Waylon with less bite and more desperation. Despite clearly being on the ground, it felt as though the earth was slipping beneath his feet and was about to fall at any moment, like a sink hole. Waylon must have noticed this for she edges closer to him and very loosely grabs his elbow to slowly coax him from the car door.

Gentle eyes capture him as he is led away, and while a sudden urge to grab hold of Waylon and clutch her tightly, wrap his arms around her softness and inhale her everything, consume her love, overwhelmed him, Waylon had different plans. She pinches her fingers slightly to still him and then steps a few paces in front, just so they are right out of arms reach. He feels himself shrink a bit when she scrutinizes him and idly wonders how it would feel to literally peel out of his skin, but then the cold in her eyes dissipate and she is smiling again. She holds the bag out for him to take and then starts rummaging through it.

"I need to find you something else to wear," she says as an answer to his unspoken question, but that only makes him tense up further.

Eddie stretches the trash bag open further. "What is wrong with what I'm wearing now?" he accuses. "You never complained about my vest before."

Waylon quickly shakes her head and holds her palms out in defense. "No, no, that's not what I meant," she says in between light chuckles. "I meant that, um," here she pauses, the expression on her face falling flat as she scans over Eddie's appearance. She opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of water, the corner of her lips twitching in growing nervousness. She waves over his chest dismissively. "Oh, you know-"

"I don't."

A tremble shakes Waylon's shoulder as she backs away, her once shining face now shrouded in shadows. It reminds Eddie of his dream, but instead of the possession he assumed would build in his gut a strange tingling takes its place and makes him frown. He tries to make up for the sudden guilt, but Waylon is faster than him.

"There's blood all over you," she says quickly, quietly, shying away from his gaze by staring past his shoulder. Her defenses are up, the Wall of China blocking her from sight, causing Eddie to wince and look away himself. He touches his vest with caution. "We had enough drama with the hospital," she starts again after a few seconds, "and I don't want a repeat of that. So can you please change into something else, if only for now?" Wide eyes meet his gaze, and Eddie can practically feel his heart melt. "Please?"

Silence permeates between them for a long while. The wait is pregnant, holding their attention through the whistle of wind and sound of cars on a nearby interstate. Nighttime holds a cool chill and no light, the sun far gone behind a darkened mountain range that is almost impossible to decipher with only its outline highlighted. Waylon watches him with uncertainty clear on her face, and the guilt churning in his stomach only seems to increase in speed as he finds his jaw locked tight and his chest hurting somewhere to the left. The ache leaves him with a dried tongue and even drier thoughts; he reaches into the recesses of his mind to pull forth some sort of guidance on what to do merely to come up empty handed. Pathetic. Eddie shifts awkwardly, hoping to shake off some of his guilt, but his discomfort only amplifies when Waylon's expression turns downright solemn and she makes to turn around.

Panic sieges Eddie in a vice grip. He jolts as if shocked and makes a sort of guttural noise that crosses between a whimper and growl. It sounds completely alien coming from him, and Eddie hardly registers it as his own until Waylon abruptly stops and looks at him like a deer caught in headlights. She tilts her head slightly, back into the light.

Clearing his throat, Eddie retracts into himself just a little, trying to will his heart to stop pounding. For some reason he felt so incredibly vulnerable and the sudden feeling made his entire world flip, with the guilt falling flat and spreading. He looks around and is relieved to see that there is no one around to judge.

Placing his attention back on Waylon, Eddie briefly touches his knife to ground himself before saying very carefully, "I…thought that you were about to leave."

"Leave?" she repeats with more disbelief than accusation. "Why would I," she shakes her head, "Eddie. I would never leave you by yourself. I was just going back to the car."

"But I hurt you," he says without prompt and immediately wants to snatch the words right back because of the sheer terror that flashes across Waylon's face. It only lasts a second, if that, but she tries to hide it with a mask of stoicism that is full of cracks and ripples. Body tense and expression shielded, only her eyes are left completely open and free to engage, to pinpoint where and how his words forced their way into her consciousness. As if recognizing that he hurt her brought more pain than actually doing so.

Eddie is way off kilter, so he tries again. "I can change," he says in a rush, words spilling over a tongue that is struggling to catch up. "If it's just the vest then it shouldn't be a problem," he says, reaching for the trash bag.

Waylon has yet to become unfrozen, but she does mutter a quiet "Eddie" when he lifts the bag and starts rummaging through it, tugging out random pieces of clothing to stare at before deeming it unfit and finding another. He has no idea what he is doing, which must be brutally apparent because Waylon soon finds herself by his side and shooing his hand away so she can look for items herself. He holds the bag open without complaint.

"I know that I put some in here for you," she says not particularly to him, so he doesn't respond. Absently, Eddie listens to the mumbled sentences and jumbled words that escape as she concentrates. She is still covered in shadows, but this time the effect is not as gruesomely attached to dread and guilt as it was before. They are shadows, formed from a dispersion, or lack thereof, of light, and he appreciates its simplicity greatly, using it to knock a few pestering thoughts ebbing at his mind away before they could consume him.

Consume him.

Eddie blinks a few times to make sure that he is seeing right, and wiggles his fingers as reassurance that he is actually in control of his body. Because he just realized something that was going on in his head and consciously prevented it from moving any further. Which is small, so tiny and normal, but when was the last time he'd been able to do that? To control his thoughts and not have to push and pry and fight for something to leave him alone? The notion makes him nauseous, makes him want to peel out of his skin, because the fog that was once constant in his mind is now…minuscule. Still present and burdening but not overwhelming. He blinks again, and moves his hands, but there is no haze accompanied by his actions. He feels…clear.

And he wants to yell it to the world.

"Here," Waylon says, poking at his hands to drop the bag so she can shove a rather large shirt in his face. "I think this should fit. Sorry if it's a little too big, or small," she apologizes, handing it to him anyway. Still caught up in his revelation, Eddie only nods and begins to shuck off his vest, the sensation of a new fabric just barely rousing his interest. He hands his vest to Waylon with a little reluctance, to which she nodded approvingly and took it as he gave, then tugs on the shirt before he could change his mind. It fits loosely but not to the point where the sleeves or hem pools, and the plain navy blue is a 180° from eye-catching so he shouldn't have to worry about bringing unnecessary attention to himself.

It should get the job done, so Eddie waits until his vest is nicely situated in the bag before pulling Waylon into a tight, yet escapable, embrace. She inhales sharply, and for a moment he thinks that she is actually going to flee, but then a pair of sturdy arms wrap around his waist and Eddie is being pulled down to nestle against her. He can tell that she is trying to not stretch very far, so he places his hands high on her body to avoid any bandages and buries his nose into her neck, breathing her in with every inhale. She smells of sweat and blood, a combination that would probably turn anyone else off but only serves to make him revel in its familiarity. He loves it; loves the odor of grinding flesh and bone engraved in her skin, the stench of sweat radiating off of her, the fear and desperation surrounding her being. He wants to pull all of Waylon inside of him – or rather vice versa – but right now he feels too weak to do anything except allow himself to hold her and glorify her all. He gets drunk on the idea of just staying there with her despite the chill now sweeping around them, and is silently grateful when Waylon takes the initiative to pull them apart and lock the jeep.

It isn't until they are heading toward the entrance that Eddie realizes that at some point she managed to tug on her own new shirt, a dark button up with undone sleeves. She looks pleasant in it, if one ignores her entirely drained demeanor, and Eddie finds himself ensnared by her obvious attempts at being happy. He focuses on her while they cross the parking lot, attention moved elsewhere by the whir of doors sliding open.

Eddie hears someone from the front desk call out to them, but he is too rapt in the sheer decor of this building to truly listen in. It takes him aback, far, far, back into lost memories that surface only to vanish again. The hotel was not close to anything rich, or superbly classy for that matter, but it was gracious and calm and quiet and held visages of Eddie's imagination that he only dreamed were possible. High ceilings lead to glass chandeliers that light up the lobby in a hue close to champagne, and classical music flows out from speakers disguised as decorations. Abstract paintings line the walls with splashes of vibrant color, practically breathing life into the still area. Without thinking, he starts toward one of the paintings.

The piece is not smooth; splotches of paint create texture over flower petals and fingernails. A hand is depicted rising from ashes and dirt, wind picking up the ashes to carry them someplace far away. The hand is a woman's, if he can assume from the crimson nail polish coating her fingers, and pinched between her index and thumb is a bleeding rose. The flower's thorns coil around and around her wrist tightly before dropping off into the background. The painting captures him for reasons unknown, bringing him pause and giving way to contemplation. In the midst of his studying, Eddie feels a strange sense of bubbling growing in his sternum. Small at first, and then becoming larger, more prominent, until his cheeks are worn and warm from smiling so hard. The expression must appear crazed, yet he is having trouble allowing himself to care, because this is unreal.

By the time he hears Waylon calling his name, Eddie is on the verge of floating. He turns with the same smile in place, which catches Waylon off guard until she warms to it and smiles back in the way that makes him giddy. Childlike joy firmly in place, he leaves the painting behind and follows her, careful to not hold the receptionist's gaze for too long lest he pick out a few uncanny features on Eddie's face.

Waylon leads them to an elevator and presses the button to call it down, dropping the bag by her feet. "I'm so tired," she sighs while closing her eyes. Eddie nods, not exactly feeling the same, and is relieved to not have to continue the conversation because of the elevator's chiming. Grabbing the bag before Waylon could, Eddie drags it in with him and leans against the farthest railing. Music pours through the elevator once the door closes, but it is different from what was playing in the lobby. Jazz. Eddie rests his head back against the wall and automatically his eyes close, muscles relaxing. While he is not necessarily drowsy, he is exhausted, and this reprieve is more than enough to have his body and mind calming.

The elevator dings after a minute and it takes a considerable amount of effort to drag himself out of the comfort of the elevator. They entire a long corridor that would have brought him back to the asylum if not for it being well lit and welcoming. Waylon draws something from her pocket before taking the lead and guiding the way down the hall. The numbers on the many doors are increasing by twos, and when they finally stop somewhere towards the back (or front, he can't tell) the door reads "426."

"Here we are," Waylon announces before sliding a clear card with a red stripe through some device on the door handle. The device clicks a second later, and then Waylon is ushering them into their room.

It is not large by any stretch of the imagination, but the room is spaciously empty. The door opens up to a kitchen area with a refrigerator, stove, oven, and microwave, and beyond that is a living area and bedroom to its right. Two chairs are spread across the living room with a wide, open window showcasing the darkened mountains. Eddie drops the trash bag in the kitchen and then proceeds to the bedroom, his fingers trailing the wall as he walks. Nudging the door open, he stops in front of the bed and crosses his arms in thought.

Behind him Waylon is messing with something. There's quite a bit of rustling, presumably from the trash bag, and then she is rummaging around the refrigerator. "Look at that, there's some food in here!" she shouts and kicks the door closed. Waylon sighs when something pops, and then her steps are somehow muffled while coming closer.

"I have some clothes for you to sleep in, if you want," she offers from the doorway. Eddie responds with silence. Biting her lip, she looks aside, hesitates, and then approaches him. "Are you alright?" she asks, tone dripping in concern. Another pause, and then, "I'm sorry if I did anything wrong. I just wanted for us to have some rest before-"

"Darling," Eddie interrupts sharply, voice strong and firm before crumbling into a sob. He turns around to reveal a flood of tears and rosy cheeks, his eyes bright with something less tangible than bedroom light. His heart skips when he sees Waylon's own widen and blur with tears, lips trembling. It is clear that she is unsure how to react, so he closes the distance between them and wraps his arms tightly around her shoulders, inhaling her again, drinking in her emotion.

"Thank you," he whispers into her skin and feels Waylon's breath hitch. "Thank you so much."

She shivers and buries her face into his neck, carelessly allowing tears to freefall on to his shoulders. He feels raw, but in a way that had never been so concrete. He has long desired this feeling of solidarity, but for it finally be here is unbelievable. He breathes and for the first time it resonates with him, fills him, is crisp and cool and everything that he has dreamed of. And Waylon couldn't be any closer, shouldn't be, but somehow he draws her in.

"Thank you, Waylon," he mumbles between a broken hiccup, and Waylon nods, her own air cut off by tears.

"Your welcome, Eddie," she says, nodding slightly. "I love you."

"I love you too, Darling."

In that moment, time became irrelevant, so Eddie has no idea when they eventually tore from each other's arms and changed into more comfortable clothes. In the back of his mind he realizes just how desperately he is in need of a bath, but for now that can wait until the morning. For now, he is content to simply lay here in bed with Waylon curled around him, their filth and sin displayed for the moon and stars to shine upon.

Chapter Text

Eddie wakes to a sensation of tugging in his chest and bleary light.

Early sunlight pools through the room's blinds softly, casting very pale blue across the walls and bed sheets. He blinks slowly, mind taking its time to register where, how, and why he is where he is. The information comes in fuzzy packages, lazily piecing incoherent jigsaw blocks together until all of the little details start to make sense and a tiny internal ding alerts him that his memory is now complete. Another ding announces that, oh yeah, he can't feel his arm, so he makes to adjust his position when he finally notices the weight of a body curled around him.

Waylon's warmth is passive, but present. She spoons him comfortably, mouth hanging open if the damp air against his skin is any indication, and her knee is raised just enough to suggest a desire to wrap around him but not quite meeting the mark. It is a strain to do so, but Eddie deals with the ache in his neck in order to peer over his shoulder and watch her sleep. Her eyebrows crinkle from his movement but outside of that her sleep remains unhindered, allowing him the chance to simply appreciate the angel before him. Caught, pacified, and now in apparent bliss. It melts his heart even while the tugging deepens in his chest, and for a moment Eddie wishes that he could stay there for longer, taking in every visible inch of her, but a creeping urge to move worms its way up his body until his limbs are itching from inactivity.

Carefully, he detangles himself from her cocoon as quietly as possible and climbs out of bed, giving his nightwear a strongly raised eyebrow now that he can see them in proper lighting. The shirt is dingy albeit many levels above the quality of clothing he was wearing before, and instead of slacks he is wearing a pair of slightly tight-fitted sweatpants. The waist hugs his hips and the pant legs bulge out just enough to make the pair snug. Transitioning his gaze, Eddie scratches his cheek and saunters over to the window. The light blinds him for a quick second once he's close enough, and then absolutely stings once he is opening them, but after the initial shock fades and he can finally see Eddie is almost stilled by the sight before him.

While the view of the mountain range last night was difficult to shy at, the view this morning is nothing short of phenomenal. Snowy tops lead into smaller, pearly white trails through green forestry, showcasing miles upon miles of rock formations and steep hills, cliff-like overhangs that drop into miniature valleys on the mountain side. Right underneath the range he spots a collection of shops and townhouses, probably built as tourist attractions for those travelling for the "ski resort." Whatever that means; however, in spite of his ignorance of what that specific phrase entails (the words do prick his memory, but it is too blurred for him to actually get anything factual from it) Eddie appreciates the town for what offerings he do understand. Like the view, atmosphere, and accompanying peace, which is somehow finding its way to him despite…everything.

Behind him the sheets rustle, so Eddie pulls in his thoughts and turns around, expression naturally brightening when he catches sight of Waylon preciously rubbing the sleep from her eyes and sitting up. Her hair is a mess atop her head, and the shirt she's wearing is draped off of her shoulder. It looks fairly large on her, and he has the sneaking suspicion that it wasn't always so big.

"Rise and shine, Darling," he says cheerily. "Today's a brand new day, and look! The view is just perfect."

Waylon follows the wave of his arm to the window, squinting at first from the sheer force of light and then her eyebrows relax and she audibly breathes from astonishment. Crawling to the edge of the bed, she rubs her eyes once more before snagging a chunk of the sheets and tossing it over her shoulders like a shawl. Bare feet quiet on the hardwood floor, she walks past Eddie to lean over the window sill, a finger coming up to press against the glass.

"It's beautiful," she exhales. The way her eyes widen is reminiscent of a child on Christmas. "I didn't notice it yesterday but…wow. This is fantastic."

Eddie hums his agreement, turning on his heel. Clasping his hands, he rubs them together for warmth and walks back over to the bed, staring at the mess of sheets and pillows for a moment before picking up the sheets one by one to fold. Behind him, Waylon gawks at the mountain idly, whispering to herself about how obscene it was to have not truly appreciated it beforehand, when she was driving. Her hand slaps the window sill loudly, and then she is sucking in air through her teeth.

Eddie shoots her a quick look, ready to come running to her side, but Waylon waves him off with a pained smile and point, her target aimed at the wounded side of her waist. As if that could calm his worry. Twisting to face her, Eddie waves out the next sheet and begins folding it over his arm, the measurements for folding squares muscle memory. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asks once she drops the smile.

Cracking her pretense just a little, Waylon shrugs. "Yeah, I think so," she says with no actual conviction. "The doctor didn't prescribe me anything so it should be fine just healing on its own."

"You did leave early, Waylon," Eddie interjects, finding distaste in his tone but not caring to apologize for it. Waylon could do with a short lecture. "What happens if your wound becomes infected?"

"It won't."

Eddie tilts his head. "You don't know that."

"No, but let's not hope for it," Waylon says, voice becoming a whine at the end. The inflection irritates him for some reason, causing his grip on the sheet to tighten automatically. Gritting his teeth to keep the impulse down, Eddie takes a few deep breaths before trusting his voice enough to reply.

"All that I am saying is that I don't want you to grow sick from this, Darling. That's it. And if you don't take care of yourself then the probability of you becoming infected increases. I saw incidents like this happen all of the time."

He has no way of snatching his words from the air once they are out there, no matter how desperately he wants to. Is he wrong? No. Mad? Not necessarily. A simple fact was stated but neither of them were ready for it, and that is why both parties almost instantly deflate, Eddie's spine stiffening while Waylon stills in obvious horror. He is positive that both of them can see it: the flashes of blood and guts, maniacal beings posed as human, a demon from fiction, and the many, many failures slung up on a gymnasium ceiling. He remembers all of them, but Waylon surely does not (she was hardly there for it), and the thought feels prickly and bitter in his core. He glares at her unintentionally and she meets his stare with her own seed of hatred. Welling. Burning. Smoldering.

The moment dies as quickly as it came. He coughs, to which Waylon clears her throat and nods solemnly, pink dusting the perks of her bony cheeks. "I, uh. You're right about-" she starts but Eddie shakes his head to stop her from continuing.

"If you say that you'll be fine then I'll trust you, alright?" he assures sadly with a sternness that keeps her from denying. It is oh-so-obvious on her face how she wants to reject his offer and berate herself, yet she bites her tongue and remains quiet, giving him a tight nod once she realizes that he was indeed waiting for a reply, just nonverbal.

He nods one last time as a form of conclusion, then lifts the last sheet from the bed to fold and gives it a shake. One tug, another wave, and then something hard and small comes flying from the bed and to the wall. It collides with a resounding smack, causing Waylon to jump from her place by the window.

Quirking an eyebrow, Eddie finishes the sheet with a toss to the now complete pile before stalking over to the object in question. "You bought…a phone?"

"Cellphone," Waylon corrects with a peep and then ducks her head, obviously flustered. She trips over her tongue while saying, "I grabbed a cheap one at some gas station while you were asleep. It was just so I could find a place to stay overnight." She glances up at him for a second, and the way that she worries her bottom lip makes Eddie's chest pinch.

He picks the cellphone from the ground and turns it over in his hand. The device felt strange as he curls his fingers around it, so used to occasionally touching larger, wired office phones that the knowledge of how cellphones work escapes him. He runs his thumb along the side of the phone, pressing here and there until he comes across a protrusion. The screen lights enthusiastically when he presses the button, revealing a display of a valley in the mountains during autumn. He fiddles with the phone for a tad longer, just until the tension in his back from Waylon's piercing stare becomes too insistent to ignore.

Eddie pauses to evaluate the phone one more time before turning sharply and chucking the phone at Waylon, shouting, "Catch!"

Surprisingly enough, she catches the phone, wide eyes and all, and a mirthful smile tugs on her lips until she can't help but let out a chuckle. He laughs back with her, their voices mingling in the room like music. Warmth spreads through Eddie in a wave, sweeping him off of his feet and leading him to cross the room and pull Waylon into an embrace. She accepts him joyously, reciprocating the hug with a squeeze of her own, chin barely breeching the sinkhole of his shoulders. Eddie buries his face in her neck and hair, breathing in so deeply that he feels intoxicated.

"I love you so much, Waylon," he says in between laughter.

She wiggles in his arms to get some distance between them so that she could actually look him in the eyes. "I love you too, Eddie," she says in earnest, practically bouncing, and then her gaze is cast somewhere behind them. When she looks back at him, Eddie fumbles to find any other description besides devious.

She wets her lips with a quick swipe of her tongue. "Hey."

"Hey," he answers fairly stupidly. A hand snakes its way from his shoulder blades to his neck, cupping the side of his chin possessively, at the same time that Waylon presses closer, almost toppling over Eddie due to how uncoordinated his feet seem to be right now. She looks at him questionably, raising one eyebrow far above the other, and Eddie is certain that his response is nowhere near the ball park she was hitting to. "Is there something that you need-"

"How does a shower sound right about now?" She asks innocently enough, if not for the purely devilish glint in her eye.

Eddie swallows thickly. "I haven't…been cleaned in a while," comes his answer, hesitation filtered through the sudden daze that has befallen him. He stumbles back when Waylon starts pressing forward again, hands trailing patches of skin, his spine and sides, until they reach the waistband of his sweats. Her fingers dip just below the band teasingly.

Standing on her toes to properly reach his ear, she kisses the sensitive skin right behind his ear before whispering, "Then how about you head in there and get the water started?"

Unaccustomed to such promiscuity – from his Darling nonetheless – Eddie's neck and cheeks light on fire. He feels himself nodding while backing away until his knees hit the edge of the bed. A bit of embarrassment worms its way into the heat already on his cheeks, and, feeling his balance steadily slipping, Eddie scurries to the bathroom with very little composure and more tripping over his own feet.

It almost feels like a reassurance once he is alone in the bathroom, door cracked so that it is not quite shut, opened just enough to hold in heat without suffocating himself. His heart is racing in his chest, the thump of it echoing from his ribs to the rest of his bones. Whatever got into Waylon just shook him to his core, not to say that he is necessarily against the idea, but for some reason he keeps going back to why she is asking. When had she ever asked? And the last time they did anything… The memory refuses to sit right with him.

But who is he to deny his darling when she is actively desiring him? It would be hypocritical for him to call this off, to ask for clarification, to make sure that this is what she actually wants. So he bites his tongue and passes the mirror without looking into it so he can turn on the water. It takes him a minute to remember how showers work through a series of random twists, turns, and pulls, but eventually the water is falling from the shower head and warming up.

With that done, the last thing on his list of preparations is to actually undress.

Undress.

Eddie grabs hold of the shirt's hem, pinching the fabric between calloused fingers, focusing on the contact to ground him because the idea of undressing is somehow making his stomach do somersaults. Swallowing what feels like butterflies, he takes a deep, cleansing breath and then yanks the shirt off while he still has some courage.

It shouldn't have been that hard. He knows that. Yet the idea of fully undressing is causing him to feel queasy. Just your mental, Eddie thinks as if that would help the situation. What it does instead is curl his hands into fists and bend him over the sink, shirt bundled at his feet. There are scars lining his abdomen and waist. Scratch marks. Nails that had pierced into him and left physical memories. How has he never noticed them before? Inhaling shakily, he grits his teeth, knuckles turning white, and forces his eyes to close. He is fortunate to find no skeletons waiting for him there in the darkness, but the earth's rotation does not bypass him and he feels as though he is slipping. His arm twitches out of its own volition, along with his hip and hand and foot and knee and – and –

"Eddie?"

Waylon's voice is the only clear thing in the world right now. Eddie lifts his head just enough to look at her, sure that his expression is utterly wild and probably terrifying, and either Waylon is used to seeing him this way or his expression is not as grave as assumed, but she doesn't desert him. Instead, she reassures him with a soft touch and smile, hand curling around his bicep protectively. He stays still when she wraps herself around his shaking body, allowing her to coax him into a slow, comforting rock and hum.

A kiss is pressed to the top of his shoulder and then she is combing her hands as best as she can through greasy hair. "I'm right here beside you, Eddie," she assures him while rubbing tiny ellipses over his back. "You don't have to worry anymore."

She can't promise that, and as ridiculous as it sounds Eddie actually believes it. Allows himself to take her word at face value if it means that his shoulders can slump without shaking and he can finally breathe again. He shakes his head when she says something else, which makes her squeeze him tighter. "You know that I love you, right?" she asks, voice dripping in concern, and it is very clear that this question is not rhetorical.

He licks his lips and tries to put some distance between them, but Waylon refuses to allow him to shift even an inch away. "I'm not lying to you about that, Eddie," she asserts with a pat to his back. "I. Love. You. Eddie Gluskin. No matter what, I will always be right by your side. You don't need to carry the world alone anymore, Eddie, I'm right here beside you."

"But I'm a monster," he interjects, the words shocking himself as they leave. Eddie touches his lips hesitantly, wondering where the words had come from, but they must be true if he has no recollection of ever conjuring them. In his peripheral he sees Waylon staring in worry, eyebrows creased so deeply that she looks pissed. The sight makes some part of him laugh in appreciation, but what comes out of his throat is so far off the spectrum of laughter that he almost wants to cry.

"How could you love someone like me? I am a monster," he sobs without tears, digging his nails into the ceramic sink. Looking at Waylon might be too painful, so he lifts his gaze to the mirror woefully, posture straightening until he can see his reflection. Absently he realizes that Waylon's arms have slid off of him, but he is too rapt in his own disgust to comment on it.

On some level, Eddie holds a certain disconnect to his reflection. While he knows how he looks, actually seeing the eruption of bloody scars and bruises on his cheek in clear view is a straight sucker punch to the groin. What is worse, however, are the rows of scratch marks cross-stitching his waist from past victims. It feels virtually impossible for Eddie to tear his gaze away now. "You shouldn't be able to love something like me."

"No Eddie… I," he shakes his head, not wanting to hear it, especially with Waylon sounding as far away as she does. He doesn't blame her. Cannot bring himself to hate her, because he hates himself. He did this to people. He did it. And he forced her to –

"I shouldn't love you."

It is wondrous how pathetic he feels once the ball drops, especially since he knows the answer to be true. Eddie clenches his teeth until it makes his jaw ache, refusing to look anywhere outside of his own reflection. Despite his grief, he finds himself imaging a deflating balloon, once filled and now dying, the air in it seeping out. What delusions were he filled with that are now coming to light? Will he be able to at least see them before his body has flattened?

He can almost literally feel himself deflate, but it is at that exact moment where Eddie is about to crumble that something catches his shoulder and drags him away from the mirror. The world is still tipping, but Waylon's body is small and sturdy. He thinks he says something to her (his mouth opens and closes with a noise escaping in between, whether that noise is competent or not is beyond him) but she keeps staring forward, ignoring him until she can shove him on to the toilet. Surely, she is going to speak now, yet she remains silent even as Eddie allows her to tug his sweatpants off.

She makes quick, clinical work of his clothes, folding them into a neat pile by the shelf with a few white hand towels on it. The steam from the shower has now settled in the bathroom; he watches the smoky wisps pour over the shower curtain and cloud the ceiling. He listens to the water fall like a backdrop, and averts his eyes when Waylon starts to undress herself. Right now it feels like a violation to look, so instead he stares at the tiles on the floor and creates an imaginary train that travels its crevices.

He is drawn away from his thoughts by a firm hand and beckon. "Come here," Waylon sighs. "I'll wash you off first."

Still feeling rather frail, Eddie simply nods and whispers a disheartened, "Okay."

From here, Eddie finds it a lot easier to let go. He follows blankly as Waylon guides him into the shower, ensuring that he steps high enough to not trip, that he is placed in front of the water first. He winces once his body begins to be pelted, having not taken a hot shower (or hot anything) in a very, very long time, but Waylon is patient and shushes the moan from his mouth, placing light kisses on his shoulders and spine. It is a tedious process, but eventually Eddie feels himself relax. First his shoulders and then his back, working down until even his toes have uncurled in submission, which may be because of Waylon's firm coaxing with her hands.

She kneads his muscles with uncanny precision, pressing against tension knots and rubbing them until they are essentially gone. At some point she handed him a bottle of shampoo, so as she works her way down his body Eddie massages his scalp. His fingernails scrape a few sore spots on his scalp, but overall shampooing his hair feels fantastic, and the scent of ocean spray is a well appreciated bonus. She reaches his ankles sooner than expected, so it comes as a surprise when Eddie is suddenly being turned around and pushed to the back of the shower, where the water is now almost solely pelting Waylon's back.

"Darling," he says into a kiss and she bites his lower lip to shush him, the taste of soap suds on his tongue. She tilts her head for better leverage, teasing his teeth and lips with tongue until he takes the initiative and cups her cheeks, holding her still so he can twine his tongue with hers. Waylon wraps an arm around his neck, drawing closer, and with her other hand fingers a particularly sore spot near his hip.

Eddie catches her lip between his teeth and pulls, to which Waylon responds with a wide grin and tightened grip. To his disappointment, though, she pulls away to take a step back, eyes scanning over Eddie's already ravished appearance. His cheeks warm from the scrutiny, but it would be a lie to say that he isn't at least a little turned on by the attention. He runs a hand through his hair, catching a mountain of shampoo and it hits the ground with a wet plop.

They watch the froth circle and wash away before Waylon makes another move, this time to grab the shampoo bottle herself. She flips the bottle upside down and opens it, but instead of pouring it into her own hand she takes Eddie's palm and fills it with shampoo. He cups his palm with his other hand and begins to massage the gel into Waylon's hair without having to be told.

Leaning closer, Waylon hums softly and then gets to work on rinsing out Eddie's hair, reversing their positions. "I shouldn't love you," she says into the space between them.

It suddenly feels like a vacuum, so he just keeps combing his fingers through her rough hair.

"You're right. We are a product of our circumstance, which was beyond…gruesome," her voice sounds pained from remembering. She takes a second to compose herself before continuing. "But even with all of that, I'm still here. You were the only constant in my – our – turmoil, and I can't help but love you." Here she pauses, and the vibration from her heartbeat seems to be felt in his chest. The vacuum, somehow someway, has vanished just as quickly as it came, leaving him reeling with relief and heat. Not from the water, or the steam, but from the completely unfiltered honesty coming from Waylon.

She swipes through his hair one last time before taking his face in her hands and forcing him to look her directly in the eye. "I love you in spite of everything, Eddie. Don't you ever call yourself a monster again," she says, holding his gaze with a powerful glare, and then she is dropping to her knees.

Eddie is unsure where the shower water ends and Waylon's mouth begins, but one place is significantly warmer than the other. He stifles a moan when Waylon flicks her tongue over the head of his cock in a combination of long stripes and short touches, drawing him into her mouth at intervals until he is fully erect. Her hands come to brace against his thighs while Eddie's go back to her hair, keeping the shampoo away from her eyes.

"Waylon…" he sighs, noticing a line of steam leaving his lips with the name. She blinks longingly at him, cheeks flushed a deep red, before closing her eyes and swallowing him down to the base. He has to force himself to stop before his grip of her hair became too tight, but Eddie swears that he is seeing some sparkle of stars. She sucks him so confidently, moaning around him and letting off completely to lick and tease his shaft and head. His knees buckle and for a second Eddie desperately wishes that he had something to brace himself against, but repositioning them will only cause Waylon to stop and right now just the thought of her mouth being away from him is blasphemy.

A hand comes to hold the base of his cock, twisting her wrist, as Waylon sucks her way to his head and pulls away with a wet pop. She opens his mouth and allows his cock to rest on her tongue, the expression on her face and placement absolutely obscene, but his erection strains from how much her eyes make him want. With the hand on him she strokes him slowly, pumping and squeezing the head until her tongue is glistening with pre-cum.

The water on his back is now turning lukewarm, which for some ungodly, blissful reason only intensifies the heat of Waylon's mouth. And this may be a push toward a boundary that he is unsure is there or not, but Eddie finds it extremely difficult to not slowly thrust his hips, sliding his erection over Waylon's tongue and into her mouth. She welcomes his actions with a moan and sits on her knees a little higher, tongue flexing, and Eddie takes it as a confirmation for carefully fucking her mouth.

The noises escaping him must be lewd, and he is positive that Waylon would be doing the same, if not louder, if her mouth wasn't filled already. He holds her head in place with a strong, yet ginger, grip on the back of her head, angling his thrusts so that he can see the imprint of himself on her cheek every time. Tears threaten to spill from the corner of her eyes, but whenever he starts to worry and pull away or slow down she moans in displeasure and sucks him in a little harder.

"Darling," he groans from hitting the back of her throat. The pressure of orgasm rides right above the base of his dick, and his thrusts are beginning to become more sporadic, faster and harder and with less and less apology, but she takes him in full, loving it with watery eyes and sinful noises. In the background he sees Waylon sneak a hand to her lap and without having to see anything he knows exactly what is going on.

An inkling of disgust traces his thoughts, but it is soon clouded by excitement because Waylon is enjoying this, him, getting genuine excitement from having him fuck her mouth, use her. So vulgar. So filthy. But the space where he would usually short-circuit from the realization is still intact and he feels especially happy.

"You love being used, don't you," he says, hot and suffocated and Waylon responds with a little whimper and faster strokes on herself. She vibrates from the two front pleasure, swallowing as much as him as she can and hand twisting over her own member.

"I want you to cum with me, Darling. Do you think you can do it?" he asks sincerely, slowing down his thrusts to accommodate her. Her eyes open warily, disbelief clear in her expression but he cups her ear gently and runs a hand through her detangled hair. Her face is wet from water and tears, so beautiful in the light of the shower. Slowly, he pulls himself out of her mouth so that the tip of his cock is on her abused, pink lips. Her arm doesn't stop jerking despite his slowing down, causing a sudden compulsion to take Eddie.

Still holding himself to her lips, he looks over his hips to where Waylon is stroking herself.

His breath hitches from the sight, causing his mouth to water all the same. "You're so beautiful," he gasps, and Waylon's hand stutters for only a moment before twisting over her head. He pushes past her lips without warning, but Waylon must have been anticipating because she opens her mouth without argue.

They are transfixed on each other, both watching the other's pleasure carefully, taking it as their own and sharing, neither selfish. The knowledge of this being his first time seeing Waylon's pleasure as a factor to take into account is bittersweet, and while he wishes that he had done it earlier, during their first time in that hell, he knows that he can do nothing to change the past.

So he focuses on what is right in front of him and tries to convey his love through patience and acceptance, eyes never leaving Waylon's motions once he has found them. Her hand is moving rapidly over herself, no longer trying to make the moment last but to bring herself to orgasm so that they can share the moment. His own pleasure is on the brink of spilling over, the overwhelming stimuli of lips and tongue and hand on his erection bringing him to pulsate in need. A mantra of Waylon's name mingles between them as he tries to keep himself controlled, but the pleasure is just inching further and further up his length and he can feel it in the tip of his dick.

Spilling on to Waylon's tongue.

Coating the inside of her mouth and throat.

She pulls off with a tremble and whimper, hand replacing where her mouth once was. "Eddie – I'm going to-"

He forces his way back in before she could finish her sentence, thrusting so far that it chokes her, her arm and hips jerking and thrusting sporadically until she is spilling over her own hand and Eddie is finishing down her throat. His moan is cut short by a lack of air while his body still moves with his orgasm, riding the pleasure with galaxies and stars exploding behind his eyelids. Below him Waylon is shaking, trying to swallow but plenty still slips from the corner of her lips. Feeling a spark of worry that he might actually be choking her, Eddie drags himself out of her mouth just in time for a final spurt of cum to smear over her cheek. His heart skips from just how filthy it looks.

"Darling," he pants, knees synonymous to jelly so he lowers himself to the floor before reaching for the shower faucet and turning the water off. Steam floats over them like a blanket, and a few soap and shampoo suds stick to his calves. Scooting back to where Waylon is curled against the back of the tub, Eddie nestles between her legs so that he can hold her as close as possible.

She sniffles into his shoulder, chest heaving now that she can breathe properly, and a pair of worn arms lazily drape around his neck. He hums quietly against her cheek and nuzzles her ear with his nose. "Thank you," he whispers and Waylon pats his back.

"You don't have to thank me, Eddie," she says with a shake of her head. Sleep teases the end of her words, and Eddie can sympathize with how exhausted she feels. "I didn't do anything."

"You've done more for me than I could ever explain, my love. I am," he pauses, searching for the right word with a muddled mind, "grateful. For everything."

It is obvious how she wants to argue with him, try to explain how her care is unconditional and should not be awarded as anything above and beyond expected, but she doesn't. She remains quiet, and Eddie is extremely content with that. They sit in the draining tub for however much longer, drifting away with the rise and fall of each other's chests and steady breathing. And Eddie would have been perfectly fine staying just this way until the semen on Waylon's stomach starts to dry and stick to him.

The realization is so dirty, making him sneak from under Waylon's arms laughing giddily. She peers at him with furrowed eyebrows and a pinched nose, confusion adorable. He pokes her nose childishly and then leans in for a kiss, tasting himself on her tongue. When they pull away for air, Waylon finds his hand and gives it a squeeze. "Are you alright?" she asks, the concern in her voice melting his heart.

And he can't help but to kiss her again, and again, and again, until lust begins to stir in his groin and he has to stop before things start heading into the gutter once more. Placing one final kiss to her cheek, Eddie backs away with a squeeze to her hand. "How's it sound if we take one more shower, to actually clean up, and then head out for breakfast?"

Her eyes widen in shock or contemplation, whichever he cannot tell, but then the expression falls into a dazzling smile and nod. "Yeah," she says shyly, "that sounds great."

Chapter Text

The mountain tops are white from snow this time of year. The tree line stops right as green turns to white, specs of forestry present in some areas but soon hidden behind piles upon piles of cold. Waylon traces a circle on to the window where it lines with a mountain peak. Smooth instrumentals filter through the car speakers, volume low enough to set the tone of the ride and keep away white noise. It lulls him into a comfortable embrace, and it is here where he realizes just how sleep deprived he actually is. But food is important, and Eddie wants to take him out, so he shakes his head and presses his cheek to the icy window in an attempt to shock himself awake.

There is a shuffle from beside him and then a click on the radio.

' – you know I'll always be your slave'

Pulling away from the window, Waylon settles back into the cushion of the seat and glances sideways at Eddie. From this side the man's scars are on display, blistering and burning a fiery red. Perhaps inflamed? Waylon's eyebrows furrow and he wants to touch the sores, if only for a brief second, but the idea of making physical contact seems foolish at the moment, like breaking the tension at water's surface.

'Til' I'm buried, buried in my grave'

He thinks he sees Eddie attempting to look at him, so Waylon quickly turns his head and goes back to staring out the window. The scenery, while it has not changed significantly, welcomes more and more brick buildings and homes the further into the county they go. Green and yellow apartments sit atop small shops, a variety of them ranging from ski rentals to antiques, and the backdrop of Peak 10 from the resort centers all of the county's idiosyncrasies into one well-formulated scene. The entire town seems naturally welcoming.

'Ooh, honey. Bring it to me. Bring your sweet loving'

He closes his eyes as they round a corner, forehead rolling against the cool of the window. A wave of exhaustion drapes him warmly, and it feels as if he is being coaxed into a nap. His shoulders slump and legs spread, thoughts wandering into silence so all that he perceives is the engine of the jeep and instrumentals. The song is old, probably from the 1960s, but no less enjoyable. It is a sad lullaby of sorts, a plea for love, and hits a little too close to home for his liking. Nevertheless, it aids in calming his mind and drawing him to sleep. Nearer and nearer…

'Bring it on home to me. Yeah (yeah), yeah (yeah), yeah…'

The car suddenly stops to his dismay before a hand comes to gently shake his shoulder. "Time to wake up, Darling. We made it," Eddie says quietly, to which Waylon lets out a soft groan of protest and sits up rubbing his eyes. He had hardly drifted off, but that small bit was just enough to make him want to curl into himself and fall back to sleep. Though it is hard for him to remain in that mindset when he meets Eddie's ever eager gaze, the other man's twisted scars somehow making him appear like a kicked puppy instead of a maniac. The comparison is a curious one, so Waylon shoos it away and smiles up at Eddie, his hand already curling around the other's neck for a brief kiss.

Their contact is short yet fulfilling, sweeping just enough energy into Waylon to convince him to actually get out of the jeep. A piercing pain cuts through his side as he exits the car, but he simply cups his side as he closes the door and tries to force away a grimace by smiling. He makes a mental note to pick up some bandages on their way back to the hotel.

Eddie unintentionally slams his door closed. "I saw a billboard talking about this diner and just followed the signs," he says, shy, nervous smile curling his lips. "Should be to your liking, hopefully."

His words sound more like a question than anything else, so Waylon quickly nods and flashes his own grin in an attempt to keep Eddie from doubting himself. Walking around the jeep, Waylon comes to stand by his side and nudges his hand, sliding their fingers together into a firm grasp. "I'm sure you chose fine," Waylon supplements with a nod, holding Eddie's gaze until the older man returns it with a worried sigh. He does not look away until Eddie visibly relaxes, shoulder slumping down to a more relaxed position, and then Waylon takes the first step toward the diner.

The issue of money never came up in conversation. Perhaps Eddie remembered from when Waylon put gas in the car? Nevertheless, the man somehow knew, yet the diner (which is apparently the best in the town) looks no more expensive than a Waffle House. Waylon opens the door to a ringing bell and tsunami of mouth-watering aromas. Savory bacon and cinnamon waffles, maple syrup, coffee, sausage. Somewhere behind a counter a woman shouts, "Welcome to Dave's!" and another calls for an order of "Hot stacks, blueberry mix, scrambled eggs, four toast, and OJ."

A melody of frying pans and skillets set the bass for tuned knives, plates, and conversation. The diner is neither loud nor quiet, a comfortable volume that keeps private conversations private while also easing the air for families. Bar stools line the kitchen counter where red booths fade away, and a few tables fill the center area of the restaurant. A man with nicely pinned, curly hair lifts a tray of coffee mugs from the counter and swivels around the many patrons effortlessly, his apron displaying a cartoon-ish logo as it sways. He rests his elbow against his hip once he stops at a table, passing off the mugs to a group of girls.

Waylon's stomach growls when he spots a plate piled with three golden pancakes, eggs, and toast, then realizes that this must have been the order just placed. Another waiter comes to bring that person's food, and the noise of the diner settles somewhere deep in Waylon's mind. It turns into a blur, words melding into each other until they become indistinguishable, and his fingers twitch in Eddie's grasp. A cold sweat begins to prickle his skin despite how very warm the building is, and for some reason it is becoming harder and harder to breathe. But the food smells so good, and his stomach is practically doing flips for sustenance that isn't canned peaches, or water, or crackers, or –

"Seating for two?" a woman asks far too enthusiastically for Waylon's care at the moment. She stands no more than two or three feet in front of them, fiery crimson hair complimenting her less intensive, green eyes. A stack of menus are pressed against her chest. Waylon licks his lips in anticipation of speaking, but it is Eddie instead who answers first.

"Yes, dear," he nods, sure smile in place. The woman beams and turns on her heel with a bounce, announcing for them to follow her. They do so with a start, Waylon exhaling in relief of Eddie's courage. His hand is still shaking but without the attention being on him he has more time to just process his surroundings; and, admittedly, having Eddie squeeze his hand in reassurance was a pretty significant aid too. So he follows the two silently, eyes wandering from wall to floor, to ceiling, to wall. He makes eye contact with one of the kids at a table with four others and makes no effort to suppress his laughter when the kid makes a peculiarly ugly face.

A handful of seconds later they are being seated in a booth by one of the large windows making up a "wall," the waitress pulling out a little notepad and Japanese, sparkling pen from her apron. "I can start you guys off with a drink if you'd like. I know you just sat down, so if you need more time I am happy to come back in a bit?"

Snagging a menu from the center of the table, Waylon peers over its top at Eddie, whom seems to regard the menu himself before tilting his head (so that his bruised cheek is facing away) and answering, "A coffee will be fine."

She jots it down with a swipe of her pen. "Cream and sugar?"

"No thank you, love," Eddie replies and almost immediately the waitress' cheeks turn just a shade darker. She scribbles over the notepad before turning to Waylon, not without chancing a very obvious glance at Eddie, though. "And what can I do for you?"

Leave. Waylon bites his tongue. "Water is fine," he says in a mockery of pleasantry, the twisting in his gut no longer rising from hunger. The waitress seems to not notice, however, so he feels just the barest amount of guilt when she notes it then retreats to the kitchen area, her shout not as loud as the first lady who commanded food upon their entrance. Waylon watches her for just a moment longer than necessary before dragging his gaze away to Eddie, who is currently turning the menu round and round.

His finger draws circles over certain items, tracing a path back and forth between two or three, but no more than four. After one connection has been made Eddie flips the page to the back, repeating the same steps until a triangle of sorts has been mentally created. At first the links were broad and including entire dishes, but now they are focused on single items or at maximum one small entrée. Waylon figures that the process is just a strange way of narrowing selections, which in itself is not so bad but can also be explained away. Maybe Eddie is feeling slightly overwhelmed too? Yet, if so, then why was he flirting with the waitress –

No. No, not flirting. All he said was "love." But that woman. Just the thought of her makes him want to rip out his spine.

Forcibly tossing that particular thought out of the window, Waylon turns back to his own menu. He eyes each item with ramping curiosity, mind trying to wrap around foods he thinks he has never seen before and memories of home-cooked breakfasts. It would be a lie to say that a pang of utter desolation is not fluttering within him, but what helps is that the faces in his memories are blurred enough for him to pretend that they are not even there. Just ghostly, shadowy figures laughing and eating in harmony.

He blinks himself out of his mind, a frown settling over his eyebrows. Why does he keep zoning out? He does not feel as troubled as he had minutes ago, nor does he feel an impending panic attack, so why does he keep going internal? A sudden warmth washes over his forehead and cheeks so he wipes the side of his face, but the creeping feeling of embarrassment is persistent and it isn't until he lifts his gaze that he realizes he is being watched.

"Uh, w-what?" Waylon stammers, sitting up to press his back against the cushion. At some point during his brainstorm the waitress must have reappeared because a full glass of water is sitting by his menu and Eddie is calmly sipping at his coffee. Its aroma is strong, like sniffing a bag of ground coffee beans. Beginning to feel beyond awkward, Waylon clears his throat into his fist and snags a straw from the table, tapping it against his leg to break the paper before letting it slip into the water.

He cups the bottom of the glass with both hands. "So…see anything you like?" he asks in a pathetic segue from oh-look-Park-is-being-weird to badly constructed small talk.

Although, Eddie doesn't seem to mind because he answers without fret, "I think I found a few things. Ah," setting his coffee down, Eddie leans over the table and slides Waylon's menu around until it is facing him. He points at three different entrees with one hand. "I think I want the main dishes of these without the sides."

Waylon's mouth opens in awe. "You're gonna eat that much?"

"I was planning on sharing it with you," Eddie says, eyebrows furrowing in what appears to be confusion and doubt, his gaze shifting between Waylon and the menu. Slowly, Eddie starts to lean back into his seat. "I should not have assumed so, right?" He recoils a little further. "You can choose what you want."

Waylon's eyes widen at the sudden turnover in Eddie's disposition. He shakes his head vehemently, reaching out to catch Eddie's hand before it could fully retreat. "No, no, you're alright. Everything you chose looks really good too. You shouldn't worry!"

"You sure?" Eddie questions, still looking about ready to disappear, to which Waylon makes a clear "mhmm" noise and scoots forward in his seat in an attempt to balance them. The motion reminds him of a seesaw, the notion so childish that it causes him to smirk, a small chuckle escaping before he could stop it. A stab of guilt hits him again though when he realizes that he must have come off as laughing at Eddie, and he is prepared to stutter out an apology when he hears an equally amused, and utterly sweet, laugh leave from the man in front of him. The sight stills him for a moment before he too joins, their laughter mixing in the air softly, shared only between them and no one else.

Eddie squeezes his hand lovingly before loosening his grip enough for Waylon to pull away. He tries to cover his mouth with it; touching his skin reveals very warm flesh, the knowledge only serving to heat up his cheeks even more. This, right here and now, is comfortable. It ebbs away the blotches of fear and anxiety creeping through his skin since the moment they left the car, wipes until they are faded and too distant to distort. He basks in the warmth, the acceptance, the joy, emotions that had been so separated from him but are now making their way back. Slowly, surely, perhaps one day he will fully remember. Maybe one day he can claim them as his own again.

Maybe one day…but apparently that day isn't today, because the moment Ms. Flirtatious Waitress returns for their order Waylon feels a dead weight crash through his skull and into the pit of his stomach. There is no way that he hid the scowl on his face to keep at least Eddie from seeing it.

"You two look to be having a good time! What, did you see a pretty lady?" the woman – Addi, her name tag reads – teases, tone high and playful and just on the wrong side of grating for Waylon's ears. He takes a sip of his water and leans on his forearms, absolutely glaring at her now.

With a huff, he answers a simultaneous, "No," and

"Oh, I think that I saw one not too long ago."

Waylon's eyes widen, shifting from Addi to Eddie. He cocks his head to the side. "What?"

Above him, Addi grins wide and leans closer to Eddie. "Oh really now," she practically hoots, red hair draping precariously over her shoulder. "Is she here right now?"

"Hmm," Eddie hums along the edge of his mug, now staring dead at Waylon. There is something intense and challenging behind his eyes that rears on the border of unsettling, causing little knots and clinks in Waylon where butterflies once were. He tries not to over analyze it, tries not to think about the expectant look on the waitress' face or how the rest of the diner is somehow becoming muffled. The wait is suffocating despite probably lasting three seconds now, but his perception of time is off because holy shit is Eddie actually talking about this lady?

He blinks and sees an array of images flash across his vision, ink splotches, blurred yet enhanced while representing nothing in particular. A flashback. A reminder. Waylon feels his spine tremble and the glass of water in his hand shakes before his voice creaks out harshly, "Are you ready to order…darling?"

It's like ending a spell. One second the world is spinning, and then the next everything is back to how it was. Standing upright, familiar, balanced, the sky is blue and the grass is green and all of that jazz. Eddie is still watching him, except the challenge in his eye is all gone, and Addi is looking between them, eyes narrowing slightly before she is plastering on a fake, customer service smile and taking the smallest step from the table.

She clicks her pen on her notepad, posture pointed purposely away from Eddie. When Waylon does not answer her silent question, she takes another step and makes to leave, mumbling a well-mannered, "Just let me know when you're ready," but Eddie clears his throat to capture her attention before she could retreat.

Waylon has to commend Addi for making it look like a personal pain for her to even be talking to Eddie now, but at least she isn't hurdling insults like some women would. She jots down their order efficiently, the cheer in her voice returning halfway through reading back what Eddie chose and asking questions. By the end of the transaction a stranger would not have been able to tell that there was ever an awkward dispute. To Waylon's relief the air is a little easier to breathe once Addi has walked away; however, there is another key piece to his anxiety that cannot simply leave.

Waylon avoids any sort of contact for about one singular minute before Eddie is opening his mouth. "Darling, why did you-"

"I need to go to the restroom," he cuts him off, abruptly standing from the table and heading to the neon 'restroom' sign. He has to pass by the booth of children again and in his peripheral he sees the boy from earlier staring at him and then turning around in his seat to gawk at Eddie.

"Oooo, mommy! Mommy I know that-"

Another voice (one of the girls, no more than seven years old) pulls him by his ear back down to his seat, shushing him. "You're going to get us in trouble! Mommy said to stop!"

Waylon's ears perk, but by the time he passes the threshold to the bathroom the children's voices are too monotonous with the rest of the restaurant to pick out. Which is good, because the strange, seldom pain in his chest from earlier was starting to come back and this time he had a more significant face of a child in his thoughts to go along with it.

He clenches his eyes closed and inhales deeply. Over the past few months Waylon has developed the ability to cleanse his thoughts with breathing, a skill that has become invaluable in such a hectic life. He opens the door to the men's room with another inhale, breathing out once he finds an empty stall and then holding his air again. He does not sit, just simply stands against the door and locks it before he could forget. In here the diner is quiet. Calm. A burst of some air fresher sprays what smells like the ocean, and soon he is breathing in tidal waves.

Washing in….dragging out…washing in…dragging out…washing in…

Someone knocks on his stall's door, jolting him from his meditation. "Ah, yeah sorry man. I'll be out in a second," he says, bending over to grab toilet paper to at least pretend that he was using the toilet, but his efforts prove futile when the person speaks.

"Waylon, why are you acting like this?"

He immediately stills, pausing over the ball of toilet paper wadded in his hand, but ignoring Eddie seems just as bad of an option as faking ignorance, so Waylon resolves to pressing a free palm to his eyes and groaning. The ghost of a childlike figure is still present; he wants to let Eddie know of this, tell him what is truly bothering him, but the thought of being so straightforward is painful and he'd rather ease himself into boiling water than dive into the fires of hell. So he asks his own roundabout question instead, "Did Addi bring the food yet?"

"Who?"

Waylon clicks his tongue in irritation. "Addi. The waitress. You know, the most beautiful woman you've seen today." There is an unbidden bite to his tone, though bringing himself to care is far from the top of his priorities. He can hear Eddie moving about from the other side of the door, his shoes shuffling across the tile and clothing ruffling, as if he is shoving his hands into his pockets.

Waylon waits for the tell-tale sigh that indicates when Eddie is about to speak, already preparing himself for a hard conversation. It comes after another minute or two. "Is that why you called me darling?" Eddie asks.

"I thought it would get your attention… Which it did."

"Because you thought that I was flirting with the waitress," Eddie says, not a question, and the words cause Waylon to bite his lip. He nods before realizing that there was no way for Eddie to see it.

Swallowing his pride, Waylon grits out a "Yes," but then Eddie is sighing again and exasperation is not what he needs right now so he barrels on with a tap on the door. "She was obviously flirting with you, Eddie, and you went along with it. Right in front of me, too. What the fuck was that?"

"I was not flirting with her-"

"Yeah, yeah you were," he almost shouts, though the echo in the bathroom carries his voice like a cacophony. "And why the hell were you looking at me like that anyway, huh? Like I was supposed to play along with whatever game was going on between you and that woman. You called her beautiful and then stared me down. How else was I supposed to react?"

There is a sudden pressure on the other side of the door that Waylon suspects to be Eddie leaning against it. "I wasn't talking about her," is all he says and that just sends Waylon's blood boiling.

"Then what other woman did you see, Eddie? She was the only one talking to you!"

"Waylon, Darling, what are you-"

"Don't lie to me, Eddie," Waylon says, voice cracking, hands tightening into fists. "You wanted her to-"

"You're the only woman I will ever want, Waylon. I was talking about you, and only you," Eddie says, his fist hitting the side of the door hard enough to make Waylon's muscles twitch. There is so much exasperation in Eddie's voice that it makes Waylon want to cringe and hide away, because he knew this. Has always known it – but 'woman?' The term is hard to swallow; so close yet strangely wrong. Not out here. Not in this world.

Panic begins to rise in Waylon's throat, cutting his air short and choppy. He pinches his arm to ground himself. "Aren't you," he starts, rolls the words over his tongue, tastes them, and then spits them out. "How are you not overwhelmed? Aren't you afraid? The noises…the smell…isn't it…" too much?

There is a long pause before Eddie speaks again. "You should have said that earlier, Darling. I could have helped you."

Helped him? How? Waylon turns around to face the stall door, touches a spot where he thinks Eddie's face is. "What could you have done? I'm just processing everything, and yeah, it's hard, but I don't think… Do you not feel the same?" Waylon asks.

"I feel," Eddie starts then stops, shifting some more, thinking hard enough for the energy to feel tangible. He must not know what to say because instead of answering he lightly wiggles the door handle. "I want to see you," he says.

It is not a command so Waylon obeys willingly, opening the door almost instantly. Instead of drawing him into a hug or kissing him like Waylon expected, Eddie simply grabs hold of his hand and pulls him in close without it being an embrace. The contact is semi-grounding, support just enough to keep him from slipping. Nevertheless, it is welcome and Waylon is actually relieved to not be put into a position of vulnerability.

They walk back to the booth together without another word on the subject, the mystery of Eddie's reaction unknown to Waylon; although, he is not sure if he is even ready to delve into it. So he remains quiet and follows Eddie's lead without dispute. Addi had brought back their food in the meantime, the distraction being more than worth it since he had forgotten just how hungry he was before the whole situation. Eventually, Eddie did spark small talk, albeit their conversation strayed far from where it was earlier. He spoke kindly, topics treading on lighthearted and, well, normal. As normal as it could be with Eddie being departed from outside life for years and Waylon feeling relatively absent from reality. At one point Eddie let Trager's name slip by accident, freezing him like a deer in headlights, but Waylon pressed on without incident, determined to maintain their fallacy.

The rest of their breakfast – brunch, actually – follows this trend without deviance. The food tastes divine in Waylon's flavor-starved stomach, and Addi only stopped by once to refill Eddie's coffee. Overall, it was pleasant after their hiccup, and soon the muffled noise of the diner changed back into regular conversation and familial happiness. The kids were packing up to leave, mother overriding their small voices with loud commands to quiet down and get their jackets on. Waylon watches them from the corner of his eye, a smile tugging on his lips when he sees the boy from earlier.

He must not be any older than seven, like the girl. The boy looks past the other kids while they tug on their jackets, his own coat hanging idly over his arm and touching the floor. There is something in the distance that he is staring at, but whatever has captured his attention is out of Waylon's view.

You look like a pedophile. Waylon almost chokes with laughter over the thought and shakes his head. Yeah, he probably shouldn't just stare at some random kid, so he goes back to his water and taps the straw. Soon after Addi approaches the table with a black book and gathers their plates, sliding the booklet and pen to Eddie. She exchanges a curious look with him before thanking them for coming and saying something along the lines of "Come back soon!" Not caring to interact with anyone right now, Waylon just hands Eddie two twenties and tells him to pay for their food at the register while he warms up the jeep.

It is a fair exchange, and since he is the sounder one right now, Eddie agrees and hands Waylon the car keys. Easy. Clean. Waylon curls his fingers around the keys with a whistle before leaning forward to take one more drink from his water. This time, when he looks in the direction of the kids, the boy is staring back at him. And then at the screen. And then to Eddie. And once again.

The kid grabs hold of his mother's pants leg feverishly. "Mommy," he says.

She swats at him lightly. "You can go to the bathroom with your brother, Charlie, mommy has to pay for our food."

"But mom, I need to tell you something-"

The girl pinches his ear again. "She said no!"

"Hey! Don't hurt your brother."

"Mommy, I need to tell you something –"

The girl lets go and looks back at Waylon. "Charlie, stop."

Their mother frowns, looking between the two, and then relents to her son's demands. Squatting down to Charlie's level, she leans her ear close to him. "Alright, go ahead and tell me," she says, and Charlie cups his mouth to hide his lips as if he is telling a secret, except for some reason his voice sticks out to Waylon far louder than any other one in the restaurant.

Charlie never takes his eyes off of Waylon's own. "Mommy, the monster is here."

Chapter Text

"What the hell happened here…?"

Joseph Schwerner waves his hand frantically, stepping over broken scraps of metal and wood strewn wildly about the entrance of the asylum. A tree lies snapped in half to his right, the top of it dangling threatening over an S.W.A.T. van. With his free hand he films – every smashed vehicle, every piece of shattered glass, every bloodstain. Shaken, He holds his camera out, failed attempts to keep the lens steady forgone in order to simply capture the disaster.

Because that is what this place is: a disaster.

"Can you get a bit closer?" he asks his camera crew over his shoulder as he steps around a lost tire. It is probably from one of the totaled cars not too far from where he is standing. Waiting for a grunt of approval by his cameraman, Joseph centers himself at the bottom of the staircase leading up to the entrance of Mount Massive. The door hangs open, like an invitation.

His cameraman, Rick, adjusts the equipment so that it can more comfortably rest on his shoulder, and then he is flashing a thumbs up. Joseph watches the finger countdown impatiently, skin prickling from having his back turned to the wide open door. He inhales deeply, blinks slowly, failing to calm his nerves before the camera and soon to be eye of the world.

Something pricks the edges of his peripheral, watching in misty absence. Waiting. Warning –

Rick holds out an open palm and the show begins.

"I stand before you today in front of a disaster, a tragedy, or perhaps even a nightmare. Behind me here is Mount Massive, a mental health facility dedicated to the confined treatment of those diagnosed criminally ill. What may appear as a normal, everyday mental asylum has turned into a ring of deception and murder." The camera begins to slowly pan out, revealing a mess of crumbling infrastructure and destroyed property. It showcases destruction over eerie silence, the chirp of wildlife lost along with the whistle of wind. Nobody moves and nobody speaks; the view from the camera is all that is needed.

The reporter and his team are all alone out in the remote mountains of Lake County, Colorado, and their story to tell is one of mystery.

"I am Joseph Schwerner, coming to you live with The Herald, and this is the massacre at Mount Massive Asylum, Lake County, Colorado."

"Mommy, the monster is here."

Waylon knocks over his glass of water. He hadn't meant to, but the words and pointed, knowing¸look from Charlie and his family hit him like a swarm. He feels off-kilter standing there in oblivion, waiting for the clock to tick or time to pass or the small children to look away (look away look away look away); however, nobody moves and nobody speaks. All that crosses between him and the family is the voice of some man in the distance.

"The story begins no more than forty-eight hours ago, when employees at the facility reached out to the Leadville police department reporting riots and strange, perhaps paranormal, happenings."

"Sir, could you please step aside?"

Waylon's skin crawls from how close the next voice is. The waiter with the mountain of curly hair eyeballs him strangely as he approaches, a broom and dust collector in hand with a very stale expression on his face. The young man tries his hand at a show of politeness by smiling, but it comes off more ragged than his previously blank face. Waylon tries to make himself as small and unbothersome as possible. Offering a quick apology that is barely audible, he steps over the fragments of shattered glass and the new view reveals a television secured to a corner of the back wall.

Now, Charlie's quick glances and the distance in the man's voice make sense.

Just underneath his breath, Waylon hears himself asses, "A reporter?"

The camera is settled at a horrible angle right over the reporter's shoulder, giving the viewers a rather detailed view of the man's hair and ear; although, it is not the disproportion of the camera that forces an array of blinding lights and ink spots to flash before Waylon's eyes. It is the scene over the reporter's shoulder: the metal stairs creaking and clanging against rusted handrails, the peeling wallpaper, the wavering doors, and the flickering lights. Most of all, though, which cements the realization of absurd jigsaw pieces into place, is the many, many, drops of blood painting the floor and hand print smears decorating the doors.

Waylon's body starts to back away while his mind freezes.

"By God… Rick, you have to see this."

The camera's shaking blurs the view for a handful of seconds while Rick moves around before calming to a steady wobble, lens zooming in and out on various parts of the room. From the view, the room is large and fairly empty; a handful of catapult-like traps line the tile floor with ropes pulled taut above them. There is a crank handle attached to every single trap.

Charlie's mother squints at him warily. "Ah, excuse me, sir-"

"…Hey uh, Joseph? I don't think we should put this on camera."

Joseph clicks his tongue in contemplation, then points off camera, mouth moving but the audio silenced. When it comes back, there is a new box on the screen displaying the photo of a man and the title "Case 196."

Waylon has just enough time for his heart to drop before he is moving. He crashes into Eddie's shoulder in a matter of seconds, the older man holding what Waylon assumes to be a receipt in a pinch between his fingers.

Eddie's eyes widen from the impact before relaxing once he realizes who exactly is pressed against him. "Ah, Waylon, I was just about to head back to the table. Did you drop your glass or something? I saw one of the waiters approach you."

"We need to go," Waylon says, daring a glance back at the mess he just left and wincing when he makes eye contact with Charlie's mother. Her narrowed gaze is threatening. He grips Eddie a little harder. "Now."

There is a protest on Eddie's lips; however, his argument is mumbled and more concerned than annoyed, which Waylon appreciates. He allows Waylon to grab him by the elbow and hustle them both out of the diner, earning some seriously skeptical looks but at this point Waylon could care less.

The doorbell's little jingle jolts Waylon as they exit, his heart hammering in his chest and the sound of rushing blood is monotonous with the outside world in his ears. His steps quicken once they're in the parking lot, one foot in front of the other until he is practically jogging, edging closer to the car, prepared to crawl inside and vanish, but a solid grasp on his shoulder yanks him back from his sprint.

Eddie stares at him with an unmasked sea of emotion. It hurts to bear, but most of Waylon's will to flee immediately leaves his body once those eyes soften and all he is left with is an immense desire to cry. His throat tightens significantly, making his attempt at speaking feel like dragging himself out of a grave. "W-we need to leave-"

Eddie flicks his ear, catching Waylon off guard. "Did something happen in there?" he asks.

Another glance to the diner. Waylon nods unsteadily. "Yes… I can tell you b-but we have to go right now."

Through the window he can see the waiter with the curly hair and Addi standing by the booth they were in, Charlie's mother pointing at the television and all of the kids except Charlie playing with each other. Although he knows that Charlie cannot possibly be watching him, Waylon's skin still crawls.

He tugs on Eddie's wrist one more time, pleading a quiet "Please" that finally reaches Eddie's ears and the man clicks his tongue and nods, clearly not understanding yet willing to believe. It gives Waylon a handful of peace before he is hurrying to the passenger seat, accidentally slamming the door shut while Eddie carefully swings his open. They do not speak as Eddie turns on the car and backs out of the spot, staring at the diner in confusion, at Addi through the window, and then they are back on the road.

Eddie turns the radio on (although with the volume very low) while Waylon grabs his phone from his pocket. The battery is on 34% but he ignores it for now, instead immediately scrolling to a knock-off Google Maps.

Eddie flicks his ear again.

"What?" Waylon unintentionally hisses, shrinking closer to the window sill.

Eddie quirks his lips in response, half-smile playing where it probably shouldn't be. "You said that you would tell me once we left," he reminds Waylon, to the younger's chagrin.

Waylon mumbles an "Oh, yeah," to himself, posture softening until he is hunched over his phone. He runs a hand through the front of his hair and finds it greasy. Uneasily, he says, "You're going to want to get into the left lane."

"That's not an answer, Darling."

"You'll stay on this road for another two miles."

Eddie taps the brakes as a warning, watching Waylon's temple bump the window harshly. "What happened?" he commands, tone dangerously close to how it was a mere three days ago. It drags Waylon out of his slump instantly, a web of fear seeping into him. Avoiding eye contact, the younger prods his bottom lip (a force of habit he honestly should stop) before drumming his forehead with the tips of his fingers. His skin is moist with a cold sweat.

Waylon presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes. "There was a…report, on the TV."

The thrum of the engine starts up again, a slow and steady progression to the speed limit and possibly past. He briefly wonders how Eddie remembered to drive so well, but the query starts him down a rabbit hole of 'when was Eddie admitted' and 'what were his crimes' until a soft mumble from Eddie reminds him to continue his explanation.

"I think the guy was filming at the asylum – no, I'm positive of it. He was walking around the halls and there was blood and metal and just silence. I don't know how the place could have been so quiet but it was, nothing but the footsteps of that man and his camera –" Where is Waylon's camera? He takes a deep, shaky breath to calm himself, heart beating far too fast with little recovery time. He opens his mouth to speak again, continue the train of thought before he could lose it, when Eddie grabs his hand and squeezes, grounding him for the moment.

He waits about another handful of seconds before asking, "Is that why you broke the glass? Because you were shocked?"

Waylon runs his thumb over the hill of Eddie's knuckle, shaking his head. "No, well yes, but there was something else," he starts. "Do you remember that table with the family? Four kids, fairly rowdy with just a mother?"

Eddie clicks his tongue before answering, "Vaguely. I think I remember the mother." Waylon briefly frowns at that, the peculiarity of Eddie noticing just the mother tasting stale on his tongue, but he forgoes the notion for the more urgent matter.

"Alright, well she had four kids with her and one the boys had been watching us ever since we got there," Waylon says. "I didn't think much of it though. I mean, he was just a kid and kids do pretty weird things, but then the news report started playing and the kid was freaking out. He just wouldn't stop begging for his mom's attention, and I didn't…realize what was going on until he looked at me and called me a monster."

Monster.

"How would this kid know anything?" Waylon asks without having a true question, peering earnestly at Eddie. "I – we – were just normal people and then he called us monsters, so he must have known something, right? And it was the news report, Eddie. That reporter was there and he knew. And I don't know how many people were watching it, or are still watching it. And it's not just the people in the diner either, the report has to be playing elsewhere. So do you think other people know about us, too? They have to, right? Eddie, I don't know what to do if people start trying to find us right now, I don't know if I could keep them away from you," he says in a single breath, tripping over words and pronunciations until his voice breaks off in a weak almost-sob.

Waylon's arms and legs are shaking now, both hands holding on to Eddie's one for dear life. He feels so…vulnerable. Loathing how easy it is to rile him, however, this feels like more. More taking, more tearing, more threatening. He looks to Eddie in expectation, praying for a clear-cut solution to leave his lips, a command to take away Waylon's responsibility, but one look tells him exactly the opposite. Eddie's gaze is hard on the road, a distant cloud hovering over his irises that masks whatever he is thinking. The realization hurts, because Waylon is also lost. He tugs on Eddie's wrist hopelessly.

"Eddie, what should we do?" No answer. He tries again. "You can't ignore me right now, okay? This is on both of us, not just you or me. What if someone else recognizes us?" Waylons asks in frustration, prying at Eddie's hand and wrists to grab his attention. The landscape before them is changing again, roads lessening as more trees and mountains come into view. Signs line the street directing tourists to mountain peaks, resorts, and hotels. Waylon's phone chimes in his lap and he grabs it, glaring at the screen that reads: "Turn left in four hundred feet."

Waylon nudges Eddie's arm with a huff, saying between his teeth, "Turn left here." The car switches lanes effortlessly, Eddie sparing no glance his way.

A ball of frustration wedging into his throat and chest, Waylon lets go of Eddie and slumps into his seat, averting his gaze to the window. They spend the rest of the five minute ride in silence with Waylon turning off the radio immediately after Eddie pressed it on. He was not in the mood for it – not when he had a legitimate concern and Eddie chose that exact moment to be a prick. It was unfair to him and rather disheartening, but there were more important matters for him to deal with. So, curtailing his immense urge to rage, Waylon resigns himself to silence and only speaks to give directions. Soon they are pulling into the lot of a store front. A handful of cars are parked directly in front of it, which is a good sign that there should not be too many people shopping around to notice him.

"I'll be right back," Waylon announces once they park, hand grazing the door handle. He hears the driver's door unlock and snaps at Eddie, finally getting a reaction from the man. He levels him with a cold stare and says, "Alone. Just sit here and try to be inconspicuous." There is very clearly an argument on Eddie's tongue, but fortunately the other eventually nods and drops his palm from the door, allowing Waylon to leave without further issue.

There is no ring when Waylon enters the store; instead, a janitor peers over his shoulder and grumbles some sort of complaint, rolling his eyes at Waylon before going back to his mopping. The old man sets down a wet floor sign then walks away, leaving Waylon by himself. Good.

Ignoring the crawling sensation of paranoia running down his spine, because of course no one is actually watching him, Waylon strolls the aisles until he spots a couple rows of makeup. He recognizes some of the selection from his time shopping with Lisa, although, he never truly paid attention to what she was buying. The brands she chose stood out more than the types of makeup. Crouching to read over the containers closer to the floor, Waylon tries to recall Lisa's labels without thinking off her alone. It gives him a headache, but a few brands and names sound familiar enough for him to start grabbing bottles. When he stands he is holding an armful of them awkwardly, balance completely off and struggling to not shatter them all on the ground.

He turns on his heel carefully, so locked in on not dropping the merchandise that he fails to notice the other woman in the aisle curiously staring at his struggle. She nestles her hand basket near her elbow and with her free hand hides a laugh, just the corner of her lips peeking out from behind the shield. She waits for Waylon to lift his gaze, but then realizes that he probably isn't going to when he starts walking in her direction, surely about to run into her so she lightly taps his shoulder once he's within reach and smiles politely, waiting for him to pick up his chin.

Waylon takes an abrupt step back and apologizes, rocking the makeup bottles dangerously close to the edge of his arm. The lady instinctually cups his elbow to keep him from dropping anything. She gestures to her hand basket with her elbow, offering, "You wanna dump those in here?"

Waylon looks between his arms and the basket, contemplating the pros and cons before accepting her offer and moving to shuffle the items into her basket. They topple over each other with a variety of clinks before settling against a pink, rectangular bar of Hungarian soap. He clasps his hands together sheepishly. "Thank you! I, ah, was having a bit of trouble there," he says shyly.

The woman shrugs dismissively, her persona amiable. "Don't worry about it," she says while surveying the contents of the basket, an eyebrow raising as she reads the labels. "You must have done your research," she says, voice trailing off as if her comment was an afterthought. She brings the basket closer so that it is just under her chin, eyes sparked with amusement. "Is this for your wife? These brands are amazing!"

Waylon tries not to show his wince at the term 'wife.' Instead of trying his hand at a smile that may as well be a grimace, he turns to face the makeup shelves, explaining, "I guess so. I wouldn't exactly call the person my wife, though."

"So a girlfriend, then?" The woman pries. She worms her way just an inch into Waylon's personal space, which must have been an accident because she immediately wavers back when he bristles.

"Not exactly," he says none-too-casually, hesitation in his voice extreme. Waylon scratches the back of his neck. "I'm just looking for something like a concealer."

"Then you won't be needing any of these, silly," the lady says a little too cheerily as she rummages through the pile of makeup in the basket. She holds three alike ones in an open palm for Waylon to see, pointing at the small, brown tube with its label showing. "These are liquid eyeliners. If you read the description right underneath the brand name it'll tell you what they are. If you're looking for concealer," she says while rolling the eyeliners back into the basket. She scans the selection with a hum, searching for where the concealers were with minimal effort, and when she finds it she congratulates herself with an "Ah-ha!"

She bounces on her toes to reach it and then holds the tube for Waylon. "Here! Does this match what you're looking for?"

Though it may be blatantly obvious that he does not know what he is looking for, Waylon takes the tube from her hand and nods once he spots the tiny description that reads 'concealer.' Unsure, he says, "I think so, but I'm not sure if it matches his skin tone…"

"His?" The woman repeats, eyebrow quirking before she winces and starts to apologize. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it in any way offensive," she says quickly, trying to amend something that wasn't broken. He does not tell her this, however, and just watches as she tries to retrace her steps and clarify that she was not homophobic.

The theatrics are entertaining and pure, a combination that was meant to make him feel better without any ulterior motive of manipulation. Despite how strange it must be that he is taking someone else's embarrassment as a gesture of humanity, Waylon feels a warm enter him that had been missing and it calms him, at least a smidge. When the woman stops speaking he starts to laugh; not a loud, pretentious laugh that surely would come off as offensive but a very lighthearted chuckle that brings a smile to her face. He does not laugh for very long, but when he finishes he honestly feels refreshed.

The woman, though for all of their brief interaction she seemed so much more like a girl, swings the basket handle over her wrist and looks at him with wide eyes, a grin plastered on to her face that lifts her cheeks. "Do you want to look for another color?" she asks after a moment, to which Waylon shakes his head.

"It's okay," he says, "this should be fine. Do you want me to put those up for you?" He offers and this time it is the woman who denies him. She offers him an explanation that she is probably going to look over what he picked up because, apparently, they were actually really good choices of the wrong thing, and for him to "Get back to his man."

And with a curt goodbye and wave, Waylon does just that, but not before stopping by an aisle with shampoos, scissors, razors, and styling gels.

Surprisingly, Eddie did not complain when Waylon suggested that they grabbed food on the way back to the hotel and ate there. While he was not opposed to the idea overall, he knew that it came from a place of paranoia. The worry was all over her face; it hid in the wrinkles on her forehead, the crow's feet by her eyes, and the vein just barely touching her ear. She was stressed, and there was nothing Eddie could do to change it.

Right?

He ate his lunch in silence while she scrolled on her phone in earnest, rapt in the light of the screen. He could see the reflection of articles in her eyes, the words beyond too small for him to read but large enough for him to make out the format of the page and how many words there were – and yes, there were many. Hundreds upon hundreds of words describing a scene he could not imagine. Reports he could not conjure.

What had Waylon seen, what had she heard? He was not there so how could have known, and how can he still be expected to play along when Waylon gave him the barest explanation she could. Although, he is not particularly mad at her, exactly. It was obvious that earlier when she tried explaining the situation at hand she could not do it due to mental instability. What is rather frustrating right now, though, is the fact that she researching the issue without letting him follow.

What is she trying to hide?

Hide. No, he shouldn't think that, so he resigns himself to rolling his eyes and eating his food, the flavor of what Waylon called 'orange chicken' tangy and bold on his tongue. Somewhere outside a car honks its horn and in their room the television is playing some rewind of a show he vaguely remembers from his childhood. Eddie has half the mind to get up and take a shower just to drown out the tapping and breathing of Waylon, but there is still something questionable on the table that has yet to be brought up.

Reaching across the table to Waylon's side, Eddie grabs the brown plastic bag and shakes it in front of Waylon's face to grab her attention. Her shoulders shake from shock, but she comes around fairly quickly and drops her phone on to the table. "Hm?" she says, grabbing the other side of the bag to keep him from making noise. "Do you need something?"

Eddie shakes it again just for good measure. "Yes, my dear. What's in the bag?"

"Oh!" Waylon exclaims with a snap, somehow all of the energy that had been missing returned in an instant. She sits a little higher in her seat and opens her side of it, revealing a collection of different items. Eddie lets go of the bag so she could pour the contents out and spread them over the table.

She pushes a tube toward him. "I thought it would be a good idea to change our appearance a little, just in case someone else might recognize us, and this one is specifically for you," she says.

Following slightly slower, Eddie tries to process her plan while musing over the tube of makeup. "You want to change our appearance?" he repeats, dumbfounded.

Waylon just nods and leans forward. "Mhmm. Well, not anything drastic, but just so we are not immediately recognizable. Here," she fumbles over Eddie's hand for a second before taking the tube into her own and twisting open the cap. It releases with a pop, revealing toothpaste like fluid inside. She squeezes a dot of it on to her index finger. "This is concealer. I don't think the color matches your skin tone all that well, but it should be good enough to cover your scars."

Cover his…scars? Absentmindedly, Eddie touches his cheek gingerly, tracing ribbons of mangled flesh and lumps there. In spite how often the sight torments him, sometimes he forgets that it is there, but how would that change if he had a discreet way of hiding the worst of it? He imagines that it would not look as grotesque if the bruised coloring was not there.

Yet, that was not the only item on the table. "What about these?" Eddie asks with a general wave over the clutter. Waylon must have been waiting for this question because her eyes light.

"These," she starts, flicking the end of the scissors so that the blades are centered with Eddie, "are for my haircut."

Eddie picks the pair up by the handle. "You want me to give you a haircut?"

"Yes."

"Darling, are you sure?" he asks, glancing between the scissors and Waylon's hair. Her strands are long enough to touch her nape in some places, but the growth is uneven. Her hair is splotchy at best, ragged in reality. Had she styled it earlier this morning to keep the disarray as un-alarming as possible? She must have, because how could he had not seen this?

Waylon correctly assumed that Eddie's question did not need an answer once he got a good look at her, so she moves on to the other items, pushing them closer to Eddie once she names them. "The razor is so we can shave, since we look fairly scruffy right now, and I bought real shampoo and styling gel for when you're ready to do my hair," she finishes.

Eddie rotates through the items one more time before looking up at Waylon, who apparently had been waiting for him to finish surveying everything. Her gaze is intense when they meet, pouring out anxiety and wistfulness that threatens to knock Eddie off kilter. With a hopeful expression, she laces her fingers over Eddie's and asks, "So could you do it, Eddie? Please?"

So within the hour he finds himself kneeling over Waylon in the bathroom, massaging soapy shampoo into her scalp and piecing together an idea for how he wants to cut her hair. While his profession is centered more on fashion than personal appearance, Eddie has seen enough women to have a general idea of what consists of a good hairstyle and what doesn't.

It is not long before Waylon is drying her hair with a towel and waiting for him on the toilet, head down to make the drying process easier. He gave her the responsibility once his arms started to become tired and ordered her to keep her head down until he returned, and in similar fashion Waylon asked for the television to be turned up so she could listen to something besides white noise. The request was quick and easy, but on his way back he made a stop in the kitchen for some water and froze at the entrance because right there on the table was Waylon's phone. Unlocked and forgotten.

He slips it into his pocket before knocking on the bathroom door with an open fist.

"Are you ready?" Waylon asks while twisting her neck to loom behind her. She has a puppy dog aura about her that is too cute for words, so Eddie reacts to it by humming his agreement and placing a chaste, yet warm, kiss to her lips. When he pulls back she is smiling, cheeks just a shade darker than before.

Waylon opens her eyes a few seconds later and snags the pair of scissors from the valet to hand to him. "I don't want anything specific," she says, "so you're free to do as you please as long as I look…different, I suppose."

"And you are positive that you want me to do it?" Eddie asks, adjusting his position so that he is behind her. He takes the scissors as she tilts her head to look up at him.

"Why do you ask that?"

"Because my forte lies solely in attire," he says with the slightest of flourishes.

Waylon smiles at that, but when she speaks her tone is serious. "Well, I trust you to have enough overarching experience to be able to at least cut my hair, if not style it. That's why I bought gel so I could do it myself. Imagine me as a blank canvas," she says, "and do what you please."

Her words filter through him like tidal waves, leaving and returning stronger and stronger before suddenly turning flat. And when his reaction goes flat, Eddie rinses off the blades and begins to cut.

Each snip feels like a weight, somehow. He could be looking far more into the symbolism of the act than necessary, but it would be a lie to say that he was not feeling something, because he is. Surely, neither the lifting feeling in his chest nor the uninvited peace drawing nearer is not fake, and while he does recognize that this feeling is temporary (it always is) he forgoes that train of thought for instead accepting the trivial gift as real. Consistent. Omnipresent.

Eddie Gluskin is a romantic and he knows it, so he cuts Waylon's glorious-yet-not hair feverously. Each chunk of hair falls to the tile floor with a snip, the scissors working its way around Waylon's head until the longer pieces on the side have been trimmed as close to Waylon's scalp as he could get it. Eddie leaves under an inch of hair on the top to contrast the close cuts elsewhere, and when he runs his hands through it her hair feels soft.

"Darling," he coos gently by her ear, rubbing soothing circles into the base of her neck and collar. She mumbles something under her breath at him that announces just how relaxed she is. "Do you want to see?" he asks out of politeness, because as soon as she realizes that he is finished she straightens up and goes to touch her hair, then pauses, rethinking the action.

Instead, she stands from her seat and moves for the mirror, hiding her face from Eddie for some odd reason until she is standing in front of her reflection. Suffice to say, the full view is a shock for both of them.

She looks at her reflection in astonishment, hands rising to shape her head and pull at the longer strands of hair, tilting her chin here and there, back and forth, in an attempt to see all angles. "Eddie," she whispers without looking at him, the difference in her appearance capturing all of her direct attention. Which is perfect, actually, since Eddie hardly has enough composure to answer her if she were to ask something.

For how surreal the comparison is, Eddie feels as though he is looking at himself. Not in the sense that Waylon particularly looks like him, but that she looks…masculine. Angular features are presented where softer, curvier bone structure once were, and while the hairstyle was initially thought to resemble a pixie cut, Eddie now realizes just how wrong he was. Waylon does not look like a woman. She isn't a –

A pair of strong albeit small arms wrap around his midsection and a face is pressed against his chest, crying, "Eddie! Thank you so much!" The force of her hug causes Eddie to trip over his feet and they stumble backwards, but luckily the wall is there to keep them from falling. Avoiding her hair, he pets the side of her face.

"You don't think I took too much off?" Eddie inquires.

She presses her cheek into his palm for support. "No, not at all. This is actually better than I expected, so, thank you. Again."

"'Welcome," Eddie mutters cautiously, wary of his mood and tone dropping. He wants to push her away but thinks twice, knowing that he is losing grip on his control at a steady pace and may apply more force than necessary, so he scans the bathroom for any sort of distraction that could convince Waylon to let go on her own. He spots his olive branch lying next to the styling gel. "Ah, Way, do you think you could help me with that concealer over there while we're doing…this?"

'This' being an extremely vague statement, but Waylon seemed to understand. Eagerly, she lets go of him and snags the makeup from the sink, already twisting off the cap and bounding towards him in a matter of seconds. Stopping short of him, she points at the toilet, commanding, "Sit."

Eddie follows her instruction wordlessly, perching himself on the edge of the seat. He tries not to stare as she leans close and starts coating her fingers in the cream, but eventually his curiosity wins over his distaste and he is watching her paint his cheek. The first few applications of cream are cold and then it warms enough until the temperature is negligible and all he is left with is the soothing swirl of circles and pressure. Waylon is careful over the more bruised areas, which he appreciates, and allows herself to be rougher on the outer edges of the scars. Not too long later, she is pulling away with a self-satisfied expression.

And she is rightfully proud of her work, because Eddie is taken aback by just how well his scars are covered when he looks at himself in the vanity. While the scar lines are distinctly there, the off-color of bruises are gone and his skin looks relatively normal. As if he had gotten into an accident and not had been tortured by scientists.

Reciprocating her show of gratitude, Eddie pulls her into a tight embrace and burrows his makeup free cheek into her scalp, inhaling deeply. "Thank you," he mumbles into her head and Waylon vibrates with joy. She worms her way out of his arms to take another look at her work, all the while smiling from ear to ear. After a moment, she asks, "I can give you a haircut, too, if you want? I won't do all that you did but a shape up would work for us. And we need to shave."

To that Eddie agrees, however, he denies her offer, saying, "I think we can deal with that in a bit." Noticing her lips turning into a pout, Eddie pokes her forehead and continues on. "I think I need some fresh air, do you think you can clean the bathroom? I promise I'll be back in ten minutes."

Waylon's pout shifts into a disbelieving glint in her eye, but she relaxes her shoulders and starts twisting back on the concealer top. "You better not be lying just to get out of cleaning," she says.

Eddie holds out his palms in surrender, already retreating to the door. "No, no, I promise. I'll be right back, okay?" he assures her while opening the door, although, he does not leave until Waylon flashes him a thumbs up and approving smile. Good.

Eddie closes the door in a rush, crashing atmosphere hitting him in one fell swoop as he digs into his pocket and pulls out the cellphone. Relieved to see no password, Eddie unlocks the phone and scrolls to an icon that resembles the globe. He clicks it as he opens the door to the hotel room's balcony and cold air immediately wraps around him, swinging the door closed without him having to.

Ten minutes, that's not too short, right? Long enough for him to get the information he needs without drawing unnecessary attention and keeping it all a secret from Waylon. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

Leaning against the wall, Eddie holds out the phone and begins scrolling down the first browser page that opens, a wall of words immediately enveloping the screen. He scans the article without truly reading, a mantra of "Come on, come on," beginning to leave his lips without notice. Somewhere in the distance a bird chirps in solidarity and a child screams in laughter, loud and proud and uncaring.

He taps an icon that opens a page filled with browser tabs and opens the tab that was first created. It loads a video on the screen with a headliner from The Herald. Turning his wrist slightly to get rid of some glare, Eddie thumbs the play button and waits for the video to load.

A button on the far corner of the screen declares that the report was 'prerecorded,' the timestamp on the bottom reading three minutes and twenty-four seconds. Waylon must have been watching.

The camera begins to slowly pan out, revealing a mess of crumbling infrastructure and destroyed property. It showcases destruction over eerie silence, the chirp of wildlife lost along with the whistle of wind. Nobody moves and nobody speaks; the view from the camera is all that is needed.

"I am Joseph Schwerner, coming to you live with The Herald, and this is the massacre at Mount Massive Asylum, Lake County, Colorado."

Chapter Text

The crinkle of the windbreaker's crumbling fabric is the loudest noise in the room, outside of the drone of the television in their shared bedroom.

Waylon watches him curiously, legs crossed over a wooden chair at the kitchen table and hands in her lap. She remains quiet as Eddie gets dressed, only speaking to offer him help or advice on what to wear. She has yet to notice the absence of her phone, which is well enough. Eddie tries to hide the bulge of it in his pocket. He discreetly switches it into his coat pocket when she (very briefly) is not looking.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?" Waylon asks once he is finished piecing together his outfit, gaze flitting over Eddie's appearance with an approving expression. It took a while to convince Waylon that it would work, however, with both of them losing a rather substantial amount of weight lately many of Waylon's clothes no longer fit her and were decent enough to sustain Eddie. Which eventually led to them having a miniature fashion show in the kitchen and living room.

Eddie muses over his answer while zipping up the windbreaker, testing out its dexterity for good measure. He bends his arm back and forth, answering, "Midnight, probably."

"Want me to come with?" Waylon asks hopefully, her desire to join him indisputable. Honestly, it makes perfect sense why Waylon keeps asking where he is going and if she can join; knowledge of concern, care, and worry all recognizable in Eddie's understanding, but he cannot allow himself to focus on that right now, no matter how much it burdens his heart.

Later. He will make up for this later but now is not the time.

So he shakes his head solemnly and tries to hold a relatively assuring smile, knowing that is he completely failing yet not wanting to leave Waylon empty. "I'm sorry, Darling," he starts while taking a few steps forward, stopping short of her chest. She seems ready to resist him, hesitation settling on her face causing wrinkles to form on her forehead and corners of her eyes. Wetting his lips, Eddie very lightly lays his fingertips under her chin. He lifts her head just enough to grab her attention.

"Will you be alright while I'm out?" he asks.

Waylon frowns, lips forming into a pout. "Sure, I mean, yeah, but why do you have to go for some long? Are you buying something from the store? I can come with you –"

"Darling."

"I can even just sit in the car for privacy, if you want. I won't get bored. I just don't understand why you want to go by yourself."

"Waylon."

"Eddie," Waylon challenges, the displeasure in her tone nearly tangible. She wages a war of glaring that is harsh and not reciprocated due to Eddie's lack of will to argue with her. This was his decision and he will not change, so he just looks at her patiently, refusing to meet her fight until his determination registers within her and she resolves to rolling her eyes and cupping his hand to remove it from her chin. Although, she does not let go of his hand once it is away; instead, she laces their fingers together.

Replacing the ice that was once there is an overwhelming amount of sincerity when Waylon asks heavily, "Are you alright?"

The question, simple as it is, is heavy. Too heavy for Eddie to convey, so he tightens his lips and tries to speak through silence, hoping to get the message across through some understanding that has become foundation between them. Words are not needed when two go through Hell together, and this is one of those times where Waylon is quick to understand that. She nods slowly and then kisses him softly, the contact brief yet whole.

Pulling away with a smile, she cups Eddie's cheek. "Fine. Just take care of yourself, okay? I still don't know how many people saw us on the news so I need you to watch your back."

"I know," Eddie agrees, reveling in the pinch in his chest. Yes, that is without question. Returning her kiss with his own, he reaches behind her to grab the car keys from the table. They jingle together, metal on metal clinking a calming sound to him, and then he is clutching them in the palm of his hand and heading for the door. With one final goodbye, and a well-intended warning for Waylon not to be awake when he returns, Eddie exits the hotel room and locks the door.

He wastes no time walking to the jeep.

In comparison how welcoming the weather was earlier in the day, a bone chilling cool has settled over the town which makes Eddie rather grateful for following Waylon's advice on wearing the jacket. It blocks off most of the wind, and what cold is left is manageable. Rubbing his hands together to keep them warm, Eddie crosses the parking lot and finds their jeep in the far corner, isolated from the rest of the tenants.

After a quick inspection of the exterior to make sure that nothing was amiss, Eddie enters the driver seat and immediately locks the doors and turn on the light. It glows a very dim yellow, but is enough to light up the backseat. He runs his hand down the length of the cushion until he finds what he is looking for, snatches it from such an obvious spot, and then places it on the floor just underneath the driver seat so it does not move. Satisfied with his work, Eddie turns back around and inserts the key into the ignition, the vibration sparking life into the vehicle pleasantly welcomed.

Drawing Waylon's phone and a slip of receipt paper from his pocket, Eddie nonchalantly dials the scribbled number.

After three rings Addi finally picks up.

"Hello?"

"Good evening. Is this Ms. Addi from Dave's Diner? I was the customer this morning with the young man who spilled his water, Eddie. You gave me your number on our receipt, if you remember?"

There is a brief pause and then she is gasping, memory settling in. "Oh, yeah! I do remember you two," she says in that cheery voice she used before their little…incident. "I wasn't expectin' you to call so soon," she clicks her tongue, "or to call in general, actually. This is surprising."

"I am a man of surprises," Eddie says with a casual chuckle, allowing his voice to deepen in tone. The change works if he is going by how flustered her reply is when she stutters out an "I suppose," that sounds purely out of breath.

She clears her throat before trying to regain her composure by asking, "Did you need anything?"

Eddie presses the phone against his ear with his shoulder, awkwardly transitioning to put the car into drive. He moves the phone from his shoulder to his hand as soon as the car starts moving, acutely wary of his ability to drive with one hand but not too worried about it. Over the static of the phone due to low service he hears Addi ask, "Hey, you still there?"

"You wanted to talk to me, right?" Eddie segues as an answer.

Addi seems taken aback though it lasts merely a second. "I was…interested in talking to you, if you were, too. But wasn't that guy with you you're boyfriend?"

"He knows."

"Oh," she says, in a poorly concealed, shocked sort of way that reminds Eddie a little too much of Waylon. He pushes the comparison away before it could sour his mood. Ever oblivious to this, Addi continues with a, "Well, what were you thinking?"

"Are you available tonight?" Eddie shoots.

"What time?"

"Right now."

It is not a question. Addi is competent enough to recognize that. "Where?" she asks.

How naïve. Very quickly, Eddie pulls the phone away to scroll to an open page on the browser. He brings it back to his ear, inquiring, "Do you know where DoubleTree is?"

"Mhmm," Addi hums, then says, "Are you driving there now? I can hear your car."

Eddie makes no attempt to lie. "How astute."

She takes the compliment in stride. "Guess I'll be on my way, then," she says, somehow making herself sound both tired and cheery. The combination is strange, although, not entirely displeasing. Eddie finds himself entertained by it, and he is about to comment on it when Addi speaks again. "I'm not going to regret this, am I?"

"Whatever do you mean by that, darling?" he says, the endearment slipping from his lips in a sickeningly familiar way that tastes just as bad as he remembers.

There a crackling in the background of Addi's side, and then everything settles to just her breathing. "I am looking for something very particular, Mr. Gluskin," she flirts carelessly, the meaning behind her words creating a clear image in his head. And who would he be to deny her?

Returning the same energy that he has been given, Eddie leans back into his seat and accelerates down the long strip of road, feeling his skin crawl in anticipation. Dragging the receiver closer to his lips, Eddie whispers, "Then you shall be satisfied," before ending the call and tossing the phone into the cup holder, blood already thrumming in excitement.

This is going to be very interesting indeed, he thinks while pressing down on the gas, allowing his needs to be swept away by the mess of blurred colors and passing trees, directions to DoubleTree surfacing to the front of his memory without true concentration.

The sun begins to set behind sharp mountains and icy slopes before his eyes, fixating a paintbrush stroke of color over cumulus clouds and tree canopies. Signs directing tourists to the many ski resorts and peak trails grow in abundance as he travels deeper into the town. Restaurants and other store fronts light the streets while streetlamps gradually grow brighter, soon overwhelming that of the stores. By the time Eddie pulls into the driveway of said DoubleTree by Hilton hotel, the sun has nestled somewhere behind the mountains and the sky is now a navy blue splattered with glittering stars.

He parks the jeep in the back of the parking lot before exiting into cool air, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass and water. Turning on his heel, he spots a fountain near the entrance and decides to head there.

Not too much time passes before a red Hyundai pulls up in front of him and the driver rolls down the window, revealing a promiscuous smile and rosy cheeks. Addi points to the parking lot, announcing, "I'll be right back! Stay there," before pulling away. He follows the car as it drives away with a rev of its engine, skirting to an empty parking space before coming to a stop. A few seconds later the door swings open, revealing a scantily dressed Addi in a rather tight, royal blue dress, tan coat, and black heels that accentuate her legs.

From here, she is beautiful; up close, however, Eddie is stunned. The contrast of color in her hair, eyes, and dress is astonishing, perfecting the very persona that she was trying to impose. Impressed, Eddie bows his head slightly as she approaches and holds out a hand, the motion coming across as a formal flourish. He lifts his chin when he hears a snicker, raising his eyebrows.

"You look astounding, my dear," he says effortlessly. Addi places a palm over her mouth to hide her growing grin.

"Thank you," she laughs. With the hand not covering her mouth, Addi pinches the end of Eddie's collar and tugs forward on it, motioning for him to rise. "Your highness is appeased."

Following both her hand and words, Eddie raises an eyebrow and repeats, "Your highness?" He stands close to her, trapping the hand on his collar with his own. For her part, Addi's reaction to him is very minor, practically unnoticeable if he hadn't been looking. She nods without pause, as if the contact was no more bothersome than the touch of ice after a few seconds.

Gently removing her hand, Addi folds them over her lap and beams, "Mmhm. I think it has a ring to it."

A kind breeze blows past them, rising to flow through the surrounding trees and punctuate the chill that comes with a setting sun. Eddie gazes over her shoulder to survey the front of the lavish hotel; there is a bellboy standing by the door, however, his attention is called away and he scurries further into the lobby, now out of sight. Brushing over the side of his pant leg, Eddie lulls his gaze back to Addi, who had apparently been intensely watching him, and asks, "So what is it that you wanted to do?"

Blunt. Straight to the point. Addi seemed prepared for such a question for she immediately perks up and shuffles her heels, subtly moving an inch closer to him. "Well," she starts with a click of her tongue, "I was hoping we could…talk?"

Eddie's expression contorts into a frown. "You just want to talk? Is that all?"

"No!" Addi exclaims while waving her hands defensively. A steady flush of color begins to rise up her cheeks. "I still want to…you know…but I wanted to talk to you first. I'm not just going to have sex with a stranger without first holding conversation."

Fair, Eddie assesses though he must come off as standoffish due to the swing in her mood. Addi crosses her arms over her chest and taps a foot on the ground. "Is that alright with you?" she poses aggressively, sending a clear signal that saying "no" is not an option if he wants to continue. So, biting down the rampant urge to react, Eddie nods and tries to shrink his posture to assume submission, saying a confident, albeit tight, "Of course."

"Great!" Addi clasps her hands excitedly. She then grabs both of Eddie's hands, palming them in between her own. "Do you want to go inside?"

"No."

That causes her to stumble over her words, yet she is not deterred, returning to hold Eddie's gaze with a cock of her head that allows a few, wavy strands of fiery hair to cross over her lips. "Hm, but I'll go with it," she says dismissively despite the rapt curiosity in her face. "Wanna go back there a little?" she asks with a point to their south, towards the back of the parking lot. There is another, smaller fountain near the edge of the lot in the shape of a catfish (for some odd reason). It glows a shallow shade of blue that provides enough light for a brief conversation.

The spot should work – far enough away from people to avoid nosy listeners and onlookers, which would be highly inappropriate for what is about to happen. Asserting his agreement with a throaty noise and nod, Eddie tightens his grip on Addi's hand just slightly as he stands to guide them towards the fountain, the jubilant woman following him closely with a hum of her own.

When they reach the fountain she sits close to him, boundaries thrown out the window for the knowledge of where the conversation should go. Her promiscuity is offsetting, blunt and eager and so similar to her actual behavior that Eddie cannot help but find himself entertained by it. Every touch from her sets off various alarm bells in his head, and when she scoots closer to him after a particularly loud laugh Eddie feels something abnormal stir in his stomach. A feeling like…anticipation?

Excitement.

So he reciprocates her gestures, her offerings, like a prized pearl wanting to be taken. Holds her contact high and dear as she talks and talks and drones on about her daily, insignificant life. Her ex-boyfriend, her current job, the weird, old man that continues to hit on her after work in spite of her threatening to issue a restraining order. Her old boss who refused to promote her due to gender discrimination (that one was an interesting tale for Eddie so he kept quiet throughout the whole ordeal). Each story provides a new jigsaw piece of Addi to fit together into her character; they showcase her morals and personality, her insecurities, her secrets, leaving Eddie with a sense of prying that is too sweet to disrupt.

When she starts to ask him questions about his personal life he deflects them with cotton candy stories of working as a tailor. He fancies her with an engaging tale of one special wedding where he had to walk the bride down the aisle because her father refused to approve of her marriage; he flavored the anecdotes with references to his best friend, Dick, a doctor that guided his thinking on the fashion world and numerous professions.

It was all as light as he could make it, never once mentioning unspeakable truths of depression and destruction, never once placing a crack in the wall of lies that she seemed ever so eager to accept. Her responses are energetic and humorous; a laugh here and a gasp there, a swipe to his knee when he says something 'naughty' and a blush when he flirts with her. She is predictable with her bright smiles and caresses. Her stories are also like feathers; her movements allow her to float. She rides the tidal wave of deception all the way until Eddie is mentally preparing himself for a kiss, recognizing the signs of her staring at his lips and leaning closer, closer, closer, close enough to feel each other's breath on their cheeks. And then, right before their accepting mouths connect, she asks the question that was hovering in the air this entire time – omnipresent and bearing the weight of a thousand men.

"Eddie, what happened at the diner today?"

He answers without hesitation, feigning for ignorance. "My dear, what do you mean by that?"

Here Addi pulls back, her demeanor shifting into something barely hostile yet tangible. A forced pout finds its way to her lips, causing her to appear much younger than Eddie would have preferred. "You know what I'm talking about," she states. "Your boyfriend there was having a panic attack."

"She was dealing with something at the time, yes, but we took care of that and finished our meal peacefully," Eddie retorts between his teeth, the sting of her words hitting him right in the chest. He tries to will his spark of frustration away with an exhale; however, Addi does not look to be letting up anytime soon.

"You know he whacked one of our glasses on the floor right? My coworker had to pick that up."

"Which I wholeheartedly apologize for –"

"What if one of those kids stepped on it by accident, Eddie? I don't know, I thought it was pretty inconsiderate of him to just do that and then run away," she says with a drawl at the end that incites a flurry of emotions in Eddie. Her tone is intentionally judgment, which neither matches the childish pout on her lips nor the open V in her dress exposing a good portion of her cleavage. "You're not that innocent either."

Eddie's back stiffens unintentionally. He averts his gaze from her but in the corner of his eye he can still see her watching him. Waiting for his reaction. Cautiously, Eddie replies with, "Care to clarify how I'm not innocent?"

Addi doesn't miss the opportunity. "Well you didn't exactly come up to us and offer to help clean up his mess, or to pay for the damage."

"I apologize for our rushed departure, but I had to prioritize her needs over such a simple matter," Eddie says with an edge to his tone that is not necessarily receptive. He flexes his fingers over his lap in an effort to expel some energy. "Is that what you wanted to meet with me for? To make me pay for one shattered glass? How much do you want, Addi? I should have a five in my wallet."

"I gave you my number so I could know more about you, Ed," she says and the nickname makes Eddie visibly cringe. A source of warmth is suddenly placed on Eddie's knee that causes him to twitch. He looks down to see that it is Addi's perfectly manicured hand touching him, slowly tracing semicircles and triangles over the fold of his pants. Her voice is calmer now, taking on a mocking tone of a mother dealing with her child. "And, if you're comfortable with it, I want to know what was going on with Waylon. I was pretty concerned when you guys stormed out of there."

Waylon. Shouldn't Eddie be with Waylon right now? Eddie shakes his head. "I would prefer not to discuss this."

"But you can trust me, Eddie," Addi presses, working her knuckles into Eddie's knees and tracing the bottom of his thigh. "Tell me what was going on today. I want to help you."

"Help me," Eddie repeats in an exhale.

"Yes!" Addi assures, pressing harder, drawing him to an arm's length. "There was something going on today and I want to know what. I can help you through whatever you're going through if you just open up," she says, grabbing him by both thighs and lightly shaking him for emphasis.

Her body language is earnest as she waits for his response, emerald eyes wide with care unheard of. But there is something else in her expression that is too much – too genuine for it be real. Too close to the bitter cold that was just in her voice mere seconds ago and in the wantonness of her attire.

"Eddie," she calls from beneath her, tilting her head left and right to trap his gaze. "Gluskin, tell me what you're thinking."

"How do you know my name?"

Addi stops tracing his thighs and sits up, mouth dropping into a straight line. Shoulders slumping, she scratches at her knuckles in her lap. "You told me it at the Dave's, remember? You and Waylon introduced yourselves."

"But I only told you my first name," Eddie returns, his own tone turning harsh. "So how do you know my last?"

"Eddie, I don't know what you're going on about but it's just a fucking name. What does it matter –?"

"It matters because I never told you, so how would you know?" he says, unable to control the speed at which he turns to look at her, shoulders broadening in defense. Beneath him, Addi looks so small, lip starting to tremble and her defenses rising, knees pulled close to her body and arms crossing in a weak form of protection. But she is still defiant – he can see it in how she does not move away or stand up.

Wary of the fluctuation in his voice, Eddie tries to calm his frustration before saying, "Addi, I am only going to ask you this once. What did you actually come here for?"

She jerks his chin up and sighs in exasperation, hands rising to rub at her temples. "I've already told you this, Eddie! I came here for you."

"Stop lying to me, Addi," Eddie sighs back, patience running thin because he knows. He came here because he knew and all she has to do is say it. "Just tell me what you're looking for."

"I'm not looking for anything, you fuck."

"Then how do you know my name?"

"Just answer my question, Eddie," Addi snaps, jolting up to stand over him. "What were you doing at that diner with Waylon?"

"What exactly are you trying to insinuate?"

"Waylon had a fucking breakdown and you know why, yeah? What was that about, Eddie? You guys came to that diner for a reason and I want to know why," she commands with a shout, all pretense of ulterior motives gone and leaving her resonating in anger and disgust. She reaches for something in her coat suddenly, digging around an internal pocket while backing away, one hand outstretched to measure the distance between them. Behind her, the wind blows a loose branch off of a tree on to the pavement.

"What the hell did you do to him, Gluskin?!"

The highlight of blue catches Eddie's eye before he can react. Electricity crackles as Addi rushes him, spearing the taser like a bayonet into his side. Piercing shock rampages where the device connects, splintering up his side and into every limb on his body, causing contractions and flexes in his muscles that feel like pure agony. He cries out as his body goes rigid, the muscles in his calves convulsing before transforming into jell.

He feels wobbly as he falls despite knowing that his body his tight; tight as he slams into the pavement, his teeth grinding from the force that which his jaw hit the ground. Eddie tries to open his eyes but the thrumming of electricity is still pulsating through his body, keeping it from following any tread of thought remotely connected to motor skills. But the world is still turning, and Addi is somewhere – somewhere watching him and waiting to attack again. Waiting for his reaction, for him to move, move, move

A sharp heel digs into the fabric over his calf, pressing into his flesh. "I saw the news reports, Gluskin," Addi spits, grinding her heel into his leg. "You know how fucked up in the head you have to be to get into a place like that? You were in an asylum for the criminally insane! What the hell were you thinking walking around so high and mighty not even trying to hide who you were?"

Some sound like a groan escapes his lips from the pain. It is unknown to him what exactly he groaned, the details of how loud or if it was guttural or not beyond his understanding; yet, what he does understand is his situation. Because this is what he knew he was walking into, hoping to experience and experiment, expecting those words. It feels like an "Ah-ha!" moment because how could he not have known? And the realization of it all – or the buildup that could have been so simple if it happened at the beginning – causes him to laugh.

Not chuckle. Not snicker. But truly, sincerely, laugh.

Addi twists her ankle wickedly. "The fuck are you laughing for, huh? You think this is funny?" she says, switching on the taser to elicit a crackle of electricity; however, that does nothing to stop the absolute hilarity of this situation.

Because this…this is ridiculous.

Eddie shifts under her foot loosely, pulling back his leg to alleviate some of the pain. "You might want to," he starts between chuckles, tears beginning to form in his eyes. "You might want to – hah – come closer."

Above him, Addi barrels down on his leg. "No," she says. "You think I'm an idiot?"

There is a pause from him where he remains silent and stills, listening to the gust of wind and the woman above him, pinning him down with a taser and her heel. She is saying something that he might find interest in listening to, but her words mean nothing anymore. Nothing means anything anymore, so when he finally hears the static of electricity die down into just a trickle of sparks, he knows that this is his chance.

"Yes," he says abruptly, interrupting whatever she was going on about to answer her earlier question, "I do think that you are an idiot. But," Eddie clicks his tongue, priming his arms at his side. "You can't say that I didn't warn you," he says before flipping himself over and jumping up, slamming his head into the bottom of her chin.

Sticks and stones snag her hair and pull strands out, leaving a trail of fiery red behind them.

"When I was a boy my mother often said to me…"

She tries to kick and scream, but the duct tape around her mouth and knees restrict her, only allowing a series of muffled cries and short bursts of adrenaline to pass through. But adrenaline alone isn't enough to rescue her, and they both know that.

"Get married boy and see how happy you will be…"

It is not just those two places that are taped, no. In a way, she resembles a mummy: from her mouth down she is layered in duct tape, a cross created around her torso to pin her arms and a spiral of gray travel down her thighs to keep her legs together. How a proper lady should appear, unlike the vulgarity of this whore.

"I have looked all over, but no girly can I find…"

Filthy, disgusting, God-forsaken whore.

"Who seems to be like the little girly I have in mind."

"Leh mm g-Oh!"

"Silence!" Eddie yells back, dropping her feet to kick her right in the side. She sputters from it, tears streaking down her cheeks as she rolls on to her uninjured side, gasping and moaning from behind the layers of duct tape over her mouth. Her hair falls languidly over her face in wild streaks and tangles, leaves and small pebbles bunched in there from being dragged. Her body contorts from the pain before relaxing into a more static position, the only movement coming from her stemming from an uncontrollable shake.

He stares at her from a moment, taking in her ragged state before crouching by her head. He reaches for her face and the instant their skin touch Addi is screaming again, pathetically wiggling her trapped body in a frantic attempt to move away from him. The weight of her taser lies heavy in his hand, but he forgoes it for patience.

Eddie drops his hand to the grass. "Addi, my love, I need you to understand that resistance is going to get you nowhere. You'll just tire yourself."

"Fuh you!" she shouts behind tears, shooting him an over the shoulder glare then going back to worming. Her movements are too rapid and sporadic to create the proper motion to actually get her going anywhere, which she would be able to realize if she could just calm down and stop trying to get away. His patience is beginning to run thin.

Inhaling a steading breath, Eddie tries again. "There is an alcove of trees just up ahead that I can bring you to if you would just stop running away from me. I promise that things will go a lot smoother if you simply complied."

She moans something unintelligible, but by the looks of it whatever she had to say must have been some variant of "go fuck yourself," seeing as how she is still wiggling her body like a wounded caterpillar. Eddie waits a few more seconds for this display of resistance to stop, but when half a minute passes and Addi is still flailing about, Eddie decides to just cut her off sooner rather than later.

Grabbing a fistful of hair, he yanks her by her scalp and stands, jerking her head up in disproportion to her body. A scream that shifts into a gargle tears from her throat at this, causing her to fidget recklessly and crane her neck in an attempt to get into a better position. Although, Eddie is having none of that, so he pulls.

"I would have – preferred not to have to drag you by your…hair," he grunts, each phrase broken by a tug, "but you gave – mmh – me no choice." It takes far more work for him to drag her like this, but the top of the slope is not much farther so, buckling down, Eddie snakes one hand around her shoulder and pulls her with both, ensuring that the grip in her hand is tighter now that he has some leverage.

Eventually, by the time they reach the top of the slope, Addi has submitted to quiet whimpering and infrequent bouts of resistance, which makes finding a good spot to settle easier than originally anticipated. Scanning the area, he spots a rock large enough for someone to lean against and then heads there all the while dragging Addi along.

When they finally reach it and he begins to adjust her position so that she could sit, he is surprised to see that she is still fairly conscious.

A sharp snap of his fingers fully wakes her up.

"We made it," he announces calmly, as if waking a child from sleep and telling it that they safely made it to the park. Unlike a child's reaction to the park, though, Addi's eyes widen in fear and confusion, her head turning as much as possible to get a gist of her surroundings. "Ah, ah, ah," Eddie quietly reprimands while using two fingers to guide her face back to him, flashing her a smile when she winces. "You did a good job staying awake," he commends, and then he removes his fingers and stands. Addi lifts her chin to follow him.

"If I am to be completely honest, I feel rather fortunate that you agreed to meet with me, Addi," Eddie starts absently, setting a pace in the space between two trees and cupping his chin for support, elbows drawn close to his body. "There are a few things that I would like to discuss."

From his vantage point Eddie can see the light of the city below them, sparkling a quiet brightness between braches and leaves. The slope of the hill they are on leads back down to the hotel on one side whereas on the other a creek resides. A waning moon and stars light the sky above them, creating shadows that pilfer the forest floor. Wind continues to blow around them, yet up here its whisper is raised to a low voice, speaking just loud enough to carry across the mountains.

Here, Eddie feels as though he can truly reflect. He paces around one of the trees then approaches Addi, crouching down to her level on the balls of his feet. Slowly, he lifts a hand to touch the exposed skin of her arm. She immediately tries to shrink away from her, new tears glazing her eyes as panic becomes clear in her expression. A soft whimper seeps out from behind three layers of duct tape.

Eddie hovers his hand over her skin, a hairs breadth from touching her. "Shh, shh, there is no need for you to fret," Eddie consoles while using her other hand to stroke her mangled hair. A pet to the side of her scalp makes her violently flinch, and further inspection reveals a nasty little bump from where he dragged her. He takes care not to brush it again.

"I just need to grab something real fast," he says into the air before reaching into her coat. Addi jerks back and caves in her chest to prevent him from groping her breasts – which would not have proved fruitful if he truly was intending on touching her sexually, hence her being wrapped up like a Christmas present – but that was not his target. No, Eddie slips his hand past her breasts and begins to rummage through the interior of her coat, sliding his palm over the soft fabric and furs until he comes across a pocket hidden near her kidney.

"Ah," he says while reaching into the pocket, which proves to be exactly where Addi did not want him. She whines and flexes whatever muscles she can, contorting as much of her body to prevent him from taking whatever is in there. He tries to just snatch it but she twists and rolls more on her side, locking the object in place between her body and the tree trunk.

Frowning, Eddie tries to wiggle his fingers but they are pinned to her side, crushed against the tree. He levels his voice to a warning, feeling the familiar sting of anger crawling up his chest. "Addi," he growls.

She shakes her head and cries, wiggling her body again.

He waits about ten seconds just to see if she would relent, giving her enough time to rethink her decision, and then, when she refuses to abate, he grabs her face with his free hand and starts to squeeze at her eyes and nose, pinching whatever excess skin he can get in his grasp.

"Is this what you wanted?" Eddie shouts while twisting her nose up, craning Addi's neck harshly. She jerks with him while her body shakes violently, hips swaying relentlessly to lessen the awkward twist in her neck. She flails without arms or legs, eyes swollen pink from the sheer force of her tears and throat clenching from how much she's been screaming. Eddie recognizes all of her pain without having to be told; he's seen it hundreds of times and more, has caused it himself, in and of, and if Addi could just realize that all she had to do was comply then he could end it. End it, just like everything else, but Addi still has some fight left in her.

Good girl.

Tightening his grip on her face, he pulls her head forward and then slams it back against the tree, lifting off of his heel for added power. Her entire body clenches from the impact and she chokes on something, if he can go by the glazed look in her eyes and the pure gargle that emanates from the tape around her mouth. A trail of blood threads its way from the back of her head to her collarbone, staining her skin like the color of her velvety dress.

Lulling her head to the side, Addi's eyes flutter as she tries to stay awake. Eddie snaps his fingers twice in her ear to regain her attention. "Ready to comply?" he asks after a few seconds. Her eyes struggle to find his, but even without the contact she is already moving, turning herself as best as she can to release his hand. The moment he is free, Eddie grabs what he was trying to and takes his hand out of her coat, wriggling his fingers around the device to head start recirculation.

Satisfied, Eddie rolls on to his heels and then stands. He swings the device between his fingers mockingly in front of her, a monstrous smile forming over his lips as he turns the screen to face her, revealing the most important part of the smartphone.

A bar of black overlies the white background to create contrast with a red, fluctuating line going through it. At the top of the screen is a series of relatively large black font reading Voice Memo, and behind said letters is a digital clock reading the time. A red button flashes at the bottom of the screen that signals live recording.

He purposefully keeps it running. "When were you going to call the police?"

His question is semi-rhetorical, mostly due to the fact that Addi is currently incapable of answering him, but he can piece together her answer by how she refuses to even whimper, her body trying to avert itself from his watch. A stray tear trails down her cheek and mixes into the blood running down her throat.

Eddie taps the phone with his index finger, pointing at its Safari icon. "You know I watched the news reports, too, right?" he segues, placing the phone far from where Addi might be able to move it away but also close enough for it to register their voices. "That Joseph Schwerner fellow is rather…well," Eddie cracks a humorless smile, "he does his job. Did you enjoy the report?"

He taps Addi's knee with the tip of his index finger, dragging it forward until his palm is resting over her. Surprisingly, she neither winces nor shifts, which could either be a sign of resignation or consciousness, the latter being an issue he may have to watch out for. A quick glance at the slow, albeit steady, flow of blood alerts him of a time constraint.

He flexes his fingers lazily. "That photo they used of me was rather inappropriate, wouldn't you agree? Hooked up to some machine by thick tubes inserted into every orifice imaginable, screaming in agony as some liquid was poured into my body. Did they tell you what that monstrosity was called?" Eddie asks with a grimace, the memory bringing forth phantom pain in his face. Underneath the disguise of concealer his scars ache.

Addi simply watches him. He sighs and taps her knee again. "A shame, truly, what the media refuses to tell the public. In that case, I will just explain it to you myself," he says. One touch, two, and then three, Eddie lowers his palm to completely cover her knee. Her skin is soft and warm where they touch, the contact giving him a sense of steadiness as he reaches into the windbreaker and draws out his knife. Its edge glints in the slight moonlight, creating a shadow effect that gives the blade an illusion of curvature.

Gingerly, he rests the edge of the knife across Addi's knee and stares at her, waiting for a jolt or tremble to rip through the woman so that she could give the first cut to herself, yet neither comes. What he receives instead is the shimmer of water and a hesitant, controlled breath, green eyes avoiding the pull of the knife and locked on solely Eddie.

Resigned. And for some reason it takes more mental strength for him to cut into her knee than he had assumed.

"Imagine this," he says a centimeter into the slice just above her knee, where her skin starts to darken, "over and over and over again, all in rapid succession." He cuts another centimeter into her skin, releasing a spot of blood that falls behind her leg. "That is what it felt like to be in The Machine. Everyday. Same time. The intrusions were like…rape."

A scream forms from under the duct tape when Eddie finishes his slash in one quick swipe, her skin splitting like hot metal on butter. She squirms against the tree trunk as much as she can, jerking her body here and there to diffuse the pain, meanwhile Eddie runs the blade through a knife to wipe off the blood stuck there. He repeats the action until the blade is relatively clean again, and then he is holding the tip to her thigh.

"Do you know how that feels, my love?" he speaks rhetorically, not truly caring if she has been raped before because he can make her realize. He can show her the light. So he nicks a part of her thigh two inches above the first slash, and then an inch above that, and then halfway up her thigh. Patches of exposed skin are few and irregularly placed between stretches of tape, but that just makes this a game. A puzzle. He cuts another small line below the largest one.

Eddie places the knife on its side along the inner thigh of her undamaged leg. "Do you know what it was called?"

Addi's breathing is hysterical; loud, wet gasps come in torrents, her body shaking uncontrollably as she cries and cries and cries. He would have compared her to a waterfall but the analogy does not seem right: waterfalls usually hold a connotation of joy and peace, while this…this is horrendous. And he knows this – can fully recognize the tragedy of what he is doing to here but to end it here would be so much more of a crime to himself than a crime against the law. A friction of war, he supposes, if one may convert that into a purely internal form. Eddie points the knife at an angle, threatening to break skin. "I asked you a question, Addi, and I expect to be answered. What was The Machine's name?"

She wails something but her voice is muffled by the tape. Eddie turns the knife in towards her skin. "Addi, I need you to answer me."

Another cry. She thrashes against the bonds holding her to no avail, the tape trapping her in such a position and barricading her mouth. An accumulation of spit seep disgusting from corners of the tape, weakening its hold but the adherence is too strong to allow her to break free, especially without her hands. What is she going to do, trapped like this? What can she do when all of her options are sealed off? Eddie presses the knife into her thigh until he hears a slick squelch of skin separating.

"All you have to do is answer me, darling."

She screams, body convulsing, blood flowing everywhere.

"Why did you do this to yourself,Addi? It's your own fault, whore! Now answer me!"

Addi thrashes.

"What was its name?!"

She doesn't know so she cries.

"Tell me its name!"

And screams.

"Addi!"

And slowly begins to di-

In one swift motion the duct tape is cut from her mouth and the world splits off into high-pitched ringing, her scream a blood curdling pierce that fills every empty crevice in Eddie's heart and mind, suffocating his confusion for what he understands best. Pain is where he resides and Addi has taken him home. Home. Sweet, glorious, unadulterated home.

He grabs her mouth and digs his hand in there, locking her jaw in place as he inserts the knife to rest on her tongue. Her screams almost instantly stop.

"Do you understand now? The Machine, that hell? The Morphogenic Engine did that to me every single day. Those doctors and examiners were cruel, dragging us into those chambers just to make us beg as if we were less than the scum of the Earth. And no," his voice breaks off into a dying chuckle, lips splitting into a smile that emphasizes the pain in his eyes, "we weren't angels. We were far from lilacs and gooseberries, a far cry from the purity of a virgin or the heart of a child. But we were human, were we not? We felt pain just as they did and they exploited us because they could. We were the villains but they were the masterminds! The puppeteers shoving their fists into unspeakable places so they could do whatever they willed, all under the guise of 'recovery' and 'science.' It was torture."

The pain that he felt while there, balling it up into a mass that consumed his core and changed him. Pure insanity became his friend and he welcomed it, welcomed all of the abuse and blood as if it had always been a part of him – as if he could take it and make it his own. In the absence of love he sought out fear and anger, took what he could when he had the chance or else it would go away. Physical stimulus was better than none at all, correct? And if his mind could not be occupied then surely his hands could.

"I met a man once who explained the asylum to me as survival of the fittest," Eddie says, catching the drop in his tone that reels him in from maniacal. "At the time I was only killing to survive. People would enter my…home, per say, and scavenge through my belongings. I would ask them to leave and when they refused, well, you can assume what happened then. However, I did not just leave their bodies to rot on my floor." He shakes his head. "That would be unbecoming of a house. I devised a mechanism that would utilize pulleys strong enough to lift the human body off of the floor and hang it upside down from the ceiling. The blood would drip on to the floor and, when enough was pooled, would find its way down either of two drainage holes." He lifts the knife from her tongue. "Correct me if I am wrong, but, you saw it, yes?"

Addi momentarily hesitates to answer him, but a quick press of the bloody knife to her cheek reminds her of her obligation to speak and she, very carefully, nods, warily wrapping her tongue around a broken, "Y-yes."

"Good," Eddie commends before lifting the knife again. "Then you should know where this story goes if you paid attention, which I am assuming you had. Dear Joseph did not mention the monetary value of the bounty over my head until the end of his report," Eddie says bitter-sweetly, his memory of the news report turning stale after that particular statement. He glances up at the sky to take in the wonderful lights before looking back at this woman in distress.

"It wasn't very smart of you to come alone," he comments. Addi blinks up at him, her exhaustion extremely clear from how her breathing, albeit still ragged, has slowed and her shoulders have slumped. He supposes that being tied up in an uncomfortable position would eventually eliminate a person's stamina – not including the increasing amount of blood loss. He looks at the ground and finds a pool of discolored fluid.

Furthermore, "Having a taser on you was a fine idea, however, your execution was poor. I think I would be right to say that you have never attacked any one before… so why now? Was the money too large for you to ignore, especially since you had already interacted with me? Or was my and Waylon's performance at your workplace irritable enough to convince you to track me down," Eddie ponders.

"I am sure that you have a semi-viable reason for doing what you did, but at the end of the day you did indeed fail." Meticulously, he turns the knife over while it is still in her mouth, careful not the cut the inside of her cheeks or gums. "You failed, just as I have. Just as I will, and just as you will again in the future."

This, specifically, causes Addi's eyes to widen and her posture to stiffen, her mouth opening wider on its own accord. She peers at him quizzically, confusing taking place where fear once was (and yet remains). Addi has a question, though Eddie is not ready for it to be posed, so he continues on.

Adjusting the fingers in her mouth so that they are more so pried against her lips, he taps three of her teeth, saying, "I love Waylon Park. Waylon was the only constant at the asylum that maintained humanity, no matter how shit hit the fan. So unlike the others, Waylon somehow brought back a piece of me that those doctors had snatched away. And that has become the norm," Eddie confesses, tracing the inside of Addi's lips with his grimy thumb.

"I cannot tell you where I would be today without…Waylon. Probably dead, probably still hooked up to that engine, wasting away. Yet the hypotheticals do not matter; not right now, at least."

With a sigh, Eddie releases his grip on Addi's face and takes out the knife, placing it on the ground beside Addi's right hand. He stands in a rush, feeling as though his soul is dragging him back down to his previous position, as if watching himself from afar, but he cannot allow himself to stop now. Not when he has made his decision.

A glimpse of the moon is reflected in the pool of Addi's blood.

"I have undeservedly hurt him so many times, making me as much of a monster as Murkoff. Now that I have realized that, I can't simply allow us to stay…as we are. That would be," he stops himself here, thoughts moving a little too fast for him to keep up so he doesn't. Instead, he reaches a few feet away and moves Addi's phone closer to here, the voice recorder still on.

"I am not going to kill you," he announces with an echo, the words catching Addi off guard. She tries to say something but her voice is far too hoarse for him to make it out through the wind, so he just shushes her with a hand and points at the cellphone, taking one small step back.

"You have one chance to end this all tonight, darling. Once you find enough strength to speak, call the police and tell them to come to Super 8, room number 426, early tomorrow morning. You can find me wearing a bloodied vest and slacks, with an identifying mark being the arrangements of scars on my face," he says, unconsciously lifting his hand to feel the rivets of skin. "There will be a young man with me when they come. Advise them that he is not a threat and should immediately be taken to a hospital for a wound near his stomach that might be infected. Tell them to also check the back of a red jeep for evidence of our crimes."

The words leave his lips like the text of a book, forming from many practices in the car on his way here. He thinks back to this morning, to Waylon's lovely face before he left the house and he feels his heart truly ache, clenching at the twisted ways he's fucked with his mind. Broken him; taken absolute advantage of Waylon's willingness to love without apology.

Eddie is a monster, not Waylon, and that line of certainty must be established between them. So he looks to the stars and the sky above and prays for his deliverance from Waylon, because that man deserves so much more. He is not the wife Eddie wanted him to be.

With one last gesture to Addi, Eddie picks out a few broken branches and leaves from her hair and tosses them to the ground. "Your time is limited, but I believe that you can do this," he says, stroking down her damp cheek to touch the blood on her neck. "Thank you for your help."

Chapter Text

"Darling, are you awake?"

Waylon scrunches his eyes against the sunlight bleeding through the window blinds. He nuzzles his nose into the bed with a groan, the remnants of a haunted dream fading into live sensations and white noise. Something high pitched streams in only his right ear and the sound of something else, Eddie, shuffling near the bedside catches in his left. Pinching his index finger and thumb together to stop the white noise, Waylon drags himself into a slouched sitting position.

"What time is it?" he asks after a few seconds. A quick glance around the room tells him that it is early, possibly six or seven in the morning, and his suspicion is confirmed when Eddie pulls a phone out of his pocket and answers, "Seven thirteen."

"Seven?" Waylon repeats, rubbing his eyes with both hands to get the cold out of them. He scratches the corner of one eye absently, beginning to ask, "Are you just now getting back?" when he opens both and finally focuses on Eddie.

Eddie, standing before the window so that his silhouette is cast in shadows, donning a bloodied vest and black slacks. A bloodied vest with a pattern carved into Waylon's memory, and pants where the waist sagged just slightly from the weight of a dagger holstered there. A cold sweat begins to form on his skin as his heart simultaneously sinks to the bottom of his stomach.

Waylon's expression contorts almost immediately, his throat seizing closure. "What – what are you wearing?"

Cautiously, Eddie takes a step forward. "I want you to listen closely, Waylon. Please –"

"No," Waylon stammers, kicking the bundle of sheets off of his legs and halfway off the bed. He crawls backwards until his back hits the headboard, body tense. "No, I don't want to listen to you until you explain to me why you're wearing that. And, and," Waylon looks around anxiously, searching for something on Eddie until his eyes land on the imprint in Eddie's pocket. "My phone?"

Seemingly unconscious, Eddie touches the phone before raising his hands to his chest, palms open. To Waylon's confusion he is calm, taking another step closer to the bed and motioning for another until Waylon's shoulder twitches. Then he retreats, back two steps, giving Waylon enough air to breathe. Waiting for his chance to speak. However, the sentiment does nothing to stop the shock in Waylon's nerves.

When he realizes that Waylon is not going to speak he prefaces, "Darling, promise me that you won't run away."

Run away. The muscles in Waylon's leg give a minor spasm from how hard he is preventing himself from bolting. Right out the door, down the back staircase, to the jeep, then the interstate. Gone. Because everything about this image of Eddie is wrong – broken and horrid and too much for his fragile mind to take in because no, no they were supposed to be done with this.

Steadily, his vision begins to blur so he wipes the un-shed tears away, biting down on his lip to keep anymore from forming. Eddie watches him as he does this without moving, form appearing more similar to a statue than a man due to how still he is standing, which comes as a small reassurance, one that takes away a singular worry. Eddie isn't going to hit him, Waylon realizes, which causes some of the tension in his body to dissipate.

So what now? Waylon could still run, but at this point, if violence is unprovoked, then what exactly is he running from? A ghost of a memory, perhaps, yet doing so would be more of a diversion to a solution rather than going straight to the solution itself. Waylon bites down on his lip a little harder, needing that edge of pain to ground him. He breathes in shakily, hands balling into fists before forcing them to open. Looking directly at Eddie is still overwhelming, so instead he stares at the blank wallpaper over Eddie's shoulder.

Slowly, with another calming exhale, Waylon brings himself to nod. "S-sure. I won't run away," he grits his teeth, "just tell me what the hell is going on. You know that people are searching for us."

"Which is exactly why I," Eddie stops himself here, snapping his mouth shut as if literally cutting the words off. His hands waver in front of his chest before dropping off into a clasp over his lap, gaze cast away to survey the room. He appears nervous, now pacing the space in front of the bed instead of approaching it. Musing over whatever he has to say until the pieces click into place. One by one, following the sway of his hips and calloused fingers before the puzzle is finished and he is swiveling to face Waylon head on, perching himself on the corner of the bed opposite Waylon.

The bundle of blankets hanging off of the bed act as a weak barrier between them.

"Darling, do you remember how we met?"

Yes. A phantom pain in his ankle calls to Waylon's attention blurry visions of him hiding underneath a sewing table, moving quietly through the shadows in an attempt to avoid the strange variant monologuing to him. How long ago was that? A week or two? A handful of days? While the time frame escapes him, what does not is the certain feeling of dread that had nestled deep into his sternum at then.

Eddie continues without a verbal reply. "I was a lost soul at the time, roaming through those halls in search of something no one could give, apparently. Every whore that swore she – he," Eddie corrects, "loved me; every twisted corner and dark shadow; every revolution of my saw; every splatter of blood, even, all amounted to nothing." He looks down to his hand then, fingers lightly grazing the fabric of the mattress pad before they turn to his vest. Gently encroaching upon the hem of it, Eddie's voice loses its confidence, volume dropping until it matches the stillness of the room.

"Every stain upon my vest is a mark of failure, from one man to the next. I was, and still am, flawed beyond reconcile. Lost, I suppose; although, not necessarily as I once was," he says. "You made me a changed man, Waylon. And me saying that is for neither manipulation nor romanticism; I am speaking as objectively as I can. The moment you walked into my life I began to…change. Subtly at first, though with every moment together my transformation became more apparent – more aggressive, more substantial. The superposition of you and Trager was an irregularity I had never known before and, well, you know how that ended," he trails off with a bittersweet smile.

Inhale.

Exhale.

"However, no matter what happened you were always at my center. Despite my transformations you remained consistent yet bending, churning with my soul, bubbling with my anxiety and confusion, my anger and despair. Waylon, I have," his hands clench his chest, holding tight enough to whiten his knuckles. Pulling at the seams of the material. Eddie leans forward with a noise resembling a sob or whimper, and when he looks up at Waylon the younger man is taken aback. Waylon's breath hitches as a tear slides down Eddie's cheek to his trembling lips, resting there before disappearing behind a flick of his tongue.

There is no other way for Waylon to describe the scene before him, the sheer emotion in Eddie's eyes, aside from utterly broken.

"Waylon, my one true love, I have hurt you far too many times for me to make amends. And for that, I am so, so sorry. You don't deserve any of this, but because I cannot change the past, we must look only to the future. Please…for one last time…I ask if you will accept my love and forgive me for my sins. I promise you, darling, that this was the only way."

A shattered, humorless smile tears apart Eddie's lips, and then he sighs, "Here we go."

Three heavy thuds resound from the hotel room's door. Behind it, a deep voice shouts, "This is the Colorado State police, answer the door!"

Waylon jolts against the headboard. "Police?" he says in disbelief, eyes going wide as he looks between the door and Eddie. The bed shakes with another series of powerful knocks that vibrate the walls, the man on the other side repeating himself, "Open up! This is the police!"

In that moment, Waylon imagines a large hand labelled "panic" seizing his heart. He kicks the rest of the sheets off of the bed and stands beside it on gelatin legs. "Eddie, what's going on?" Waylon asks hurriedly, a sharp pain shooting up his hip and side from how abruptly he got off the bed.

Eddie simply repositions himself and wipes away sweat on his thighs, a look of resignation held close to his face. He does not answer the question. "You promised that you would not run away."

"I'm not," Waylon starts, fist clenching near his chin in exasperation, his heart pounding at a mile a minute. "This isn't me running away, Eddie, this is me asking what the hell did you do! Why is the police here? And what was that speech about this 'being the only way'?"

A new voice takes the deeper one's place at the door, knocking just a notch softer than the previous man. "Mr. Gluskin, we know that you are in there. You have thirty seconds to open up before we come in," the man announces.

Waylon is practically speechless, hands rising to grip his scalp as another wave of tears threaten to render him blind. He blinks them away wordlessly, not even attempting to wipe his cheeks when his enter skin is burning in confusion and embarrassment. He rubs a hand through his hair and glances through the window, at the early morning skyline painting the mountains fuchsia. Their early morning skyline, that was promised to be tranquil and ever changing, a new morning to their brightening days – not a visage of the past represented in hues of red - of volume, of visions.

Not the hollow shell of a groom without his bride, the persona that has taken form on the corner of their shared bed. No, none of this was supposed to happen, so why, why, why is it?

Waylon whirls around and storms toward the bed, arms outstretched to hold on to Eddie. "Why are you trying to break us?" he chokes, edging closer, vision blurred like the rest of him because none of the lines are connecting and the present is incomprehensible; the future is desolate; the only person in the world who has the answers is right there in front of him yet the door behind them clicks and the sole explanation that he is offered is a tortured smile and a whisper: "You are not the monster."

Someone grabs him by the arms to hold him back.

"No! No! That's not fair," Waylon shouts, pulling against the hands gripping his arms because there are already three of them on Eddie shoving his face into the mattress. Eddie crashes like a rag doll, his body dead weight as one officer pins his back, another pats down his sides, and the last one supervises with his gun in hand, pointed directly at the back of Eddie's skull.

"Sir, are you alright?"

The voice is the same as the soft spoken one behind the door, and Waylon whips around to see a man with freckles keenly staring at him. Despite their shared height, Waylon thinks that the officer must be younger. He feels himself start to be guided away and instantly wants to vomit.

"S-stop. He hasn't…he hasn't done anything wrong, can't you see!" Waylon yells weakly, jerking his shoulder but the movement causes a twist in his gut that is unforgiving. So he stills as best as he can without relaxing, wrenching himself so that he can still see Eddie. His love is watching him quietly, cheek buried into the mattress so that the one side that is up is the one littered in scars.

"Waylon," Eddie calls despite his voice being muffled. One of the officers glares at him and makes to reprimand him for speaking, however, a quick look to the freckled face man causes him to roll his eyes and shut his mouth. Waylon raises an eyebrow curiously, peering at the man to his side, but all he receives in reply is a very subtle nod and crossed arms.

The freckled officer gestures to the room. "I need every inch of this place scoured for evidence, including taking account of clothes. As we all can see, Mr. Gluskin here is keen on being rather…dirty," he announces. "Get him in cuffs and send him to the car. I'll make a report to the station that we're on our way."

"Darling."

"Eddie," Waylon whispers, stumbling over his feet again. He swallows a sob, feeling his strength to resist beginning to drain like rainwater into a sewer. The police officer guiding him away shifts his arms so that he is more so leading Waylon instead of dragging him, now that Waylon is visibly more compliant.

"I don't know," he sniffs, "what you did but I'll get you out of it, okay? I'll find my way back to you, Eddie. I always will."

"And that's the problem, Waylon," Eddie says, his voice light with laughter in spite of the rough way the officers lift him from the bed and cuff his hands, regarding him with little more than basic human dignity. "You always do."

One Week Later

"You press that button, there's no going back, Mr. Park."

The interrogation room is comically dark except for the light blaring from some government agent's laptop. Waylon sits on the opposite side of the table from where the investigator stands, arms crossed and imposing a relatively heavy silhouette. The act does nothing to impress Waylon; he's seen far more terrifying shadows.

Waylon taps the 'Q' key absently.

"There's enough hard evidence in that video file to make a world of shit for our friends at Murkoff," the agent continues with just a bit of twang in his voice. "You got out of Mount Massive alive, and we've done everything in our power to cover your tracks – as in you running off with one of their patients – but our enemies are twitchy and malicious corporate paranoiacs with resources you're too moral to imagine."

Waylon scoffs at the mention of his morality but allows the agent to go on.

"You won't be the only target. Anyone you care about, your wife, your child, they'll be nothing to Murkoff but ways to hurt you. I need you to understand the bridge you're crossing here," the agent emphasizes with a tap of his finger to the table. "You will do irrevocable damage to the company. You might even get close to something like justice. But, once you click upload, your life is over. Everyone you love is fucked. But it's the right thing to do… Is hurting Murkoff worth that much to you?"

C:\murkoff\WALRIDER_PROJECT. zip, yes? The file is rudimentary in his opinion; no more imposing than the next scandal title. Staring at the name on the screen is its own delineation of an experience that feels…unreal. Like a child's nightmare. And his family? Waylon taps another key on the keyboard. They are like ghouls and ghostly figures. Ghouls and ghostly…

There is a resounding click and then Waylon is slamming the laptop shut, pulling his hand back to gnaw his knuckle. He does not bite too hard, pressing his teeth down enough to feel the slightest, grounding ache. When he looks up at the investigator he imagines seeing an expression of pride.

"You did good, Mr. Park. Very good."

"Yeah?" Waylon blinks away a flash of inkblots, "are we done here?"

There is another click, this time from the door handle turning, and then a wave of light washes into the room, lighting up the agent's bald head and Waylon's pale skin. He looks clammy, Waylon dully notes as he drops his hand and stands from the chair, reflexively pushing the seat underneath the table after him. The man holds the door open for him to exit, going as far as to actually pat him on the back as he passes and say, "I'll be in touch," as a farewell. Waylon makes no effort to respond.

One week. It has only been one week since his life was uprooted – perhaps, truthfully, that statement is incorrect. Perhaps his life was uprooted long ago, a month ago, when certain events began to unfold and propelled his demise. Perhaps… although, this most recent chain of events feels more profound. Like a piece of him has been ripped out and all that is left is a void where that very vital part used to be. Still functioning, able to produce and interact, yet indifferent. A new sort of lost.

Rotating his shoulder to get some of the stiffness out of it, Waylon pushes open the exit into the facility's lounge area and sighs. He could take a drink right now, but alcohol is banned from his 'nutrition plan' so instead of marching out of the building and to the nearest bar he aims for a vending machine with an assortment of soda and vitamin water. While he is digging in his pocket for fifty cents, he hears the door he just entered through open and a quick patter of footsteps coming toward him; within seconds there is fairly short woman at his side, breathing hard.

She sees him go to press the panel for Pepsi and hurries to slap a vitamin water before he could make it. "Soda is off your list, sir," she says, not scolding, however, Waylon takes it that way. He is very careful not to groan when he finally glances at her.

The woman is a few inches shorter than him with wide, circular glasses and a lab coat designating her as a scientist. He vaguely recognizes her from his psychology review three days ago as one of the assistants taking notes and not exactly doing anything, and wonders if she is an intern. She's young enough to be one, at least, though that does not answer the question of why she is here, in a completely different organization's building. They're not in a psych ward.

Warily watching her, Waylon leans to grab his drink, asking, "And who are you?"

"Dr. Sarata Kanai," the woman introduces cheerily. "I was at your evaluation a few days ago."

"I remember."

"Then you shouldn't be surprised to hear that I have been charged with supervising your safe readmission into society," she says. "I apologize that we weren't able to meet in a more structured environment –"

The bottle's cap untwists with a crisp wisp of air. "Like your office."

"Yes, my office would be one. However, I rushed over here the moment I found out what you were doing and wanted to meet you in person, properly this time." Dr. Kanai shifts her weight to one hip and inhales deeply, a steady smile forming on her lips. Kind and professional. "Mr. Park, what you did just now is admirable. Actively working against Murkoff in such an uprooted state is so brave, and I thank you."

Ah, there's that word again. Waylon sips his cherry flavored water. "You don't have to thank me," he dismisses. "Those bastards need to be taken down. I'm just the unfortunate soul that has evidence. Nothing heroic."

"Well I believe otherwise," Dr. Kanai assures. She waits for him to finish drinking for now before starting to walk, a gesture that implies for him to follow. They begin a slow stride toward the lounge's exit. "How have you been feeling lately?" she asks, changing topics.

"Outstanding, ma'am."

She shoots him a half-hearted glare. "I'm seriously asking here, Mr. Park. Don't worry about me having to report to anyone, either. Anything you say or do is confidential, except for extreme circumstances."

"Like what?"

"Attempted suicide," Dr. Kanai says. "Only the act, though. Active and passive idealism are within my realm, but actually attempting suicide has to be reported, along with sexual, mental, and physical violence toward another person." She rotates her wrist. "Consider yourself my specialty."

"My personal babysitter," Waylon drawls lightly. While he expected to be chastised for the comment, Dr. Kanai simply agrees and quickens her steps so that she can hold the door open for him. "Now be honest. How are you actually feeling?"

Empty. Tired. Dead. An array of words and connotations flutter through Waylon's mind as he exits the building, but only one seems safe enough to say. So he takes another drink of his vitamin water before tightening the cap and shoving it into the pocket of his jacket. The outside air is at least refreshing.

"I feel exhausted," he answers after a moment of silence, gaze steadfast on the parking lot before him and mountains to the west. "Like I'm roaming without a sense of direction or destination. The only thing I can work towards is making Murkoff pay."

Dr. Kanai nods. "Motivated by vengeance."

"Not exactly," Waylon retorts, although he does not offer an explanation. He isn't even positive that he has one to give. Feeling a prick of awkwardness, Waylon rubs a hand down his nape and sidesteps, raising an eyebrow at her curiously. "Am I supposed to take your business card or something now?"

"Mr. Park," Dr. Kanai starts right after his words leave his mouth. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, and I am honestly excited to witness your growth these next couple of months," she says, reaching into her lab pocket. She pulls out a thin, black notebook and from its pages a white card. Waylon takes the card slowly, the sequence reminding him of an extended olive branch.

On the card is a halo of sky blue, a picture of her from perhaps a year ago, and all of her contact information. "Please do not hesitate to call me if you need anything," she says. "Our first meeting will be tomorrow morning at 0930. My office is located near AspenPointe, address right here on the card," she says, pointing to the street address. "I have already arranged a ride to and from where you are staying at, so you don't have to worry about transportation."

"Thank you."

"Not a problem," Dr. Kanai says. "Do you have a way home?"

"Yes," Waylon says then glances behind them, where a silver van with an Aurora Health logo painted on the side is parked by the curb. "They won't let me take a bus."

Dr. Kanai smiles sympathetically, but does not comment on it. "Well, be safe tonight, Mr. Park. Our meeting should be rather exciting tomorrow, so get up for it," she says.

A sudden feeling of dread hits Waylon like a brick. "How so?" he asks, trying not to let his abrupt anxiety show. She must have picked up on it because for a split second her expression drops into concern before floating back up to happiness. Dr. Kanai shakes her head and waves him away, gesturing to the van waiting for him.

"Don't stress about it, okay? I promise it'll be a good surprise," she hints without actual suggestion, and while Waylon wants to question her he knows that he shouldn't, because it isn't safe. So he bites his tongue and forces himself to accept the innocent secrecy, a part of him having to hammer into his head that she is his doctor. And she is not Murkoff. The woman has no reason to want to hurt him.

Reminding himself of this works for the remainder of the day. It works as he paces the many rooms in the psychiatric ward, careful to avoid those who look like variants and sticking to the well-lit areas; it works as he eats dinner alone; it works as he does his nightly routine and meets with a nurse to give a report on how his day went. It works very well, actually, up until he is crawling into bed and turning on to his side, arms raised to wrap around a warm body that is no longer there.

Because, by God, is Waylon tired of surprises.

Chapter Text

"Dr. Kanai."

"Yes, Mr. Park?"

"Is this… Are you…serious?"

The psychologist tilts her head, raven strands of hair cascading gently over her cheek. Her fingers lace over the top of her wooden clipboard. Her pink lips form a very slight smile as she says, "Yes, Mr. Park, I am one hundred percent serious right now." Dr. Kanai glances back at her office door before tapping its silver doorknob. "Are you ready?"

No. A chill rushes through Waylon. He feels extremely warm now, heat crawling steadily up his chest and neck until his cheeks are burning, an unwanted feeling beginning to ball in his gut. Waylon does not want to call this feeling dread, for it is not wholly negative; however, he has no idea what else to describe it as. Apprehension, perhaps?

He swallows around the lump in his throat, carefully turning his tongue inside of his mouth in preparation of speaking. "I, um," he starts, biting his lip nervously. "Are they really in there?"

Dr. Kanai makes an effort to answer him and then closes her mouth, lifting a finger to her chin. "I think the experience will be more worthwhile if I don't answer any more of your questions."

Not the answer that he was looking for but could he argue with her? Questions meant skepticism and if he continued to ponder the many, many, questions rushing through his head Waylon strongly doubts that he'd ever be able to enter that room. Well.

Slapping clammy hands against his thighs with an exhale and a shake of his head, Waylon attempts to steady his rising heartbeat. Beside him, Dr. Kanai jots a quick note on to her clipboard and then steps away from the door, ushering him forward with a brief flick of her pen.

"Are you not coming in with me?" Waylon asks nervously, looking between her and the wooden door. She regards him sympathetically, her eyebrows furrowing for a moment before she answers, "I'll join you all in a few minutes. You don't have to worry about being alone. And Mr. Park," she taps the top of her clipboard again, "feel free to leave the room if it becomes overwhelming. I'll be right here for you."

He pauses at her assurance, scanning her expression and posture for any sign of a lie but unable to find even one tell. She's being honest, he thinks and is surprised by the sudden sense of comfort that comes over him. I can leave any time and I won't be punished. I can be free. He stands there for another handful of seconds, consolidating the information, before forcing himself to grab her office doorknob and push open the door.

Somewhere far in the distance, Waylon swears that he hears the chime of a bell.

"Daddy!"

A swift arm snatches the child's side before he could start sprinting, resisting the young boy's chubby, prying fingers and attempts to claw his way out of the lock. "Sweetheart," comes a voice as gentle and cool as the sea, "give your father some room."

"But mom! I haven't seen him in forever!"

"I know, I know, we just," the woman starts and then stops, eyes drawn from her child to Waylon's very still, very statuesque figure just past the threshold of the doorway. White-knuckled, he continues to twist the doorknob, grip tightening in spite of the tremors raking his hands.

She takes in the sight of him meticulously, guarding her expression yet allowing him to note her pause; her disbelief. For a split second her eyes appear glazed with wetness before she blinks and suddenly the emotion is gone, vanishing back into caution. Beside her the boy jitters restlessly, patience thinning by the moment as he stares at Waylon in silence, small teeth flashing in a wide grin and energy bubbling to the surface. The boy is a grenade and his mother is the soldier holding the pin.

She pats her son's back in a request for submission, which he readily obeys, albeit not without an extended groan, and for some odd reason that show of disappointed respect calms Waylon's thunderous nerves just enough for him to properly close the office door and press his back against the wood, holding himself as far from the family as possible.

He is relieved when Lisa decides to speak first.

"Waylon…They told me that you were..."

Or not. He backtracks from that, jaw clenching unconsciously. Of course Murkoff did; what reason would they have had not to? In order to continue their experimentation without further questions it would make sense for them to announce his death. To say that he hadn't known the fact would be false, however, hearingthe words makes it concrete and irrefutable and it stings no less.

Lisa inhales shakily, fingers fidgeting over her son's shoulder and on the table, then tries to compose herself with a fierce clearing of her throat and a subtle swipe to her reddening eyes. "I'm so happy to see you, Way," she whispers, voice similar to a croak, and the bare nothing that Waylon feels fires off an alarm in his head. He looks from her to the boy.

"Aiden," he says and immediately the boy perks up, eyes wide and innocent and so unlike anything he has seen in the past month.

The child vigorously bounces in his chair, scooting closer to the edge of his seat. "Mom?" he looks her way, nudging her arm energetically. "Can I go to Daddy please? Please?"

"Wait just a little bit," Lisa starts then pauses. She glances at Waylon for permission, simultaneous to the swivel of Aiden's small neck. A layer of sweat begins to form on Waylon's palms from the attention, though it is not solely from the intensity of their watchfulness. No, the main source of his growing discomfort is from Aiden himself.

Waylon nods just to make the child's stare stop.

"Daddy!" Aiden exclaims with a sharp screech from the chair, pushing it harshly away from the table and jumping off when he's far enough away to not hurt himself. He bounds past Lisa, who makes no attempt to stop him lest she provoke a temper tantrum, and comes sprinting into Waylon's wobbly legs, wrapping his arms as far as they can reach around him.

Aiden buries his face into Waylon's thighs. "I love you so much, Daddy," he says, voice muffled by the fabric of Waylon's pants but loud enough to be discernable.

Waylon hesitates to react, the contact too simple for his brain to catch up to at first, but then, when it does, he manages to cup the back of the boy's head. Ever so gently, he runs his fingers through the boy's soft, wispy hair. Hair so unlike Waylon's but very similar to his mother's. The contact is the first to invoke a sense of longing from him.

Lifting up from Waylon's thighs, Aiden asks in a torrent, "Where were you? Mommy was so sad all the time and I couldn't find you anywhere!" His little lips trembles as he speaks so he rests his chin against Waylon's legs in an attempt to hide it, chubby cheeks flattening on the pants. Aiden's arms travel higher, pulling Waylon as close as possible, interlocking his stubby fingers so that there was no way to escape.

Waylon tries not to move through all of this, his own hand coming to rest at the base of Aiden's neck, lightly caressing the hairs on his nape. Waylon desperately avoids eye contact with Lisa, though he knows that she is watching their interaction intently, examining Waylon's reactions to her son's – their son's – plea for Waylon to return home. That's what all of this is about anyway, yes?

An obvious cry for comfort; it pulls at Waylon's heart like no other, causing him to crumble under the weight's overwhelming tug. Dropping to a knee, Waylon cradles Aiden's small head in his arms and pulls the young boy into a tight hug. Their grips on each other are uncomfortable but neither pulls away, little Aiden even going the extra length to kiss his father on the cheek and pat his back, under the assumption that Waylon is crying.

Crying, because how could he not be? Waylon stares at the floor, at Aiden's tiny frame and Lisa's feet, perplexed by his own indifference. Not towards Aiden, God no, but towards the complexity of the situation itself. However, now is not the time for such introspection, so he bottles up his confusion and focuses on the warm body in his arms, ignoring the intention behind Aiden's, "It's okay, Daddy. You don't have to cry."

A sniffle from Lisa draws Waylon's attention after a minute or two, signaling that he should probably let go of his son. Coaxing Aiden off with a pat on the boy's back and ruffle of his very light, wispy hair, Waylon pulls away, smiling.

Aiden looks over his shoulder at his mom and then turns back to Waylon with his own version of a sad puppy smile. His lips part to speak, but what is asked is a far cry from the expression on his face, truly catching Waylon off guard. "Do you still love me?" Aiden asks in all sincerity, not insecure or knowing. Not anything outside of pure need for an answer.

Not yes. Not no. But an answer.

Waylon touches his son's hand with his knuckle, the action wary, allowing contact where Waylon is imbalanced. Wavering, he lifts his gaze to his son's ever watching eyes and opens his mouth, throat tightening and words struggling to form. "Aiden, I," he manages to say but then chokes on air, cheeks heating. In his peripheral he sees Lisa just past Aiden's small shoulders, her hair pulled into a ponytail, the end of it resting over her shoulder. Beautiful yet unwanted. He goes back to Aiden's petite nose and quivering lips.

"Aiden, of course I love you," Waylon eventually gets out with what feels like a gasp, his heart hammering. "There is nothing in this world that could take that away from us." He taps the underside of Aiden's chin, drawing a bright smile from him. "Nothing."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

"Okay," Aiden completely relinquishes Waylon cheerfully, his little hands clapping in front of his face. Waylon's knees give a slight pop when he goes to stand, an absent comparison to old age crossing his thoughts, and he traces Aiden's jog back to his chair until he can no longer look at his son without seeing Lisa's estranged expression. His own must shift to match hers because she drops the look instantly and switches it to something more courteous.

"I'm glad to see you two getting along," Lisa says.

"Were you expecting something different?"

She purses her lips indignantly. Perhaps her question had been involuntary? No matter to Waylon, anyway, since a soft knock on the door draws everyone's attention. He steps out of the way of the door just in time for it to crack open and Dr. Kanai's head to pop in.

"Things going alright?" She asks rather rhetorically as she weaves her way into the office, clipboard in hand, and pretends not to be concealing her examination by casually waving at Aiden and marching over to her desk, on the opposite side of the room. She brushes Lisa's shoulder as she passes then leans against the side of her desk. "Would it make things better if I said your appointment time has concluded?"

"No, no," Lisa is quick to correct, rosy cheeks emphasizing her freckles. She gestures to her son with an awkward laugh. "Waylon and Aiden here were just getting reacquainted."

"Daddy said he loves me! And that he's coming home!" Aiden declares while Waylon's eyebrows furrow and Dr. Kanai peers at him curiously. "Really now?" she smirks.

I didn't say that, Waylon thinks but doesn't say. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and takes a few strides from the door to not appear as absent from the conversation as he feels. He stops once the table is within arm's reach, a mere few feet separating him from Lisa; the tension between them feels tangible.

Fortunately, Dr. Kanai must have picked up on his discomfort because she suddenly stands and holds out a hand for Lisa, her persona more professional than before. "Well I am glad that so much was accomplished this visit. Thank you for coming, Mrs. Park."

'Mrs.' sounds alien to his ears.

"It was my pleasure, ma'am," Lisa responds with her own professionalism and comes to a stand. She firmly grasps Dr. Kanai's hand, saying, "Thank you for inviting us. I am relieved to see Waylon under such great care."

"His health is my sole concern," Dr. Kanai says with a pointed look at Waylon, who is still, somehow, trapped in the distance. "Mr. Park has been through enough already," she sighs, "he deserves the best from all of us."

"Yes," Lisa agrees, letting go of the doctor's hand. She beckons Aiden from his seat and the boy jumps off, feet landing hard on the floor. "Thank you for letting us see Daddy!" Aiden shouts and then hugs Dr. Kanai, who responds with her own embrace and a genuinely amused laugh. A fondness buds in Waylon from the sight of it – his son is so very affectionate – and when his son sprints at his legs full force Waylon cannot say that he is surprised.

"I love you," Waylon says as he scoops Aiden into his arms to lift him off the ground. Aiden, giggling wildly, swings his arms around Waylon's neck and drags him in a vice grip hug, his cheeks squishing Waylon's nose.

"I love you too! Can I come see you tomorrow?"

"I don't really – "

"We will have to plan the next date with your mother and father, but you can expect sometime in the next week or two," Dr. Kanai chimes.

Aiden growls at her, lulling his head back, then composes himself by (lightly) slapping his cheeks. With a grunt, the child twists around so he can address Lisa. "Can we come next week?"

"We'll have to check with my schedule and ask your father then," Lisa responds tenderly. She seeks something that Waylon is unwilling to give with her eyes, and when she realizes that he is refusing to look at her she crosses her purse closer to her chest and turns back to Dr. Kanai, civility forced into a strained smile. "Should I contact you…?"

"I'll be in touch," Dr. Kanai shakes her head. "Safe travels, Mrs. Park."

"Same to you," Lisa returns then holds out her hand for Aiden, who drags Waylon into another vice hug before jumping down from his arms and grabbing his mother's hand. "Bye Daddy, I love you," Aiden calls as they exit the office, his small, waving hand the last thing Waylon sees before the door closes with a dull thud.

Waylon stares at the door for a few seconds after, waiting for something to happen. A crash, a scream, a swarm of black mist rising from the floor. He waits without recognition, anticipation crawling up his spine until a sudden noise from Dr. Kanai pulls his attention away. Absently, he runs a sweaty hand through greasy hair and realizes just how much of a mess he must look.

Not phased, Dr. Kanai gestures to a seat across from her at her desk, which Waylon gladly slouches into. She scribbles something on to her clipboard. "So, want to talk about how that went?" she asks, expression already expectant without comment.

Waylon doesn't mind; he flexes his hand into a fist idly. "Seeing Aiden was…different."

"How so?"

"I wasn't expecting," he starts then stops, staring straight up at the ceiling now. He outlines the paint patterns with a finger rested on his lap so that Dr. Kanai cannot see, counting each ridge and bump until the numbers begin to fade and all he is doing is occupying his thoughts with something menial. Unimportant and simple. Far more preferred than the tidal wave of questionable feelings flowing through the back space of his mind. A cacophony of misunderstanding. He blinks up at the ceiling.

"They are like ghouls and ghostly figures," he mumbles distractedly, still tracing ridges. "I wasn't expecting to see Aiden so joyful."

Dr. Kanai nods politely. "What were you assuming then?"

"Crying. A lot of sobbing and yelling from him, maybe he would hit me, maybe he wouldn't even want to see me," Waylon says. "But that wasn't what he did. The moment he saw me he just…started smiling."

"And is that so wrong? You know, your son was just very excited to see his father again after such a long time. What about his joy made you upset?"

A quick blur of censored faces and patients crosses in front of Waylon's eyes and he tries to blink them away, once, twice, until the images disappear and he is left with off-white ridges again. He glances at Dr. Kanai for a brief moment, answering, "The fact that I don't deserve it."

Here, she seems to muse over his answer, an eyebrow raising form the suggestion without inclination as to what exactly she is thinking. Carefully, with her right hand scratching a sort of note on the never ending stack of documents, she asks, "And Lisa's?"

He remains silent.

They hold the pregnant air for who knows how long, Dr. Kanai anticipating an answer while Waylon thinks of any and everything besides her question, a numbness beginning to fill the void that he knows is in his chest. He back cramps from the way he's curved into his seat, so he adjusts his position slightly, sitting up just a bit straighter which causes Dr. Kanai to perk up, hoping for a reply, but when he makes no effort to speak she sighs fondly and taps her pen closed on the clipboard.

"I have them scheduled to visit you at least biweekly for the duration of our time together, hopefully with their reintroduction into your life increasing on par with your therapy. Your wife has already consented to these sessions, and I think she honestly wants to be there to support you."

Waylon swallows a dryness in his throat.

"You can always say no."

"I want to see Aiden."

"Then let me know when you will like them to come again by next week," Dr. Kanai says with finality. She turns to her computer and types something in, possibly a password, then scrolls down a page or so until she reaches what seems to be a calendar in the reflection of her glasses. "We have another session on this upcoming Monday, a pretty long one from seven in the morning to noon. I think I'm just there to supervise you while another doctor officiates a psych exam. Shouldn't be anything too intense, just running some tests," she assures him. "I can arrange a ride for you at six fifteen if you'd like."

"Thank you," Waylon whispers, to which she flashes a curt smile. Feeling a sort of low acceptance falling over him, Waylon rises from his seat and pushes the chair in, taking some time to look around the office while Dr. Kanai finishes up whatever she is doing.

Many of the office details had gone over his head while he was focused on his son, like the half stocked bookshelf to his left, the open window allowing sunlight to sufficiently bathe the room, and a coffee machine with an assortment of chocolate laid out on a small table in the opposite corner. The table, that made the room feel like an interrogation, was mahogany (or another wood very close to it) and did not seem as oppressive as it did when his family was in there. Overall, the doctor's office was very much like her: kind, professional, with just a hint of sugar to draw out a personality. He places his attention back on her to find that she was quietly watching him, her hands laid neatly in her lap.

"That's all I have for today, Mr. Park," she says and Waylon smiles back, considering the effort enough as means for departure. He heads for the door with unsure steps, grabbing hold of the doorknob and twisting the door open, a calm yet grand escape in his mind. From behind he hears Dr. Kanai remind him to call her if he needs anything, but he is too focused on leaving to properly respond.

He closes the door gently as a way of thanking her.

That night Waylon dreams of the asylum.

He is hiding again, sweat dripping down his forehead and pooling beneath his palms, too warm in spite of the room's freezing temperature. Heartbeat racing and thunderous in his ears.

He can sense it, the heavy footsteps approaching him from all angles of the room, crowding him, calling for him to crawl out from under the table and reveal his position, reveal his fear. The entire room is painted in black so that even darker shadows are obscured. He listens closely now, pressing his ear to the floor to make out the faint yet growing sounds of boots on the ground. The floorboard creaks under the heavy weight just to his right and Waylon violently flinches, a whimper catching in his throat. Blindly, he follows those steps with his eyes, unsure of whether they are closed or not, and prays to all heaven that his breathing is silent.

He thought it was over. But no, no, no this nightmare is never over, everlasting, pulling at every nerve in his body until his senses are completely shot. Numb. Once again, all the time, merciless.

A light shines into the room from a door opening. Waylon slides on his stomach backwards in fear of the light hitting the underside of the sewing table. Breathless, he waits for the figure to appear in the doorway, counting down the seconds before the first sign of a boot crosses into the room. The variant stands there, basking in the light once he is inside, and silently examines the room for any sign of his victim. He stands there as Waylon firmly presses a hand to his mouth to muffle his ragged breathing, body trembling under the strange heat-cold. Gradually the door swings closed, slimming the light in the room until it is just a single line from a small crack.

Wordlessly, the variant starts to walk around the room, his steps solid and resounding. He walks in a direction that takes him away from Waylon, towards the back of the vocational block, and Waylon feels himself prepare for flight, his body already inching towards the corner of the table, eyes locked on that sliver of light.

Almost, he tells himself, adrenaline soaring. A few more feet and then you can run. Run like hell and get out of here. He creates a mantra out of those thoughts, using it to measure the time between each step. Farther and farther away the variant goes, leaving Waylon with enough time to sprint to his escape. One more step this time, another repeat of his mantra and then he can run. Run.

But then the variant stops walking, and just as suddenly as he came into the room he is gone, yet with a song flowing from his lips.

When Waylon wakes from his nightmare, he finds that his pillow is moist and those same lyrics are on repeat in his head.

Seven weeks and two days later, Waylon could finally hold a conversation with Lisa.

"Talking to her is important for your recovery," Dr. Kanai had said by the end of their second visit, when Waylon had spent the hour speaking only to Aiden and merely answering Lisa when he absolutely had to. His intention wasn't necessarily to ignore her, but when presented with the opportunity to communicate he avoided it like the plague, finding no value in doing so. It wasn't until their lack of communication started to effect Aiden that Waylon decided to forgo his stubbornness and initiate very strenuous, tentative conversation.

Two sessions after that, Waylon was able to continue a conversation without wanting to peel out of his skin, with a few exceptions:

"No questions about Murkoff, the asylum, or anything that happened while I was there," Waylon had told her on their fifth session, when he could talk to her without needing Aiden as a distraction. 'Needing' being a loose term; he distracted himself anyway.

Lisa had mused over the idea for a moment before agreeing, her fingers drumming over the table top. "Deal. Are you at least talking about it with Dr. Kanai?"

"Yes," he muttered, choosing not to lie.

"Then that's all I can ask for," she said, smiling. "You know you can ask me about anything, right? I'm an open book if you have any questions."

Waylon hummed into his palm, gaze moving from Lisa to his son, who was currently coloring out of the lines of a Superman drawing. He flicks a green crayon at Aiden, which the boy gladly tosses back. Without thinking, he pushes it over to Lisa, asking just for the purpose of changing topics, "Are you still learning R programming language?"

And all had seemed to be going well after that. They met on a weekly basis, sometimes twice a week depending on Waylon's desire to see his son and the boy's own enthusiasm. During Waylon's debriefs with Dr. Kanai he steadily became more open about his feelings on the subject of life and relationships. Sometimes his thoughts on the subject sounded foreign, as if carved from the voice of another and not necessarily a true portrayal of his own perspective. Sometimes he broke down in tears whenever Aiden's name was spoken. Sometimes he sat in silence while Dr. Kanai painfully tried to pry information out of him. Sometimes she sat and merely listened, without jotting down a single note. Sometimes they didn't talk about family at all.

However, through all of that not once had his and Dr. Kanai's meetings felt forced. Yes, occasionally he dreaded the knowledge that in the morning he would have to wake up and go downtown to her office, where he'd then talk to her about memories he long wanted to forget. He especially hated whenever she bird-walked around a rather sore, forbidden topic, and he would instantly shell up and refuse to speak when she mentioned a certain name; aside from those sparse incidents, Dr. Kanai was no short of a joy in his mental development. He looked forward to seeing her most in comparison to the other treatment facilitators he had to deal with. They were a far extreme from Murkoff's employees, but still not as welcoming as Dr. Kanai.

Waylon supposes that along the way he has grown a soft spot for her, or, more accurately, an appreciation for her attention and care. And he wishes that all of his thoughts of her could be positive; then she would be perfect. Even so, perfection is imaginary in real life, and he cannot help the feeling that the doctor has, unfortunately, truly dug her own grave with this current assignment.

Waylon sighs as the first sign of rain splatters against the side of the window, paying no mind to a quiet murmur of "Goodnight" and the creak of the bedroom's door opening and closing.

He remains restless yet still in the darkness, keeping strictly to his side of the bed. Averting his gaze to the window above the headboard, Waylon watches the slowly growing stream of rain drizzling on to the glass. He picks up on the acute movements of Lisa as she tries to prepare for bed quietly, considering the chance that he may already be asleep. She opens her dresser smoothly and pulls out some sort of gown, strips out of her clothes and folds each piece neatly, then places them back into the drawer and closes it with a slight swoosh of air. There is nothing for a second or two before the door connecting the master bedroom to the bathroom opens and a dim, almost yellow light brightens the room briefly.

Waylon tugs on the mattress of the bed roughly once he's shrouded in darkness.

Two and a half months. He stares up at the raindrops. Two and a half months and Dr. Kanai thought it was time for him to become readjusted to his personal life, at home, where things were normal and he wasn't constantly surrounded by illness. It was "good for him," he remembers venomously, teeth gritting at the thought. He had shown "so much progress."

It is a struggle for him not to want to rip out his throat. He mulls over the idea, imagines the grotesque scene, sees Lisa's horrified face, and erases the idea when his imagination filters to Aiden's trauma. He could never. So he switches his creativity to something less horrifying – to him slipping out of bed and leaving that house forever.

That would be ideal, wouldn't it? However, he neither has the courage nor energy to even move, his energy apparently being seeped out of him and into this forsaken mattress. Waylon tugs on it again, praying for it to tear.

This is a temper tantrum, he absently acknowledges, blinking up at the rain. You should calm down. Yes, he should, but how can he when this is so unbelievably unfair? Give people an inch and they take a mile, as the saying goes. His throat feels as if its tightening, just another sign out just how much he wants to –

The door to the bathroom opens and out walks Lisa, ready for bed. Body lithe, she crawls underneath the sheets and drapes an arm around Waylon automatically, positioning her head right on his clavicle.

He shudders at the thought that there is no thunder and lightning to scare her.

"Waylon?" Lisa says into his skin, breathing warm air down his shirt. It causes him to shift, which alerts her that he is indeed awake. She prompts herself up on an elbow, peering curiously down at him. "You okay?" she asks.

He tries to bite back the grimace in his tone when he replies, "Sure. I'm fine."

"That doesn't sound too positive," she notes and completely sits up, beckoning him to join her with a wave of her hand. "Come now, we can talk about it. I don't have to go to work until noon tomorrow."

"I wouldn't want to keep you awake. I think we've both had a long day," Waylon tries to refuse, but her posture is demanding and stubborn, dragging him up from his mold in the bed. He grips the mattress just a little harder. "We don't have to talk."

"We don't have to do a lot of things," Lisa retorts. "We choose what we want and I want to talk to you about what's going on in that head of yours," she says, trying for playful, but Waylon sees past her act. In the privacy of their – her – home, without Aiden around, she can finally get Waylon to talk to her about something with substance. The perfect setup.

Lisa pats the space beside her and angles herself so that she is looking at Waylon, his form more of a silhouette than anything else with his back facing the light from outside; on the other hand, Lisa is practically glowing in the moonlight, her freckles and hazel eyes particularly highlighted. She appears ethereal.

"So, what's keeping you up right now?"

Waylon clears his throat into his fist, already looking away from Lisa. "I think I'm just restless right now. My first time not sleeping in a treatment facility and all," he says with just enough honesty for her to nod.

"Yeah, I was assuming we'd run into that problem. Not many crazies around these parts," she jokes then clamps her mouth shut when Waylon shoots her a glare. Lisa bites her lip, embarrassed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I know that everyone there is not crazy."

"It's okay."

"Not really, but we'll just say that for now," she says with a sprinkle of tasteful humor that allows Waylon to relax again. Taking his relaxation as a sign, she treads the space between them and lightly rest her hand over his, her warmth a contrast to the cool of his skin. "Did you like being out with us today? Aiden seemed beyond happy to have you around, even when we went shopping. He usually hates errands like that."

"I don't think any kid likes walking around an outlet and staring at clothes for hours," Waylon says fondly, thinking back to how Aiden climbed up his back and sat on his shoulders for a fair duration of their shopping trip, just so he could ramble right into Waylon's ear. It was pleasant.

"Yeah, well he did today, just because he was spending time with his dad." Lisa smirks. "I know I've mentioned this before, but I am so grateful for how you two have come back into your relationship. It honestly makes my day simply to watch you guys."

Faintly, Waylon feels something pull in his chest. "Me too. I…didn't think I would ever see him again."

Lisa squeezes his hand. "But now you will."

"Now I will," Waylon concludes. He listens to the patter of rain, feels it calm his anxiety along with the thoughts of Aiden, and tries to pull his hand out from under Lisa's suffocating warmth. She doesn't budge, so he tries to make the finality of their conversation clear. "Thank you for talking to me," he says, however, Lisa doesn't appear to be listening.

Instead, she is watching herself trace Waylon's wrist, her gentle caresses travelling in ovals, up and down his hand, carrying along his arm, grazing just beneath his elbow. He looks at her anxiously, waiting for her to say something about going to bed, but no such request comes.

"Dr. Kanai was right to allow you to stay with us tonight," she eventually says, voice barely above a whisper and sounding somber. A strand of hair falls from behind her shoulder to brush her cheek. "I've been…so lonely without you," she says in a tearless gasp, and Waylon's eyes widen in realization, his body urging him to flee but she is already wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into an embrace, too warm body pressed against his.

He looks up at the rain and finds that it is pouring.

Somehow, a droplet hits his neck. "Thank you so much for coming back to us," Lisa mumbles into his shoulder, pushing back on him so that he will fall back on to the bed. She straddles him with one knee between his legs, still forcing him into a desperate hug. "I've missed you so much. You don't know how badly –"

"Lisa," Waylon attempts, but he must have sounded breathless because she adjusts her legs so that she can sit on his lap, hands trailing down his chest until they reach the hem of his shirt.

"We don't have to go to sleep tonight if we're both restless," she suggests in an exhale, grabbing for Waylon's hands so she can lay them on her thighs. "Aiden won't wake up, either. He's a heavy sleeper." She leans forward with a rotation of her hips, coming close just to whisper into his ear, "And I can be quiet, too."

A sharp shove pushes Lisa off of him and fumbling on her back on the end of the bed, her face bright red and tears welling in her beautiful eyes from shock. Shoving away the sheets, Waylon stumbles off of the bed and shakes his head, stuttering to get out the words tumbling off of his tongue. "Lisa, I don't – I don't want to have sex with you."

"What?" She snaps with more shock than anger, her arms tensing to the point where they are beginning to shake. She wipes her eyes with the inside of her elbows, stammering, "I-I'm sorry. We don't have to. I don't know what I was thinking, Way. I'm so sorry." Unceremoniously, she starts to straighten out he sheets without actually straightening them, her movements haphazard. "Come back to bed, Way. I won't touch you, I promise."

Feeling rooted, Waylon shakes his head, watching her scramble to fix her bed. "No," he says shakily.

"I'm sorry I ruined our night but I can," she looks around desperately. "I can fix it. I'll just –"

"Lisa…no."

"I'll sleep on the couch, then. Here, you can have the bed –"

"Lisa," Waylon emphasizes her name to stop her rambling, drawing her full attention to him. She is gorgeous, looking up at him with wide, hurt eyes and her hair sticking wildly in random places. Her cheeks are stained from passed tears, and in the moonlight her embarrassment is shaded like watercolor. And for the first time in all the time that he has been back, Waylon feels something at the sight of her. In the background he can hear the rain pounding on the window. "Lisa… I don't want to do this."

She quirks her head in question, eyebrows furrowing from how vague he's being. "Do what, Waylon?" she asks. "I- I know that you don't want to have sex tonight and that's okay. I won't try again until you're ready, and you don't ever have to be."

"It's not about that," he says calmly, trying to placate her feelings while he still has the chance. Like treading on ice, trying not to break the tension keeping him from the icy waters beneath.

Lisa, uncomprehending, asks him again, waiting for him to clarify. "What is it about then?" Her eyes narrow for a split second, posture straightening into suspicion. She drops the bundle of sheets in her hands. "Waylon, tell me what you're thinking."

"I don't want to," he starts, salvia thick and making the words so much harder to get out. So much harder to force out his thoughts but he works with the resistance because he's so used to it by now, so used to shattering whatever has been given to him. "I don't want to be with you anymore."

Against the window, the rain begins to slow its downpour.

"You don't even talk to me," Lisa scowls, a frown where her beautiful expression used to be. "How can you be done with me when you don't even speak to me?"

"Lisa, I do –"

"Don't even lie to me, Waylon," she spits. "What, you think telling me that your day has been 'fine' counts as actually talking to me? The only time you ever talk to me about anything that isn't fucking casual bullshit is when our son is involved, and even that is blunt." She grinds her teeth when she speaks, voice flurrying into a higher pitch that rises with her anger. Waylon wants to calm her, but he asked for this torrent. He deserves her frustration.

"How long should it take for you to start talking to me, huh? How long, Waylon, because I've been waiting all this time and you have yet to even tell me what has been going on," she yells, voice beginning to crack under the pain of it all. "I've been waiting every single day for you. They told me that you died and I still waited."

"And you tell me that you're done with me?" She hits the mattress with her fist. "For what, Waylon? For being your wife and taking care of our son while you were off running around some fucking mental asylum –"

"Lisa," Waylon warns.

"With criminals and fucked up scientists? What'd they do to you, Waylon? Mess with your head," she snarls, "take away your capacity to care about anyone because you surely don't care about your family."

"You don't know what they did to me."

"Because you won't tell me!"

Her hands are trembling, pulling at the thread of her sheets and the fabric of her mattress, scratching until the pad begins to unfold beneath her nails. She looks exhausted, bathed in moonlight, the weight on her shoulders too much to bear so she slumps into herself, frustration and hurt combining to age her into just a shadow of herself. He steps away from her now, not offering to pick her up and piece her together, like she had offered him; not offering to rescue her, because he feels nothing.

Nothing but the weight of himself and all his damage and arrogance. He feels nothing but the shell of a monster he deserved, a monster who is now gone. Waylon crosses the room slowly, listening to the quiet sobs of Lisa and the waning drizzle of rain. Its pit-pattering on the window is welcome, filling the void in the room so Waylon doesn't have to.

He leaves the bedroom with the door left open, senses numbing even when he looks at Aiden's bedroom door. He slips on his shoes in the living room, averting his gaze from the framed picture of his wedding day sitting carelessly on the coffee table. He doesn't break it, despite how much he wants to; instead, he places the memory of his old joy face down.

Through the kitchen he walks, following invisible footprints from so many years spent in this house. He tries to place what, exactly, he is feeling, but for some reason any semblance of an explanation is gone. He just wants to get out, leave that piece of himself that had once been happy here.

He leaves without a sound into the night, dreary and tired, wordlessly going, and only pulls out his phone when he has wandered maybe two or three blocks away. It takes three rings before the phone answers, and it is undeniable that the first true emotion that reaches him in that moment is relief. He hiccups into the speaker, the fact that he had been crying unknown until then.

"This is Sarata Kanai," the woman's static voice says into his ear. "Mr. Park, where can I find you?"

Chapter Text

Life has a way of swaying in topsy-turvy turns and rotations, shifting one's axis from one position to another in irregular patterns of fluid motion. Eddie has experienced this phenomena first hand, though his memory of such events is now faded; recalling them brings about headaches, so he tries not to think about it when outside of a recovery session.

Right now, he is painting. A wooden paintbrush lies steady in his hand, dripping blue acrylic back on to the oval palette from whence it came. The palette itself is dowsed in paint, white mixing with blues, purples, reds, and oranges to lighten their hue and a very small spot of black resides on the opposite edge of the board. He mixed the variation of color earlier with a painting knife that has now been cast aside, and before him lies a lonely easel.

For some reason, inspiration seems to be evading. He worries of touching the canvas; however, since this is his last one for the week and going three days without a project to work on will bore a void of boredom into him that is more threatening than the crazed lady staring at him from the corner of the room, Eddie forces himself not to try anything. Rue, the hag, is quiet yet stern, her hatred for men a fact revealed to him upon his arrival in the ward. Although, Eddie feels that he can sympathize with her. He was once there himself, too.

Softly, he begins to hum to himself and leans back in his seat, adjusting his shoulders so that they are completely pressed against the support. A flash of sewing material crosses his vision when he closes his eyes, and his grip on the paintbrush involuntarily tightens.

His doctor would be disappointed if he continued down that track, or broke the paintbrush, so Eddie grits his teeth and somehow draws the strength to clear his mind, loosening his grip along the way. A minute later, the brush is back to being held, albeit very loosely, in his calloused hand.

He hums a lyric-less tune as the sun rises in the sky, softly flooding light through the room's skylight. It bathes the white walls with a hint of pink, Rue with a tomato red. Elsewhere in the recreational lounge, doctors and patients gather for breakfast, some in wheelchairs while others straddle close to their physician. Eddie's own doctor comes by occasionally, her time spent between him and a patient at a different facility. Today must be her day with the other person, then.

Feeling just a creep of loneliness hit him, he glances at Rue and raises an eyebrow, pondering whether he should try talking to her again when the wrench spits at him and rubs away the saliva with the bottom of her fluffy slipper. Well, that makes his decision. Gently placing the palette and brush down on the work table beside him, Eddie stands from his chair and stretches until his back cracks, then heads over to the awaiting buffet.

Scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, grits, roasted diced potatoes, and French toast, among an assortment of fruits, bagels, and muffins fill the buffet table. A line has formed around the edge of the of it, so Eddie passes the food for the drinks, choosing to fill his clear, plastic cup with orange juice. He surveys the patients, doctors, and nurses and notices a few new faces, although the vast majority are very familiar.

Like Camryn, a sturdy man rescued from his conviction of twenty years. Or Martinez, a red head skinny guy with no prospects outside of his usefulness with technology. Or Jesse, a kind, young woman who made a comb out of the bones of the man who raped her. They, and others, create the safe, welcoming community that Eddie has found himself in, which is strange due to their past. All convicted felons for one reason or another, but all living in harmony. And one could ask how, could write a book about the inane psychology occurring in this facility, but Eddie thinks that the answer is simple. At some point, all of the patients here have realized that every other person there is human; every patient, despite the circumstances, was similarly abused, and the doctors treat them as such.

Humans who have done other humans wrong. Not to say that they aren't paying for their crimes – no, they have to serve community service for long hours every week day – but they are receiving fair treatment, genuine rehabilitation. Does Eddie sometimes feel the immense urge to shove Rue's and Jesse's faces into the concrete? Of course he does. Although, he is far more interested in actually talking to the ladies over killing them. The urges will go away eventually, he tells himself on a daily, so he has little to worry about.

Idly, Eddie takes a sip of his juice. A full year has passed since the Incident. He has long since stopped calling the event by its real name, the horror of the situation too easy to cause a rampage in his mind again, and only thinks about it seldomly. He occasionally catches himself dreaming of the Incident; however, instead of the nightmares that used to swarm his thoughts his more recent dreams have been encapsulated by white mist and the haze of the many hallways and testing rooms, the courtyard, the Vocational Block, and lastly, the engine, which is now just a grey shape in a dry room with floating, blue capsules. Those dreams are especially the worst. But he copes with it, talks about the stress it brings with his doctor and tries to paint the images away.

Which is a part of the reason why he wants to paint so badly, which is beyond annoying, but before he could fluster himself into oblivion Eddie finishes his juice and starts for a plate of food, now that the line has dwindled significantly. He is in the middle of piling on a heaping spoonful of cheesy, scrambled eggs when someone calls for him from behind. He twists his neck to see who it is and almost drops his food.

"Dr. Kanai?" he stutters, her presence taking him by surprise. He doesn't have an appointment today, right? Eddie looks down at his scrappy attire and feels ashamed. The stubble on his chin feels like a thousand pinpricks on his skin. "I did not realize that we were scheduled for today. It is a Saturday."

"That's right," Dr. Kanai says in her ever sweet tone, a light smile playing on her pale pink lips. Her glasses reflect a bit of the morning light, masking both eyes slightly. She raises her chin to stop the reflection before he could be unnerved by it. "I'm just here for an impromptu, quick stop before heading south for the rest of the weekend. Well," she starts sheepishly, a tinge of red hitting her cheeks, "I actually have some paperwork to file and saw you. I'm so sorry."

He can't help but laugh at her display, shaking his own head and steadying the hand holding his plate. "No problem, doctor. I understand."

"Thanks," Dr. Kanai laughs and then, apparently, notices the sheer amount of food on the table. She tries to cover her desire with a casual conversation starter while she subtly picks up a plate and starts piling on her own meal, asking, "Got any new painting ideas?"

Eddie wonders if the woman has a sixth sense or something, because her timing is impeccable. He snags a blueberry muffin and some strawberries. "I'm actually struggling with an idea right now, ma'am."

"What's the idea?"

"I don't have one," Eddie says. "That's the problem."

"Ah," Dr. Kanai says and grabs her own muffin. She plucks a piece of the top off and pops it in her mouth, her lab coat flowing behind her as she follows Eddie over to a nearby table. A few other doctors are sat rapt in their patient's voice, so Eddie does not feel his privacy gone when they sit a mere two tables away from the nearest pair. He still lowers his voice, though, for no particular reason other than not wanting to be overheard.

"I've been having more dreams lately," he says once Dr. Kanai is zoned in on him.

She eats the food on her fork and then plucks another piece of the muffin, asking, "What kind of dreams?"

Eddie pokes a piece of bacon with his fork. He sounds shy when he says, "You know… the dreams."

"About what?'

She is challenging him, in her non-challenging, innocent way. He wants to defy her by clamping his mouth shut, but this is for his recovery. The more he can open up in a safe environment the faster he can process and move on. She's not even making him call the event by its proper name. So he swallows his dismay and presses the strip of bacon to his lips, saying, "the Incident," before taking a bite.

Satisfied, Dr. Kanai leans over the table on her elbows, nudging her plate slightly. "Are they nightmares?" she asks, to which Eddie shakes his head.

"Not necessarily," he explains. "Just like I'm walking through the place in a blur. It feels like I'm walking through a fog, and everything is white, and I'm just going through each room I remember, as if lost." The taste of bacon on Eddie's tongue becomes too savory for him to stomach anymore, so he tries to balance it with the sweetness of a strawberry, speaking again once he swallows. "I think my dreams are looking for something."

Dr. Kanai seems to agree with him, if he is perceiving the look in her eye and nod of her head correctly. "And what do you think your subconscious is looking for?"

"I'm not sure," he answers honestly, and that seems to be the conclusion of their conversation because Dr. Kanai does not give him a solution, if there even is one. They transition the topic to things they can physically control, like his current job and medication. They talk shop on other ways for him to handle stress, and she mentions that she would like to review his journal during their next scheduled session. For thirty minutes Eddie basks in the security that comes in the form of his doctor, solid and present and caring, and it is when she signals for them to get up from the table so that she can start on her work does Eddie notice the completely new man watching them from the door.

New being a relative term, seeing as how Eddie's heart unknowingly lurches and he feels his world teeter. Fortunately though, Dr. Kanai has no way of noticing his increased heartbeat. She taps his shoulder as she says her goodbye, smiling bright enough to light the world. He tries to reciprocate with his own, but he knows that his is dimming in some ways, so he drops it quickly and waits for her to exit the lounge before forcing himself to go in the opposite direction of the strange man.

Who is he? Eddie wonders as he takes his seat by the empty easel. His station appears void of any usefulness, and he feels like a child mindlessly playing with spare toys and crafts. Rue has vanished from her vantage point in the corner of the room, causing Eddie to feel simultaneously at ease and isolated. He caves and glances at the man as quickly and nonchalantly as possible.

Average height, slightly skinny, blonde, wispy hair, sea blue eyes, and just enough stubble on his face to show how long he has forgone his appearance. Although, the man does appear relatively put together, if his presence here is not wholly abnormal. The man seems…comfortable being surrounded by all of these patients – these criminally insane patients – whom Eddie guarantees would freak out any person unaccustomed to the facility, but this man is far from nervous. He is at home, which either suggests that he is a doctor or he has been here before. Did he come with Dr. Kanai?

Suddenly, the man trails his gaze over to Eddie's and they make eye contact. Silent, innocuous eye contact; however, Eddie feels his entire core shift to shattering and he yanks his gaze away, turning his back completely to the man and staring straight at the emptiness of his canvas.

What was that?

Like electricity shocking every nerve in his body in a single instant; as if he had been struck by lightning. He blinks and sees a thousand images of something but all of the pieces are fragmented or blurred, and most perplexing of all is that Eddie feels as if trapped in his dream again. White, hazy, and lost.

He almost jumps out of his skin when someone taps the table beside him and greets to his right, "Hey."

Eddie turns to find the man from the doorway, now a mere three feet apart from him. Eddie feels the hairs on his nape and arm stand from goosebumps. He tries not to sound like a complete idiot when he says, "Hello."

"Sorry about staring at you earlier," the man says shyly, hand rising to run through his unruly hair. "Though, I noticed that you were talking to Dr. Kanai earlier. Do you know her?"

"She's my doctor," Eddie says simply, unsure of what exactly this man is going for approaching him like this but not exactly wanting him to leave. He feels…familiar. More familiar than any of the patients Eddie has lived with for the past year, yet he cannot quite place how he knows the stranger. Is it the man's eyes, so wondrously deep?

Which are widening by the second, surprise changing the features of his face. "Seriously?" the man asks, incredulous. He shifts his weight to one leg and crosses his arms over his chest. "That's fantastic!" he exclaims, and then tries to fix his confusing behavior by stammering, "Ah, I mean, she's my doctor too so I know how awesome she is. I'm happy for you," he finishes.

Eddie, smiling fondly, mutters, "Thank you."

Perhaps this is why he feels already so connected to this man, because they share the same doctor? While the idea does sound like a far stretch, Eddie has known about his existence for some time now. Dr. Kanai never explicitly talked about him, but he is the reason why their time together is so spaced, because she has to work with the stranger, too. Perhaps it is because of her large personality that Eddie senses a bit of her in him? Perhaps, but those are all simply theories and none of those even seemed remotely close to the truth. So what could it be?

Attempting to move on, Eddie picks up the brush knife and scrapes at his dried paint, trying to find any wet spots. "Are you just waiting for her to return, then?" he asks in way of small talk, since the man is apparently not going anywhere.

A moment of hesitation, and then the man responds, "Yeah, pretty much. She has to file some paperwork before the trial."

"Trial?"

"I'm getting a divorce."

Oh. Eddie looks at the man curiously. Is that why his face is so rough? "I'm sorry," Eddie apologizes because he is unsure of what else to say. Well – not completely true, but his initial reaction is inappropriate and he will not degrade their budding acquaintance by calling the man's wife a whore.

"It's alright, no need to apologize," the man says swiftly, as if embarrassed. "It's for the best, anyway. If everything goes well, I'll be able to see my son every other week."

"That's good."

"And I'm sure his mother will come around one day. We don't hate each other, not really. I've just…moved on."

Which is understandable. Eddie knows how falling in and out of love feels, although, whatever past relationship he was in has left him feeling more incomplete than anything else. He doesn't even remember who the person was.

Tapping the palette with the point of his knife, Eddie uses his other hand to grab the bottle of white paint. He might as well start mixing again.

"How long have you been here?" the stranger asks.

Eddie shrugs. "A little over a year. Went through some intense treatment at the beginning, but once that was over Dr. Kanai took charge of my case and has been around ever since. I like this place," Eddie says absently, squeezing out far more white than necessary. "Their focus is truly on rehabilitation. They even allow us to do community service."

"Instead of leaving you guys out to dry alone in a cell. I get that. My first facility was big on structure and solitude for those deemed too dangerous to be let out, but I was a minor case, so they moved me soon enough. Allowed me to see my family. I even got to leave the dorms and find my own apartment, ya know. Surprising, right?"

"Indeed," Eddie nods. If only he had that opportunity, but dwelling on such won't do him any good. So he closes all thoughts on the possibility of more freedom and goes back to work on his very blank, eternally empty canvas. He wants to punch a hole through its center.

The man, ever relentless in his questioning, continues on to ask, "So what are you painting?"

Nothing. "I'm not sure yet," Eddie says and mixes the white into the bit of blue he found to still be usable. "I have a vision for the piece, though that idea isn't fully solidified yet." Eddie dabs the tip of his brush in the pale color. "I suppose I should just start –"

"Or wait," the man emphasizes with a hand on Eddie's shoulder, stopping him from touching the brush to the canvas. The touch is piercing, albeit not in the same way as before. The energy sent between them is calmer, less threatening and bringing Eddie down from the strung-up high he hadn't even realized he was riding. A part of him wants to shove the hand away and force the stranger to leave, but the rest of him, the less rational, vulnerable part of him, actually relaxes into the touch and makes no sound of protest. Eddie just sits quietly for the few seconds that the contact lasts, even though it feels like a personal eternity, and then the man is moving away.

"You shouldn't rush art," the man says, but his words do not reach his eyes. No, there is so much more to be said in those glorious eyes that Eddie is scrambling to ask him something, to figure out more about this man before the moment could pass. In his peripheral, Eddie sees Dr. Kanai exit the office doors and he starts to panic, going for the one thing he can ask without setting off any alarms.

"What is your name?" Eddie asks desperately, paintbrush falling form his grasp to the palette with a clink.

The man himself feels frozen for a second, but then his expression is melting and he is smiling that soft, beaten smile that Eddie knows he has seen before. "My name is Park, Waylon Park," the man holds out his hand, "it is nice to meet you, Mr.?"

"Gluskin," Eddie says as he grabs the other's hand tightly, relishing the warmth of their contact. "Eddie Gluskin. It was… a pleasure to meet you, too."

The man – Waylon Park – just smiles at him before looking up to see Dr. Kanai watching their interaction, her own expression inherently masked. But she doesn't seem mad, so Eddie finds no fault. They let go of each other soon enough, and then Waylon is wishing him a farewell and promising to return another time, sometime next week, and Eddie cannot help but make a mental note of the date. He returns his own pleasantries to Dr. Kanai, who sheds her stoicism and grins brightly at him, reminding him of their appointment and his journal, and then the two are gone, leaving Eddie alone with his blank canvas.

That night, Eddie dreams of the Incident again, of blurry hallways and ghost rooms. Of the dreary, misty Vocational Block and of a foreign man with bone shears and other worldly ideas. He dreams of searching for something to fill the void in his heart, to forgive him of his mistakes, and finds himself standing before the Morphogenic Engine. He dreams of shutting the engine off and feeling the haze disappear, leaving the created world fresh and vivid.

The following morning, when he sits back down to paint, he paints the format of the engine and falling particles of mist. He paints the blue liquid that had floated in empty space, and at the center of his work he paints the angel sat behind a computer monitor, who watched over him during the reoccurring dreams and saved his life.