Mint Royale: "Notes from the Underground" 8
Title: Notes from the Underground 8
Pairing or Characters: Mr. Smith/the Driver
Summary: This is it.
Word Count: 1631
Rating: Strong R?
Warnings: Violence, strong language, probably not enough sex
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit made, and no offense intended.
Author’s Notes: This is part of a series: Part 1, Parts 2 & 3, Parts 4 & 5, Part 6, Part 7. And as a matter of fact, it’s the last part. Sort of an anti-climax, I’m afraid, but it’s all you’re getting, you cheeky bitches. And, anyway, it looks like a veritable cottage industry of MR fics has sprung up to fill whatever narrow gap I’ll leave. Thanks to easilyled and thieving-gypsy for their continued interest and kind words.
8
Time seems to stand still in the house. When I wake up in the morning, everything is always exactly the same as it was when I went to sleep. Dust hangs in the air.
We’re all learning that terrible itch between the shoulder blades, the one you can never reach. Each of us has his own way of trying to forget about it. The kid lies on his stomach on the couch, reading the album sleeves of all the old records he found in the basement. O’Flaherty won’t let him play them, says the noise might attract attention, so he just looks at them. Frost talks incessantly. O’Flaherty reads. I take apart my gun and clean it, put it back together, take it apart and clean it again.
The kid comes to my room almost every night, and we fuck. He shudders against me like a horse after a race, strains for it, greedy. Later, by daylight, it’s like it never happened, although I catch him watching me across the room sometimes, his eyes cold blue, fierce and hungry.
The walls of my bedroom are totally blank. The other day I found an old newspaper clipping pasted to the back of the wardrobe. I hung my coat up in there to keep it from getting wrinkled. It’s an expensive coat. It was an article about the death of some pop star from the sixties. Found shot in the head in his own home. There was a picture of him, and I vaguely recognized him. It made me think of how easy it is to kill somebody. One minute you haven’t done it, and the next you can never take it back.
I’ve just reassembled my gun for the third time today when there’s a quiet knock on my doorframe, and I look up to see O’Flahery standing there. “Can I have a word?”
I put the gun on the bedside table and wipe the oil from my hands. I’m getting a fucking headache. “What?”
O’Flaherty steps in and shuts the door behind him. I don’t like the looks of that much. “Are you getting into it with the kid?” he asks.
My stomach goes cold. “What are you talking about?” I try to figure out how O’Flaherty guessed, but everything’s just white noise.
O’Flaherty shakes his head. “Don’t give me that horseshit. I know you.”
“Fuck you, O’Flaherty.” My head is spinning.
“No,” he snaps. “No. You want to know who’ll be fucked? It’ll be you, if you’re not careful.”
“I don’t need to listen to this shit.”
“I’m saying this to you as a friend.”
“Like hell you are.” I stand up, take a step towards him. My pulse is racing in my throat.
“Listen to me-” He holds out his hands and steps forward, blocking me. I could take him, easy. I could tear him apart like a new tree. “Listen. You’re becoming a liability. And if you think anyone will hesitate to cut you loose, you’ve got another thing coming.”
I just feel cold. “Get the fuck out.”
“Think about it,” O’Flaherty says, and leave.
All I can think of is the kid’s eager, sneering face. My fingers are numb. I look around the room for something to throw. I throw the toothbrush I was using to clean my gun, but it just bounces off the wall and falls to the floor, so I pull off my watch and hurl it at the wall. It hits with a heavy thud, leaving a deep dent in the soft plaster. I feel like I can hear it ticking, but I know I can’t.
When I wake up, it’s dark out. I try to check what time it is, but my watch is in the far corner where it fell. The house is silent, dead, and I wonder why I’ve woken up. I don’t think I was dreaming.
There’s the scrape of a match lighting, and then his face appears in the halo of the flame. He lights a cigarette, and then steps out of the doorway, shaking the match into darkness. I follow the red tip of his cigarette as he draws near. “Have a good rest, sleeping beauty?” he asks.
I don’t say anything. The tone of his voice makes me sick. He just stands there, smoking his cigarette, watching me, occasionally tapping his ash onto the floor. The burning end draws closer and closer to his lips, until at last he drops it on the ground and crushes it out under the toe of his boot.
Without saying anything else, he gets on the bed and climbs on top of me, his hips flush against mine. My stomach turns. He runs a hand through my hair and tips my head to the side before trailing his fingers slowly down my throat. All my blood rushes down to my cock. I think of what O’Flaherty said this morning.
“Get off me.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. Instead of doing what he’s told, he reaches down and undoes his fly. He strokes his cock slowly, his face impassive.
“Get off, I said,” I tell him, warning now. I want to push him down and fuck him until he’s sobbing-like twisting someone’s arm till it breaks.
“No.” His mouth is sullen and womanish, the upper lip turned up just slightly.
“What did you say?” I can feel myself getting tense, the muscles in my arms quivering, ready.
He doesn’t answer, just goes on stroking his cock, slow, lazy, self-indulgent. I can feel his hips rock faintly against me, the insolent little cunt.
I wrap my hand around his arm and squeeze. He laughs under his breath. I yank him down onto the mattress and I slap him. He slaps me back, but it’s weak, he’s too close to get any momentum.
I shake him, so rough that his head jerks to one side, and for a second he’s limp, and I think it’s over, but then he kicks out and gets me hard in the shin with the pointy tip of his boot.
“You little shit,” I snarl, and I grab hold of his hair and knock his head against the wall behind the mattress. He gasps, and I can see a flicker of light reflected in his wide eyes. He reaches for me blindly, a fingernail catches my cheek.
My gun is in my hand before I even think about it, cold against my palm, and I hear the barrel connect to his nose with a satisfying crunch. There’s blood then, but I don’t stop, just tighten my other hand around his throat and hold him down, pressing the tip of the gun to his temple.
He’s hot under me, and his chest is shuddering, and the blood tickles down his upper lip. I could do it, I think, right now. My hand around his throat, the smell of his blood fresh inside my nostrils. It would be so easy.
“Is this what you want?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything. I tighten my grip on his throat and shake him. “Is it!”
He just stares at me with his big, pale, empty eyes. It’s like he doesn’t want anything at all, like he’s never wanted anything in his whole life. He’s totally still, a void inside him to be filled-fuck, I don’t know. His tongue slips out between his lips and I watch him taste his own blood. My stomach convulses, and I have to push myself away from him.
“Fuck you.” My leg catches on his as I try to climb off the bed. I lose my grip on the gun, and it drops onto the bare floor. “Fuck you.” My knee gives out. I fall down, retching.
For a minute, everything is still. And then, all of a sudden I realize it, something I should have known from the very beginning. I’m going to die in this house. I should have seen it coming. I’m going to die in this fucking house. I can’t breath. I’m sweating like fuck.
He gets up from the bed quietly, the bedsprings creaking under him. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t say anything, just walks past me and out of the room. I hear his crisp footfall disappear down the hallway. The smell of his blood lingers at the back of my throat.
In the morning, O’Flaherty comes into my room and shakes me awake. “It’s over,” he says. “I got the call. We’re done.”
The last time I see him is on the pavement in front of the house. O’Flaherty is locking up the front door, Frost is standing in the scrubby little square across the street, kicking at a blown-out tire while he talks on his mobile.
The kid and I stand there by the wrought-iron fence without speaking. The front garden is full of rubbish, damp newspaper and the blackened limbs of dead plants. The kid lights a cigarette without offering one to me. “You know . . .” he drawls, taking a deep drag, “it’s too bad. I was getting sort of sweet on you.” A nerve in my hand twinges, and my palm throbs.
O’Flaherty comes through the gate and makes a signal with his hand. This is it, from here we go our separate ways. Frost waves his fat hand and starts walking off through the park, still yammering into his phone. O’Flaherty heads off in the opposite direction without another word, not looking back.
We watch O’Flaherty go in silence, and then the kid shrugs. “Who knows,” he says. He pulls his sunglasses out from the inside pocket of jacket and puts them on, his lips twisting into a smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” But he and I both know that he won’t.
Pairing or Characters: Mr. Smith/the Driver
Summary: This is it.
Word Count: 1631
Rating: Strong R?
Warnings: Violence, strong language, probably not enough sex
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit made, and no offense intended.
Author’s Notes: This is part of a series: Part 1, Parts 2 & 3, Parts 4 & 5, Part 6, Part 7. And as a matter of fact, it’s the last part. Sort of an anti-climax, I’m afraid, but it’s all you’re getting, you cheeky bitches. And, anyway, it looks like a veritable cottage industry of MR fics has sprung up to fill whatever narrow gap I’ll leave. Thanks to easilyled and thieving-gypsy for their continued interest and kind words.
8
Time seems to stand still in the house. When I wake up in the morning, everything is always exactly the same as it was when I went to sleep. Dust hangs in the air.
We’re all learning that terrible itch between the shoulder blades, the one you can never reach. Each of us has his own way of trying to forget about it. The kid lies on his stomach on the couch, reading the album sleeves of all the old records he found in the basement. O’Flaherty won’t let him play them, says the noise might attract attention, so he just looks at them. Frost talks incessantly. O’Flaherty reads. I take apart my gun and clean it, put it back together, take it apart and clean it again.
The kid comes to my room almost every night, and we fuck. He shudders against me like a horse after a race, strains for it, greedy. Later, by daylight, it’s like it never happened, although I catch him watching me across the room sometimes, his eyes cold blue, fierce and hungry.
The walls of my bedroom are totally blank. The other day I found an old newspaper clipping pasted to the back of the wardrobe. I hung my coat up in there to keep it from getting wrinkled. It’s an expensive coat. It was an article about the death of some pop star from the sixties. Found shot in the head in his own home. There was a picture of him, and I vaguely recognized him. It made me think of how easy it is to kill somebody. One minute you haven’t done it, and the next you can never take it back.
I’ve just reassembled my gun for the third time today when there’s a quiet knock on my doorframe, and I look up to see O’Flahery standing there. “Can I have a word?”
I put the gun on the bedside table and wipe the oil from my hands. I’m getting a fucking headache. “What?”
O’Flaherty steps in and shuts the door behind him. I don’t like the looks of that much. “Are you getting into it with the kid?” he asks.
My stomach goes cold. “What are you talking about?” I try to figure out how O’Flaherty guessed, but everything’s just white noise.
O’Flaherty shakes his head. “Don’t give me that horseshit. I know you.”
“Fuck you, O’Flaherty.” My head is spinning.
“No,” he snaps. “No. You want to know who’ll be fucked? It’ll be you, if you’re not careful.”
“I don’t need to listen to this shit.”
“I’m saying this to you as a friend.”
“Like hell you are.” I stand up, take a step towards him. My pulse is racing in my throat.
“Listen to me-” He holds out his hands and steps forward, blocking me. I could take him, easy. I could tear him apart like a new tree. “Listen. You’re becoming a liability. And if you think anyone will hesitate to cut you loose, you’ve got another thing coming.”
I just feel cold. “Get the fuck out.”
“Think about it,” O’Flaherty says, and leave.
All I can think of is the kid’s eager, sneering face. My fingers are numb. I look around the room for something to throw. I throw the toothbrush I was using to clean my gun, but it just bounces off the wall and falls to the floor, so I pull off my watch and hurl it at the wall. It hits with a heavy thud, leaving a deep dent in the soft plaster. I feel like I can hear it ticking, but I know I can’t.
When I wake up, it’s dark out. I try to check what time it is, but my watch is in the far corner where it fell. The house is silent, dead, and I wonder why I’ve woken up. I don’t think I was dreaming.
There’s the scrape of a match lighting, and then his face appears in the halo of the flame. He lights a cigarette, and then steps out of the doorway, shaking the match into darkness. I follow the red tip of his cigarette as he draws near. “Have a good rest, sleeping beauty?” he asks.
I don’t say anything. The tone of his voice makes me sick. He just stands there, smoking his cigarette, watching me, occasionally tapping his ash onto the floor. The burning end draws closer and closer to his lips, until at last he drops it on the ground and crushes it out under the toe of his boot.
Without saying anything else, he gets on the bed and climbs on top of me, his hips flush against mine. My stomach turns. He runs a hand through my hair and tips my head to the side before trailing his fingers slowly down my throat. All my blood rushes down to my cock. I think of what O’Flaherty said this morning.
“Get off me.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. Instead of doing what he’s told, he reaches down and undoes his fly. He strokes his cock slowly, his face impassive.
“Get off, I said,” I tell him, warning now. I want to push him down and fuck him until he’s sobbing-like twisting someone’s arm till it breaks.
“No.” His mouth is sullen and womanish, the upper lip turned up just slightly.
“What did you say?” I can feel myself getting tense, the muscles in my arms quivering, ready.
He doesn’t answer, just goes on stroking his cock, slow, lazy, self-indulgent. I can feel his hips rock faintly against me, the insolent little cunt.
I wrap my hand around his arm and squeeze. He laughs under his breath. I yank him down onto the mattress and I slap him. He slaps me back, but it’s weak, he’s too close to get any momentum.
I shake him, so rough that his head jerks to one side, and for a second he’s limp, and I think it’s over, but then he kicks out and gets me hard in the shin with the pointy tip of his boot.
“You little shit,” I snarl, and I grab hold of his hair and knock his head against the wall behind the mattress. He gasps, and I can see a flicker of light reflected in his wide eyes. He reaches for me blindly, a fingernail catches my cheek.
My gun is in my hand before I even think about it, cold against my palm, and I hear the barrel connect to his nose with a satisfying crunch. There’s blood then, but I don’t stop, just tighten my other hand around his throat and hold him down, pressing the tip of the gun to his temple.
He’s hot under me, and his chest is shuddering, and the blood tickles down his upper lip. I could do it, I think, right now. My hand around his throat, the smell of his blood fresh inside my nostrils. It would be so easy.
“Is this what you want?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything. I tighten my grip on his throat and shake him. “Is it!”
He just stares at me with his big, pale, empty eyes. It’s like he doesn’t want anything at all, like he’s never wanted anything in his whole life. He’s totally still, a void inside him to be filled-fuck, I don’t know. His tongue slips out between his lips and I watch him taste his own blood. My stomach convulses, and I have to push myself away from him.
“Fuck you.” My leg catches on his as I try to climb off the bed. I lose my grip on the gun, and it drops onto the bare floor. “Fuck you.” My knee gives out. I fall down, retching.
For a minute, everything is still. And then, all of a sudden I realize it, something I should have known from the very beginning. I’m going to die in this house. I should have seen it coming. I’m going to die in this fucking house. I can’t breath. I’m sweating like fuck.
He gets up from the bed quietly, the bedsprings creaking under him. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t say anything, just walks past me and out of the room. I hear his crisp footfall disappear down the hallway. The smell of his blood lingers at the back of my throat.
In the morning, O’Flaherty comes into my room and shakes me awake. “It’s over,” he says. “I got the call. We’re done.”
The last time I see him is on the pavement in front of the house. O’Flaherty is locking up the front door, Frost is standing in the scrubby little square across the street, kicking at a blown-out tire while he talks on his mobile.
The kid and I stand there by the wrought-iron fence without speaking. The front garden is full of rubbish, damp newspaper and the blackened limbs of dead plants. The kid lights a cigarette without offering one to me. “You know . . .” he drawls, taking a deep drag, “it’s too bad. I was getting sort of sweet on you.” A nerve in my hand twinges, and my palm throbs.
O’Flaherty comes through the gate and makes a signal with his hand. This is it, from here we go our separate ways. Frost waves his fat hand and starts walking off through the park, still yammering into his phone. O’Flaherty heads off in the opposite direction without another word, not looking back.
We watch O’Flaherty go in silence, and then the kid shrugs. “Who knows,” he says. He pulls his sunglasses out from the inside pocket of jacket and puts them on, his lips twisting into a smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” But he and I both know that he won’t.