EverymanHYBRID (ARG): replica (x/x)
Title: replica: deleted scenes
Author: jack_infinitude/Luipaard
Pairing: Evan/Vincent
Rating: pg-13
Summary: n/a
Disclaimer: Not affiliated with the series or any of the crew.
Warnings: None.
Notes: This was the original Chapter 4. It's been Jossed since I first wrote it, but it's still pretty creepy IMO. Hope you enjoy!
Evan woke up.
The seat of Vinnie’s sofa was cradling his head uncomfortably, leaving him staring directly at the ceiling. It was dark; the only light came from the kitchen. He could hear the quiet clicking of the heater as it cycled off, finished with raising the house temperature for a time, until the New Jersey winter slithered back in through hidden cracks and thin glass.
Almost involuntarily, his body shifted, expanding outwards, his limbs stretching and rising as his sleep addled muscles tensed. His spine and shoulders and hips popped, his knees cracked, and his neck twisted his head around, seeking release from strain. He must have been grinding his teeth in his sleep again, he noted wearily, as his body relaxed as quickly as it had contracted.
He turned onto his side, letting one arm hang off the edge of the sofa. Shutting his eyes, he grazed the carpet with his fingertips, seeking roughness, imperfection, something to tie him down to this fragile earth and keep his head out of reach from the madness of dreams. Then something creaked underneath his chest, and he frowned. He was still wearing his jacket; he must have been more tired than he thought. He’d have to apologize to Vinnie the next time he saw him.
Carefully raising himself on one elbow, he withdrew his hand from the carpet and reached into his jacket, seeking the inner pocket hidden in the worn fleece. He didn’t remember putting anything in there. But he found a pair of glasses, all the same. Holding them up to the light, he recognized them as Vince’s -- the solid black frames were unmistakable.
Maybe Vince had put them there. Evan couldn’t imagine why, except perhaps for the purpose of a joke. Vince’s pranks got a little obscure at times.
He perched them on the edge of the sofa cushion, enjoying the way the light refracted through the lenses, casting patterns on leather. His hand fell to the carpet again, fingers stroking back and forth, back and forth. This time, he encountered the weave of a quilt, crumpled on the floor. He recognized it as he pulled it back up: it came from Vince’s own bed.
He huddled underneath it gratefully as cold settled back into the house.
Evan wasn’t conscious of the fear at first. It was like the cold -- it seeped into his bones slowly, freezing his blood and marrow so subtly that he wasn’t aware of it until he tried to move and found himself frozen by the tiny, desperate, scrabbling animal instinct written into his soul that screamed at him to play dead until the monster passed.
He squeezed his eyes shut and obeyed, and that was when he heard the sound of something moving in the kitchen. Pulling on shoes, zipping up a jacket, muttering and grumbling about the temperature. He didn’t know the voice, even as something inside of him twinged in recognition.
And then it approached the sofa, the monster on two legs, and he forced himself to be still. Play dead.
A hand settled on his head.
“Go back to sleep, rabbit.” Vinnie’s voice, raspy and low, and Evan did not dare look up, because there was no telling what he would see. Certainly not his friend. He felt himself trembling underneath that hand and its act of faux-affection, pinning him more effectively than any chokehold. The thing wearing Vince’s skin continued, its voice dragging across his ears like barbed wire, like shards of glass, like the scream of tortured metal. “You’ll get your lover back soon enough.”
Obeying was like flipping a switch. That thing gave him no other choice. The last he heard before slipping into blissful unconsciousness was the sound of the glasses being crushed in someone’s hand.