F13/TiH - Mirror, Crack'd &Indistinct - 18 - 1/2
Title: Mirror, Crack'd and Indistinct 1/2
Author: aramuin
Fandom: Friday the 13th/Ten Inch Hero
Pairing: Clay/Priestly
Rating: 18
Word Count: 14,900
Kink: First time, possessive
Notes/Warnings: Massive thanks to deannawol for beta and handholding. Spoilers for Friday the 13th and Ten Inch Hero, set after both films. Includes references to mental health issues, I am not a professional in this area.
Summary: After Jason, Clay is sent to Restful Meadows, Santa Cruz to recover where he makes his peace and meets a very interesting boy.
Artist: Cover art by the fabulous nufaciel who did such an awesome job! ♥
Prologue
Clay arrived in Restful Meadows, Santa Cruz at the ass crack of dawn on a miserable autumn morning. His first impression was of grey; grey stone walls, grey gravel and limp grass lawns with a sign that probably started out white but has been stained grey by the rain. "Welcome to Restful Meadows" The sign read. "A Home Away from Home!"
Clay watched the sign roll past with dull eyes. His uncle Alec was still talking in that overly-cheerful voice about how it wouldn't be for long and how nice Restful Meadows looked. Whitney was a slack bundle of skinny arms and legs in the backseat and Aunt Alice has both hands fisted in her Dolce suit trousers to stop herself from reaching out. Whitney didn't like to be touched any more and they'd had one mother of scene at the rest-stop three hours back when Alice touched her hair.
Aunt Alice and Alec (the triple-As, Clay'd called them when he was a kid) had stood by the side of the road while Clay tried to talk his sister down. He was kinda shit at it but he was there. He was the only one who has any idea what Crystal Lake was like and he's her fucking brother. It still took two whole hours and by the end of it, Clay was shaking with the need to punch something, anything. But the triple-As are 'good people' and fucking with the car is never a good idea (never know when you're going to need an escape route).
Truth be told, Clay wasn't sure why they were going to Restful Meadows (and Jesus, who named this shitheap?). Alec said something about defense attorneys and letting the air clear. He's been handling the cops and the media (fucking vultures all of them) since Crystal Lake and Clay was aware in a distant sort of way that he should be grateful. He was really, but mostly he just wanted to find somewhere nice and safe where he'd never have to think of Jason fucking Vorhees ever the fuck again.
What it seems to boil down to is this; a fuckload of people died in Camp Crystal Lake: most of said people were young, hot and rich: the murderer had been living in the woods for twenty years before this: the cops are running around like their collective ass was on fire trying to find a way to spin this that doesn't reek of gross negligence: Clay had been a stupid, angry kid with a smart mouth: the cops were starting to hint Clay and Whitney might have cooked the whole thing up: the triple-As were getting them the fuck out of Dodge before anyone else started to agree. Hence Restful Meadows, loony bin for the comfortably well off.
Clay rolled his head against the window as they pulled in. The glass was cool and the drops of rain looked like grey pimples on the world. The reception area was (surprise) grey. Even the grim little old lady behind the desk looked grey and sour. There was paperwork and a stream of people with plastic smiles and neat little uniforms. Clay honestly could not give a shit and Whitney was perched on the closest chair, staring out the window at the (grey) sky and the (grey) concrete courtyard. Clay was starting to hate grey already.
They were brought into the hospital and there was more talk, more paperwork to sign and before Clay had time to wonder what happened next, he was changing in a small bright room with a nurse standing by the door. The thin cotton pants and shirt might as well not be there for all the insulation they offered. Clay shivered. He felt detached again, watching the world scroll past on mute. They were talking about therapy and his allergies and really, Clay doesn't care.
Eventually they got bored or wandered off or something because Clay was left sitting on a plastic chair by himself. He tipped his head back to thump against the wall and sighed.
"Oh! I'm sorry, dear. I wasn't expecting anyone to be here." The voice made him jump, hands fisting on the edge of the chair (rip it up, beat the fucker back with it). It takes him a minute to process the small elderly woman with a violently purple flower that's seriously half the size of her head. It was like a botanic satellite dish and Clay winced away from the sheer purple of it. There was a good chance he was going to have the after-image permanently seared into his eyes.
The old lady kept right on talking. "I thought it was Tuesday, silly me but you see, on Wednesdays they cut the grass but they must have decided not to because of the rain so I didn't see them out at all and I'm not as good at keeping track of the days as I used to be. But it is always so wonderful to have new people. Not that the other guests aren't charming but well, one does get tired of the same old conversations. It's always so nice to have something new to talk about."
I'm being checked into this looney bin because some fucked-up monster of a momma's boy kidnapped my sister and killed a whole cabin full of assholes for being in his general vicinity. We killed him in the end, chain-link noose and pissing our damn pants every step of the way. Clay thought viciously. The words stuck somewhere under his ribs, jabbing and razor-edged. She looked old enough to be his grandma and there was something frail about the way her voice warbled. Probably drugs.
"But you're so lucky to have such an understanding girl with you." The lady beamed at the empty space to Clay's right. He managed not to roll his eyes. Great. She was delusional. "And such a pretty girl. I do like that you've kept your hair dark, my dear. So many young ladies these days dye their hair and it looks so unflattering. Don't you agree, my dear?"
She giggled, a polite trill. "Oh, but I'm being rude. Haven't introduced myself. You'll be thinking I'm horribly rude. Mabelle."
"Clay." His hand engulfed hers, all the way up to the wrist.
"Clay and ...Jenna? What lovely names." Clay froze in place. No way. No fucking way. The cops weren't supposed to release the fucking names for another three days. So how the fuck did some batshit old lady know Jenna's name? Mabelle broke off, clasping her hands together and Clay's expression must have been fucking murderous because she was backing up and babbling. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, dears. I didn't mean to assume-"
"How did you know that name!?" Clay hadn't meant to shout but the corridor echoed 'name/that name' back at him and Mabelle flinched. "How the fuck did you know that name!?"
He barely noticed the other voices, the strong arms holding him back (holding him down) and the sudden sting of needle in his arm sets the world spinning slowly around him. The last thing he saw before everything blacked out was Mabelle's lip quivering as a tear left a line through her make-up.
His alarm goes off at seven. Clay's been awake for probably thirty minutes before that, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. He could stay there all day, just watch the shadows of the leaves against the smooth grey but Doctor Armstrong will come find him if he doesn't get up in time to shower. He pushes himself up and shuffles for the closet-sized bathroom without much enthusiasm.
Clay's scrubbing listlessly at his hair, grown out and dripping stinging-warm water into his eyes when Doctor Armstrong puts her head around the door. "Good morning, Clay. Did you sleep well?"
Clay grunts and her expression goes tight around the edges. He fumbles for words, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth.."...yeah. Yeah, I slept good."
Doctor Armstrong smiles sunnily, the ominous tension vanishing as if it had never been. "Good! I'm glad to hear that. The new pills are helping, do you think?"
He has to think for a minute to remember which are the new pills, finally remembering Gabe's cackle of 'gay pills' last night. "The pink ones? Yeah, yeah. They're helping, I guess."
"That's good to hear. Are you looking forward to lunch today?" Doctor Armstrong leads him out into the cafeteria, talking about the new catering company. She's keen on things like 'community involvement' and 'supporting local business'. Clay nods along and doesn't think 'cheap-ass' or 'failed Health inspection'. For the money, Clay thinks but there's no real snap to it. "What did you order?"
"Cheese and steak." Clay says. He asked for extra pickles too but Doctor Armstrong will insist on them being a Freudian metaphor (they're just pickles). She beams at him like the choice of his sandwich is a difficult, priority one decision that he's reached after hours of agonizing.
"Well, I'll let you go grab breakfast, then."
Breakfast is cereal - one of the low-fat, low-sodium organic kinds. It tastes like wallpaper paste and feels goopy as Clay chokes it down. He has to swallow three times to get each spoonful down. He hopes the new catering company will be better. He's got group today, with the veterans this time. Doctor Armstrong thinks they're probably the ones best able to empathize with 'what he went through'.
Lunch rolls around and Clay goes to sit outside. There aren't any pickles and the cheese is limp and faintly rancid. The bread is soggy and breaks apart when he tries to pick it up. He isn't really surprised, chewing listlessly as he sits in the shade.
The next two days pass much the same. Doctor Armstrong starts talking about lowering his medication again and Clay stares at the modern art on her walls and tries to remember what it felt like to feel. He can't quite remember.
He goes outside, sitting at the solidly bolted picnic tables today since it's overcast. His sandwich is still mediocre, the cheese limp but the steak perfectly seasoned. Clay chews and tries to remember what a proper steak tastes like. Someone clears their throat and he looks around to see Mabelle (this time in hot pink and god, his eyes might never recover) standing with her lunch box in her hands. (Clay still thinks it's fucking weird that they get lunch boxes given that asking for a goddamn crayon merits a 'Mental health and Stability checkup'.)
"I'm sorry to intrude, dear. Would you mind if I sat there?" She points to the opposite side of the table. He apologized to her days (maybe weeks) ago but she still looks timid.
"Sure." Clay shrugs and turns his attention back to the sandwich. The cheese just doesn't taste right but it's still better than the oatmeal or the soggy vegan burgers they'll have for dinner. It tastes wrong but at least there's a taste there.
Mabelle opens her lunch box and sets out a sandwich and cupcake. It takes Clay nearly five minutes to notice the cupcake. When he does, his stomach tightens a little and he just about manages not to choke on the crust. Mabelle is humming, god knows what the hell the tune is meant to be and she nibbles delicately at her sandwich. Clay looks at what's left of his own sandwich and sighs.
"Everything alright, dear?" Mabelle asks, finishing her sandwich. "You look down in the dumps."
"It's nothing." Clay picks up the last triangle of his sandwich.
"Is there something wrong with your sandwich? A big strong young man like you should have a hearty appetite!" Mabelle declares.
"It's fine, really." Clay smiles because he'd kinda forgotten what it was like to have someone standing up for you. It's a little pathetic that it's a crazy old lady in a loony bin but it's the first no-strings nice thing to happen to him since his mother died. "I just-, I asked for pickles."
Mabelle taps her fingers on the table and nods decisively. She breaks her cupcake into two more or less equal fistfuls of crumbs and icing and hands him one. "You leave it with me, dear. I have connections."
Clay doesn't realize he's still smiling until his cheeks start to ache. Mabelle's dafter than a brush but it's kinda sweet. The smile dies as it dawns on him; Jesus Christ, she's serious! She stands up from the table, dusts off the crumbs and wishes him a good afternoon.
He doesn't get a chance to talk to Mabelle for the rest of the day (art therapy with nontoxic clay). His dreams are a tangle of memories and nightmares and he wakes up a full hour before his alarm goes off. He looks for Mabelle but there's no sign of her at breakfast. Before he can search for her, Doctor Armstrong shows up and herds him off to group.
He finds Mabelle just before lunch (Tommy had another crying fit so they finished early). She's sitting in the garden, humming as she picks through the flower bed. There's a neat pile of dandelion stalks and dahlias on the grass beside her and the bed is showing a few conspicuously empty patches. He clears his throat.
"Oh, hello dear." Mabelle smiles up at him. "Isn't it lovely weather?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess." Clay hasn't really been paying attention but yeah, the sun's out and there's just enough of a breeze to keep him from boiling.
"You should spend more time outside. You're starting to look pale." Mabelle peers up at him, lips pursed and for a second, Clay could be looking at his mother. Then Mabelle sighs and looks at the flower bed. "I don't think I'll be finished for lunch. It's a pity but I am glad there'll be some dandelions to look at."
"You like dandelions?" Clay makes a half-assed gesture that means 'well why the fuck are you pulling them up then?'. He's not real sure how that worked out.
"My Jeffery, he didn't like them." Mabelle sounds matter-of-fact. "He would throw such a fit whenever he saw one. I used to argue with him back then. Not exactly reasonable but we do such daft things when we grieve."
Clay flexes his hands, tries to think of something to say but Mabelle dusts off her hands and rises awkwardly to her feet. Clay helps her up and over to the picnic table. She talks a little more about dandelions, about one of her daughters who believes in structured gardening. Clay sits down and offers a few of his mom's gardening stories. It's like remembering a totally different person, thinking of her back then.
Clay is surprised to realize how long it's been since he thought of his mother without that heavy drained hollow in his gut. Mabelle laughs and tells him his mom must have been a wonderful lady. Clay agrees and completely forgets what he wanted to talk to her about.
Until someone plunks lunch boxes down on the table between them with a gruff "Two-timing me now, Mabelle?"
Clay jumps and turns to look, then his jaw dropped. The guy is pretty tall - not as big as Clay but at least six foot even without the chunky soled boots. He was also, without a doubt, the weirdest person Clay has seen in Restful Meadows; green/blue mohawk sticking out over a neatly tied bandanna, more piercings than Clay can count in a glance and thick dark tattoos curled around his neck. He's kinda scrawny but with just enough muscle to fill out his shirt.
"Priestly!" Mabelle fucking beams.
The guy - Priestly - grinned back and ..was that eyeliner? The fuck? Clay's starting to wonder if maybe he's accidentally overdosed himself when Priestly hands Mabelle one of the lunch boxes and waves the other. "So, you wanted a special delivery?"
"Thank you, Priestly." Mabelle set the plastic lunch box down with care. "Oh, oh yes. Poor Clay didn't get his order yesterday."
Clay looks over at the flower bed a little too late for plausible deniability but Priestly must be used to people staring at him, lifting an eyebrow. Clay sits up a little straighter, fucking judgmental assholes. Priestly smirks, "One ham an' cheese, extra pickles?"
"Uh yeah." Clay fields the lunch box that comes flying across the table and Priestly turns back to Mabelle. The sandwich in the box is thick enough to need both hands to hold it. Clay loses track of the conversation mid-bite. The bread was fresh, crusts crisp and the ham was salty. The pickles were crisp and tangy and God, it was a good sandwich.
Clay opens his eyes to see Mabelle and Priestly looking at him. Mabelle fondly, Priestly's smirking. Clay considers defending himself but there's still sandwich left. Priestly whistles as the rest of it disappears. "Damn, I'm gonna have to start laying in supplies. No-one told me we were supposed to be feeding a man-giant."
The last mouthful of the sandwich sticks in his throat and Clay hunches his shoulders. Priestly claps him on the back and dips his head to Mabelle. "As fun as this has been, ladies, I gotta get. Lunch rush and all that."
Priestly disappears before Clay can remember how to string a sentence together. He settles for glowering darkly after him. He spends most of group brooding about it and he gets up before the alarm the next morning to shower with the prickly tangle of feeling still lurking in his gut. He's not insulted or shit like that; Clay's been around long enough not to give most assholes the satisfaction of reacting but it's still bugging him when Doc Armstrong cuts him loose and he wanders into the common room about ten to twelve.
The room is empty so he wanders to the best chair by the window and folds himself into it. The sky is grey and the wind is just strong enough to rattle the window frames. Clay stares out the window, eyes half-closed. He zones out for a bit, mind wandering back to the taste of dry dust and the thick humid smell of the lake. He jerks out of when something clatters to the ground behind him.
"Shit, sorry dude." Priestly scoops up a tray from right behind him. Clay stares - he was pretty sure Priestly had blue hair yesterday, not red. "Eh, I bore easy."
And Clay has lost his brain to mouth filter. Fucking awesome. "I wasn't-."
"Whatever, dude. I know that look." Priestly flips the tray into a crate with a casual flick of his wrist.
"What look?" Clay asks, forgetting for a second why he's pissed at Priestly. Then Priestly rolls his eyes and turns away and yeah, that's why.
He glowers at Priestly for the next seven minutes, which is how long it takes for the lunch rush. There's less than a hundred people, staff included, in Restful Meadows and Priestly is like some kind of sandwich Jedi, handing off lunch boxes and smart-ass remarks so smoothly that Clay loses count of how many of the sandwiches he's actually handed out. There's a girl in an apron with him but she's got the whole 'oh my god, save me from the freaks' thing going. Clay wonders when he started to count himself with the freaks.
He's sorting slowly through the days when Priestly drops the lunch box into his lap. It's bigger than the one yesterday. "One ham'n'cheese, extra pickles!"
Clay starts but manages to keep from dropping the lunch box. Priestly smirks and heads back to where the girl is stacking yesterday's lunch boxes into crates as fast as she can. He watches Priestly saunter away with mixed feelings.
When he opens the box, there's a small bag of salt and vinegar chips beside the thick sandwich.
The next day, there is another perfect sandwich but no Priestly. He's back the day after but Marcus is having a bad day and everyone's pretty much locked in their rooms until the meds kick in. Clay gets his lunch box later, from one of the nurses and it's been left in the fridge. He rubs his thumb through the beads of condensation and thinks that it's just like Priestly to co-ordinate the lunch boxes with his hair.
After that, there's a routine. Priestly comes four days out of seven. The quiet girl comes with him most days and on the days he's not there, there's an older man who chats with Mabelle and the others. Older Guy isn't entirely comfortable with people looming over him so Clay just grabs his sandwich and books. He's eating alone these days, outside when the weather permits. The sandwiches are never less than perfect and there's always something else tucked in. Usually chips but on rainy days there's an apple and the day after a really big thunderstorm, two fun-size candy bars.
Clay suspects that Priestly is the one who makes the sandwiches. He doesn't exactly have any basis for this, just the fact that he really wants it to be. The quiet girl, who is blonde and not as tiny as Clay makes her seems, has started to loosen up. Her name is Jen, according to Priestly, and she's just waiting for the day that her computer can clean her house before she gives up on humans altogether. She might actually be flirting with him by the end of the second week. Clay really hopes not - he hasn't been able to think of girls 'like that' since Crystal Lake and Jenna's blood all over him.
Priestly smirks at him and slaps the lunch box into his hands one day and Clay flips him off. He's horrified a second later but Priestly just stares for a second, then laughs his damn ass off. Clay's gaze snags on his lips and Jesus Christ almighty, is Priestly wearing lipstick? Clay scuttles off and doesn't sleep well that night for the first time since he started taking the green pills. His dreams are blurry, leaving a tingle of sense memory when he wakes, half-hard for the first time since he came to Restful Meadows. He's irritable when it turns out the next two days are Priestly's days off.
The day that, he tries to jerk off in the shower and can't even get half hard. He finally admits to having a problem with his dick to Doc Armstrong three days later. Before, he hadn't really thought about it. With all the crap about his mom and Jason being dug up over and over and fucking over, the fact that his dick seemed to have sworn off sex didn't really seem important. They weren't going to keep him locked up for a dick malfunction after all. Clay manages not to say that to Doc Armstrong and tries not to think about how his inner monologue was starting to sound like Priestly.
"I wouldn't worry too much, Clay." Doc Armstrong assures him. "The combination of drugs you're taking at the moment have been known to inhibit the libido. It's purely a temporary side-effect, I assure you."
"So, it'll stop when I stop taking the drugs?" Clay tries not to sound as pessimistic as he feels.
"Almost certainly." Doc Armstrong smiles brightly at him. "The drugs have different potencies but at most, the symptoms of the drugs will lapse within a week or so."
"That long?" Clay looks down at his hands. His knuckles are white and it takes a second to realize it's because they're clamped together hard enough to hurt.
"At most." Doc Armstrong assures him. "Now, before we start your session proper, I have something to tell you."
"Bad news." Clay says flatly. No-one ever says they have 'something' to tell you when it's good news. People like telling you good news.
"You might consider it so." Doc Armstrong concedes, fiddling with one of her pens.. "Your sister, Whitney, is being moved to another facility."
Clay's brain kinda stalls for a minute. He hasn't seen Whitney since the first day and it's only right this second that he actually stops to think how weird that is. There's a sudden surge of pressure in his chest and his voice is weak and unsteady. "What kind of facility?"
"A very reputable mental health institute." Doc Armstrong uses her 'soothing' voice. "We were doing all we could but Whitney wasn't responding to therapy as well as we'd hoped. Your aunt and uncle have agreed that a more ...formal treatment center might be preferable."
Clay is aware that he should be feeling something at this point. His hands are shaking and his head feels heavy and too-full of thoughts tripping over themselves. "She'll get better there?"
"We hope so." Doc Armstrong says with extra cheerfulness. "It's a very good facility."
Clay nods and the conversation loops back to his favorite hobby when he was a kid. He leaves five minutes late and makes it to the main area just after everyone else. It's raining, fat splotchy drops spattering against the glass and Clay looks away. He's going to eat in today, where he can't smell the rain and the mud. He shuffles up to where Priestly's stacking the last of yesterday's boxes.
"Thought you were standing me up, man." His smile's a quicksilver flash of teeth and charm and Clay hunches a shoulder. One pierced eyebrow goes up and Priestly looks him up and down. "Jeez, you look like shit."
"Thanks. Thank you very much." Clay snaps, neck muscles tensing up. The muscles are already aching and he wants to curse. He's going to have a bitch of cramp later and that just pisses him off. Whitney always said-...but he's not thinking of that.
Priestly steps back, hands up and out, and Clay feels like an asshole. "Just calling it like I see it, man."
"No. You're right. Sorry." Clay looks over at his lunch box all alone on the counter. "Can I just grab my sandwich and I swear I'll be outta your hair?"
Both eyebrows up this time and Priestly looks him up and down. Then he grabs the lunch box, another bigger box from under the counter and hops neatly over the flimsy table. "Fuck that. We're not leaving 'til this shit clears so you and me are gonna grab lunch and you can tell Uncle Priestly all about it."
Clay opens his mouth to protest and Priestly waggles his lunch box. "Or I can hold your lunch hostage 'til you cave. You like the bread soggy, right?"
"Asshole." Clay grumbles. His shoulders drop, loosening up as he trails after Priestly who just flashes him that megawatt smile. Clay attempts to glower back but he can't quite remember how to.
"So," Priestly starts when they find a couple of empty chairs outside the art therapy room. "Is there a reason you're trying to out-emo the goddamn weather, man?"
"Fuck you." Clay growls, snatching his lunch box and glaring at Priestly who drops the smirk. The tension's back in his shoulders but this time it's a prickly tension that makes Clay want to twitch and fidget. He clenches his fingers around the lunch box instead.
"Better." Priestly cracks the other box which turns out to have bagels and cream cheese and other ingredients that Clay almost doesn't remember. "Seriously, someone pee in your wheaties this morning, Gigantor? Cause I gotta be honest here, if you're on the rag, you're shopping solo. There are things men are just not meant to do." He pauses for a second. "Plus, I think the clerk might actually kill me with his brain if I buy tampons there again."
"You buy tampons?" Clay asks, utterly failing to bite back the shit-eating grin that spreads across his face at the idea of Priestly's punk-ass haunting the feminine hygiene aisle.
"Once. Then I got barred but only from the tampon aisle." Priestly waves his bagel. "Long story, ask me about it when I'm plastered sometime. Back on topic, dude, how're you feeling and all that touchy-feely stuff. We're talking about your massive problems."
Clay snorts. "You were talking about me. I was talking about you and the gigantic you-sized pain in my ass."
"Fine." Priestly shrugs, tucking into his bagel and looking over Clay's shoulder. Clay pulls out his own sandwich and munches away. There's silence for the next five minutes which Clay keeps waiting for Priestly to break. Priestly turns out to be some sorta Zen monk, apparently perfectly content to sit there and ignore Clay completely. Clay distracts himself with his sandwich until there's nothing left but a few crumbs at the bottom of the box. Clay tries to concentrate on getting every one of the crumbs instead of doing something stupid like grabbing Priestly and shaking that goddamn smirk right off his too-pretty face.
Finally, he licks his fingers and turns to look at Priestly. "Why do you care so much?"
Priestly has his mouth completely full, which makes for an interesting hamster effect and Clay's lips curl up a bit. Priestly has to swallow twice before he can speak. "Cause you're interesting. Most people here, they're space cadets. You're different."
"That...makes no sense." Clay says, honestly confused. "What's a space cadet?"
"The permanently medicated masses. They're like never on this planet for two days in a row." Priestly shudders. "It's fucking creepy sometimes."
"So what makes me so different."
Priestly cocked his head, brows drawing down in serious thought. He drummed his fingers on his thigh. "I dunno. You're...just different."
Clay just keeps looking at him. "Different how?"
Priestly huffs and scratches his tattoos before answering. "You're the only one here who still wants to get the fuck out."
"What?"
"Look," Priestly points back to the dining room to where Marcus is scowling at the potted flowers. "Dude like that..you really think he's going to go home? I've only spoken to the guy what, four times? and he's tried to fucking kill me at least three of them."
Clay grits his teeth, struggling to breathe past the pressure that's crushing his lungs again. "Don't fucking joke about that!"
"Who's joking?" Priestly snaps back. "You might not have noticed but Marcus doesn't like boys who don't like girls. Screaming denial, I'm betting. Ten bucks says he chatted up the wrong guy once too often, 'cause, man, his gaydar is for shit."
"You're straight...?" Clay trails off, not sure how to finish the question but eager to redirect Priestly's babble.
"I'm comfortable in my sexuality." Priestly tenses up a bit all the same, reminds Clay of the way Chewie and Lawrence were around Trent. Not situation normal but practiced enough to fake the fuck out of it.
He waits for a second for the flashbacks, the crime scene photos the cops showed him, to come rushing back. There's an uncomfortable feeling in his gut and the big, heavy pressure, but nothing solid. He blinks and it's fucked but he wishes he had had a flashback. Anything to get out of this conversation. Priestly's watching him, big fucking green eyes and fucking eyeliner. Clay wants to get up but he's barely able to breathe around the weight in his chest. He can't even lift his goddamn sandwich.
"...do you need a doc?" Priestly asks, drawing back, looking at him like he's a time bomb...or a lunatic. The pressure spikes and Clay just loses it.
"...you seriously think that I'm the only one that wants out? What about-?" Clay's fumbling but his memory's for shit and he can't think, can't match faces to names. He's got Priestly crowded up against the wall, hands fisted in the cheap cotton T-shirt. "The whole damn building and I'm the only one that wants to get the fuck outta here?! That's just bullshit! No one in their right fucking mind wouldn't want to be out of here!"
"Newflash, fuckwit," Priestly snaps back, jerking away. "most folks in here aren't in their right minds!"
It hits Clay like a table-leg to the back of the head and the pressure eases up all at once. He shoves himself off the wall, away from Priestly and back against the opposite wall. It's too fucking hard to stay standing so he lets himself slide down until he's huddled against the white plaster. He's shaking again and Priestly's right there and...what the fuck just happened?
He hears Priestly moving, waits for him to go get the Doc or security. It's not like Clay blames him but that doesn't mean Clay's gotta watch him go. There's a small ache under the confusion and the weariness that Priestly saw him lose it like that. He would have liked to believe Priestly was right.
"See that's why you're different." Priestly says from too fucking close. The idiot's on his haunches right in front of him and Clay pushes himself up because he's too fucking close and Jesus Christ, Clay just tried to put him through the damn wall! Priestly should be screaming for the security. "You lose your shit, you lose your shit. You'll fuck up a wall, you'll mouth off. Everyone else eats, breathes and shits the rules."
There's a pause, Clay peers at Priestly through his bangs, like Priestly can't see him from this close. Priestly does at least pretend not to notice. "Some people... they find a rut and they just get comfortable. Stop thinking about the crap and just adapt. So, yeah, they quit and they settle."
"So, what? You think they've given up? My sister's given up?" Clay's oddly calm, watching his fists curl with a detached bemusement. He feels hollowed out and fragile, like he's on the brink of something terrifying.
"If you're just gonna hear what you fucking want here, dude, I'm out." Priestly says. "I don't know your sister, but if she's in here, then I've seen nothing to suggest different and I got better things to do than play punch bag."
Clay forces his fists to relax. It's harder than he expected and he feels like he's forgotten how to do it. Doc Armstrong doesn't believe in acting out. "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry, this just...not my day."
Priestly tips an eyebrow, lips pursing a little and yeah, Clay's feeling kinda weird again. He's aware of the loose pants he's wearing in a way that he hasn't been for a while. It's kinda freaky - first the fists, now this awareness. He feels like a stranger in his body, like the clumsy kid who grew three foot pretty much overnight back in high school. He's so distracted by the distance he feels from his own body that the words just slip out. "My drugs are breaking my dick."
Priestly blinks then bends to rummage through the box still at his feet. "Since I'm not up to speed on the 'proper' way to mourn a dick, I'm going to just give you chocolate and pity your loss of manliness."
"Dickhead." Clay catches the Godiva bar and smiles despite himself. "It's not permanent, just while I'm taking these meds."
"That, dude, is a decision no man should have to face." Priestly holds up his hands, weighing up invisible choices. "Go crazy...be a eunuch ....go crazy..."
Clay flips him off, mouth too full of chocolate to reply properly. There's someone calling for Priestly and he tips his head to listen. Then he smacks Clay on the arm (and Jesus, for a midget the guy packs a hell of a punch). "That's me, dude. I owe, I owe and all that crap. Catch you tomorrow."
"Yeah." Clay says and watches him go, lunch boxes under his arm.
The next two weeks are frustrating. Doc Armstrong thinks they're on the verge of a breakthrough and she's not so much pushing his buttons as mashing the fuck out of them. Clay thinks, in a calm and detached sort of way, that if he wasn't drugged to the gills, he'd probably have hurt her. He hasn't gotten a full night's sleep since he started thinking about the way his body doesn't fit any more. He gets this prickling kinda awareness sometimes, usually completely random body parts, and it's really fucking with his attention span.
He spends one entire session with Doc Armstrong trying to remember how the skin on his knee felt before and if anything's changed. She finally packs him off to art group because he won't stop running his fingers over his knee, trying to catalog the sensation.
Clay makes it a point not to ask about Whitney. He's not ready to deal with that. He does get to say goodbye but for all the reaction he gets, he might as well have stayed in his room. She was blank-eyed, staring vacantly at the wall and her mouth was moving as if she was trying to speak. It was like watching a B-movie zombie and Clay hadn't been able to stay in the room in the end.
There are a couple of silver linings. First, he gets to use the gym more. Something about 'stress relief' and 'healthy outlets' which sounds like grade A bullshit but it means no more group and hours pretty much alone with nothing to do but work out. There's always a nurse or orderly in the room but they don't look like they're there to watch he doesn't cut his throat. He pumps weights, runs for miles on the treadmill and soaks in the jacuzzi.
The second is Priestly. He turns out to be every bit the snarky asshole Clay thought he was but a good guy despite it. He puts chocolate in with Clay's lunch, sometimes adding a PostIt if he isn't delivering that day. Trucker makes some 'love letter' crack and Clay has to bite his lip not to laugh at the idea. He does keep the notes, safely tucked away in the back of one of the novels the triple-As brought him over their last visit. He has no idea how he's going to explain the notes if anyone finds them.
'Sorry about your dicklessness.' says one. '
Have they initiated you into the Sisterhood yet?' says another.
The 'No salt and vinegar in the whole damn town. Enjoy your BBQ, son!' one has greasy thumb-prints on it, all Clay's.
It's kinda sad to admit it but Clay's warming to the little bastard. They hang out a bit, as much as they can. Priestly turns out to have a truly wicked sense of humor and even on the bad days, when Jason hacked through his dreams and Doc Armstrong is being extra pushy, Priestly can have him cracking up in minutes. He's got this dead-on impersonation of one of the regulars at the actual sandwich bar who complains about everything except what the staff can actually control.
Doc Armstrong finds them in the garden, Clay laughing as Priestly explains how the guy came in to bitch for twenty solid minutes during rush hour about the seagulls. On the beach. Trucker has apparently banned Priestly from speaking to the guy so Priestly tells Clay about it. That way Priestly gets to work in all the smartass comments he doesn't get to use to the guy's face and Clay gets entertained. Win-win situation.
"Clay and Mr..." Doc Armstrong fumbles the name and Priestly's laughter cuts off completely.
"Just Priestly." He doesn't stand until Clay tugs on his arm. He offers Doc Armstrong a plastic smile and looks a little to one side of her. "...ma'am."
"You needn't be so formal, Mr-...Priestly. We pride ourselves on being a welcoming place to everyone."
Clay doesn't like being casually lumped together with all the rest of Restful Meadows' looney tunes but he bites his tongue. Doc Armstrong looks cheerful which means this afternoon's session will be about childhood and school which is better than trying to walk through Jason's handiwork again.
"Cool." Priestly offers her another fake smile and Doc Armstrong beams back. Clay wonders if she's trying to mesmerize him with sincerity or if she's just missed the fact that he's faking. "Anyway, loving and leaving. Gotta beat the dinner rush back before Trucker gives himself a coronary worrying about Date Night."
He claps Clay on the shoulder, nods to Doc Armstrong and tramps off. Clay watches the blue mohawk disappear behind the hedge and thinks of a shark fin vanishing behind a reef. The Discovery Channel is doing Shark Week this week and Clay's been watching it in the gym. He thinks Priestly would make a fucking terrifying shark. He shakes the random thought away when Doc Armstrong clears her throat.
"Clay? Do you have anything else to do or do you want to start a little early today?" Doc Armstrong really sucks at asking questions. Clay glances around at Mabelle, diligently at work in the flower bed then shrugs.
"We could start early, I guess." He says and slouches along behind her. He's really hoping starting early means finishing early too.
Doc Armstrong waits until he's sitting before she starts. "Did you know Priestly before?"
Clay pauses. That really wasn't the question he was expecting. "No. Mabelle introduced me to him a while back."
"Interesting." She writes something on the legal pad. "What do you think of him?"
"He's alright." Clay concedes, still trying to play catch up and figure out what the hell she's getting at.
"Do you talk with him often?"
"Most days when he's here, yeah."
"Have you phoned him at all?"
"No." That one's kinda stupid. Clay doesn't have a cell phone anymore and the only phones in the building are in the offices. Even if he was going to phone Priestly for...whatever, he wouldn't be able to ring him without all the secretaries listening in.
Doc Armstrong hums thoughtfully and makes a few more notes, flicking through pages. "Does he come here often?"
"Four days a week." Clay doesn't mention that he knows Priestly's schedule until well past Thanksgiving. He's still not sure what she's getting at.
"Does it help, to talk to him?"
"I guess." Clay rolls a shoulder and thinks about it. Priestly's never asked about the Crystal Lake camp or Jason or even his sister. It's one of the cool things about Priestly. He knows when to just drop something and Clay's appreciated that. Well, he did once he noticed Priestly was doing it. He's sick of the damn drugs.
"Would you consider him a friend?"
"I guess."
"Hmmm." Doc Armstrong takes a lot more notes, scribbling some things out and writing a lot of scribbles around the crossed out bits. Clay looks at the stuffed tiger on her bookshelf and hopes he isn't blushing. This sharing-emotions shit is balls. "Well, I have to say, I'm impressed. You're doing very well, Clay. I thought it might take you longer to re-socialize."
"What does that even mean?" Clay asks before he can censor himself. "I'm cured?"
"You're not ill, Clay." Doc Armstrong says with that super tolerant smile that makes him feel like a kid being patted on the head for knowing his alphabet. "But you are making progress and at a very good pace. I think you can be proud of yourself."
"What does that mean? 'Good pace'?" Clay looks back up at the tiger. "Can I go home?"
"Not yet." Doc Armstrong says compassionately. Clay doesn't really feel disappointed - he's not sure where 'home' is or if it ever existed. "But I do think we can start to wean you off your current medication."
"You're taking me off the drugs?" Clay gapes. "Like, now?"
"As I said, you're making excellent progress and a lot of the medication you're taking can be phased out now that you don't need it." Doc Armstrong keeps going on about withdrawal symptoms and the dangers of addiction but Clay's not paying attention. His brain's slipped a gear somewhere around 'phased out'. He can't really remember what it was like without the drugs - his memories are all sharp-edged and too vivid for him to be able to get a grasp on them, edges too sharp to handle.
"No more drugs?" he asks, interrupting and not caring.
Doc Armstrong presses her lips together in a tight smile. "Eventually. Right now, we're going to work on less drugs and see how that goes, okay?"
"Yeah, absolutely." It is totally okay with Clay. It is so okay that he sleep-walks through the rest of the session. Doc Armstrong looks pleased when she leaves so he must have done something right. He goes back to his room to lie on his bed and stare up at the ceiling. He's aware of a weight in his stomach, muscles tightening up as he thinks about coming off the drugs. He's trembling a little when he goes to collect his new dose after supper.
A clock is ticking. Clay ebbs back into awareness by degrees. First the sound, then identifying it and then wondering fuzzily why there's a clock ticking. He drifts for a bit, content to drowse as he tries to remember what happened. His abs ache and his stomach feels like he took a couple of solid hits from a sledgehammer.
When he actually opens his eyes, he's lying in a room that he's never seen before. He recognizes the trees out the wide windows which is the only thing that he recognizes. The walls are clean and white, there's no pictures, no shelves. The only furniture in the room is the bed and the IV stand beside it. Clay doesn't notice the itch of the needle against his skin until he follows the line of the tubing back to his arm. Recognizing this takes the last of his energy and he drifts off again.
The next time he wakes, Clay can hear voices. He recognizes Doc Armstrong. There's a lot of talking - he kinda understands it but he can't really keep the words together in his head long enough to actually figure out what they mean. He tries to talk back through thick tongue and dry throat but he doesn't recognize the sounds coming out of his mouth.
More drifting, more tangled up pictures. He dreams of Crystal Lake. There aren't colors, just the sepia tones of an old photograph. Only the blood is red. Only the blood is real. Clay remembers the bite of the chain against his palms, the shocking amount of pressure and the certainty that Jason won't die; his neck won't break and he'll reach the knife dropped just beyond his reach.
The dream shifts, still in Crystal Lake and still no color but the bright splashes of blood. Clay's running along the lakeside, heart pounding. Bodies - old familiar faces from high school, grade school - hang from the trees. He's horrified but it's like the cabin all over again, he just keeps pushing it down and running because...because...
He takes the last corner, the open ground stretching out before him to the pier. There are bright splashes of red and Jason's there, a blocky muddy figure against the pale sky. The knife in Jason's hand shines brighter than the sun. Clay starts to run towards the pier, towards Jason.
Pallid bodies litter the lake, bobbing faces white against the dark water. His parents are among the dead and he's numb to it as he crosses the dry grass. He just wants to get to Jason, to stop him and just to stop everything.
Jason looms up ahead, blotting out the sky like a hanging thundercloud. He's sepia-colored but there's a flash of electric green ahead and Clay nearly trips over his feet. Jason turns towards the pier and Clay recognizes it, remembers the dead weight of his body and the way the boards creaked under his feet as he dragged Jason's corpse to the water. But Jason's not the only one on the pier-
Next Part
Author: aramuin
Fandom: Friday the 13th/Ten Inch Hero
Pairing: Clay/Priestly
Rating: 18
Word Count: 14,900
Kink: First time, possessive
Notes/Warnings: Massive thanks to deannawol for beta and handholding. Spoilers for Friday the 13th and Ten Inch Hero, set after both films. Includes references to mental health issues, I am not a professional in this area.
Summary: After Jason, Clay is sent to Restful Meadows, Santa Cruz to recover where he makes his peace and meets a very interesting boy.
Artist: Cover art by the fabulous nufaciel who did such an awesome job! ♥
Prologue
Clay arrived in Restful Meadows, Santa Cruz at the ass crack of dawn on a miserable autumn morning. His first impression was of grey; grey stone walls, grey gravel and limp grass lawns with a sign that probably started out white but has been stained grey by the rain. "Welcome to Restful Meadows" The sign read. "A Home Away from Home!"
Clay watched the sign roll past with dull eyes. His uncle Alec was still talking in that overly-cheerful voice about how it wouldn't be for long and how nice Restful Meadows looked. Whitney was a slack bundle of skinny arms and legs in the backseat and Aunt Alice has both hands fisted in her Dolce suit trousers to stop herself from reaching out. Whitney didn't like to be touched any more and they'd had one mother of scene at the rest-stop three hours back when Alice touched her hair.
Aunt Alice and Alec (the triple-As, Clay'd called them when he was a kid) had stood by the side of the road while Clay tried to talk his sister down. He was kinda shit at it but he was there. He was the only one who has any idea what Crystal Lake was like and he's her fucking brother. It still took two whole hours and by the end of it, Clay was shaking with the need to punch something, anything. But the triple-As are 'good people' and fucking with the car is never a good idea (never know when you're going to need an escape route).
Truth be told, Clay wasn't sure why they were going to Restful Meadows (and Jesus, who named this shitheap?). Alec said something about defense attorneys and letting the air clear. He's been handling the cops and the media (fucking vultures all of them) since Crystal Lake and Clay was aware in a distant sort of way that he should be grateful. He was really, but mostly he just wanted to find somewhere nice and safe where he'd never have to think of Jason fucking Vorhees ever the fuck again.
What it seems to boil down to is this; a fuckload of people died in Camp Crystal Lake: most of said people were young, hot and rich: the murderer had been living in the woods for twenty years before this: the cops are running around like their collective ass was on fire trying to find a way to spin this that doesn't reek of gross negligence: Clay had been a stupid, angry kid with a smart mouth: the cops were starting to hint Clay and Whitney might have cooked the whole thing up: the triple-As were getting them the fuck out of Dodge before anyone else started to agree. Hence Restful Meadows, loony bin for the comfortably well off.
Clay rolled his head against the window as they pulled in. The glass was cool and the drops of rain looked like grey pimples on the world. The reception area was (surprise) grey. Even the grim little old lady behind the desk looked grey and sour. There was paperwork and a stream of people with plastic smiles and neat little uniforms. Clay honestly could not give a shit and Whitney was perched on the closest chair, staring out the window at the (grey) sky and the (grey) concrete courtyard. Clay was starting to hate grey already.
They were brought into the hospital and there was more talk, more paperwork to sign and before Clay had time to wonder what happened next, he was changing in a small bright room with a nurse standing by the door. The thin cotton pants and shirt might as well not be there for all the insulation they offered. Clay shivered. He felt detached again, watching the world scroll past on mute. They were talking about therapy and his allergies and really, Clay doesn't care.
Eventually they got bored or wandered off or something because Clay was left sitting on a plastic chair by himself. He tipped his head back to thump against the wall and sighed.
"Oh! I'm sorry, dear. I wasn't expecting anyone to be here." The voice made him jump, hands fisting on the edge of the chair (rip it up, beat the fucker back with it). It takes him a minute to process the small elderly woman with a violently purple flower that's seriously half the size of her head. It was like a botanic satellite dish and Clay winced away from the sheer purple of it. There was a good chance he was going to have the after-image permanently seared into his eyes.
The old lady kept right on talking. "I thought it was Tuesday, silly me but you see, on Wednesdays they cut the grass but they must have decided not to because of the rain so I didn't see them out at all and I'm not as good at keeping track of the days as I used to be. But it is always so wonderful to have new people. Not that the other guests aren't charming but well, one does get tired of the same old conversations. It's always so nice to have something new to talk about."
I'm being checked into this looney bin because some fucked-up monster of a momma's boy kidnapped my sister and killed a whole cabin full of assholes for being in his general vicinity. We killed him in the end, chain-link noose and pissing our damn pants every step of the way. Clay thought viciously. The words stuck somewhere under his ribs, jabbing and razor-edged. She looked old enough to be his grandma and there was something frail about the way her voice warbled. Probably drugs.
"But you're so lucky to have such an understanding girl with you." The lady beamed at the empty space to Clay's right. He managed not to roll his eyes. Great. She was delusional. "And such a pretty girl. I do like that you've kept your hair dark, my dear. So many young ladies these days dye their hair and it looks so unflattering. Don't you agree, my dear?"
She giggled, a polite trill. "Oh, but I'm being rude. Haven't introduced myself. You'll be thinking I'm horribly rude. Mabelle."
"Clay." His hand engulfed hers, all the way up to the wrist.
"Clay and ...Jenna? What lovely names." Clay froze in place. No way. No fucking way. The cops weren't supposed to release the fucking names for another three days. So how the fuck did some batshit old lady know Jenna's name? Mabelle broke off, clasping her hands together and Clay's expression must have been fucking murderous because she was backing up and babbling. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, dears. I didn't mean to assume-"
"How did you know that name!?" Clay hadn't meant to shout but the corridor echoed 'name/that name' back at him and Mabelle flinched. "How the fuck did you know that name!?"
He barely noticed the other voices, the strong arms holding him back (holding him down) and the sudden sting of needle in his arm sets the world spinning slowly around him. The last thing he saw before everything blacked out was Mabelle's lip quivering as a tear left a line through her make-up.
His alarm goes off at seven. Clay's been awake for probably thirty minutes before that, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. He could stay there all day, just watch the shadows of the leaves against the smooth grey but Doctor Armstrong will come find him if he doesn't get up in time to shower. He pushes himself up and shuffles for the closet-sized bathroom without much enthusiasm.
Clay's scrubbing listlessly at his hair, grown out and dripping stinging-warm water into his eyes when Doctor Armstrong puts her head around the door. "Good morning, Clay. Did you sleep well?"
Clay grunts and her expression goes tight around the edges. He fumbles for words, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth.."...yeah. Yeah, I slept good."
Doctor Armstrong smiles sunnily, the ominous tension vanishing as if it had never been. "Good! I'm glad to hear that. The new pills are helping, do you think?"
He has to think for a minute to remember which are the new pills, finally remembering Gabe's cackle of 'gay pills' last night. "The pink ones? Yeah, yeah. They're helping, I guess."
"That's good to hear. Are you looking forward to lunch today?" Doctor Armstrong leads him out into the cafeteria, talking about the new catering company. She's keen on things like 'community involvement' and 'supporting local business'. Clay nods along and doesn't think 'cheap-ass' or 'failed Health inspection'. For the money, Clay thinks but there's no real snap to it. "What did you order?"
"Cheese and steak." Clay says. He asked for extra pickles too but Doctor Armstrong will insist on them being a Freudian metaphor (they're just pickles). She beams at him like the choice of his sandwich is a difficult, priority one decision that he's reached after hours of agonizing.
"Well, I'll let you go grab breakfast, then."
Breakfast is cereal - one of the low-fat, low-sodium organic kinds. It tastes like wallpaper paste and feels goopy as Clay chokes it down. He has to swallow three times to get each spoonful down. He hopes the new catering company will be better. He's got group today, with the veterans this time. Doctor Armstrong thinks they're probably the ones best able to empathize with 'what he went through'.
Lunch rolls around and Clay goes to sit outside. There aren't any pickles and the cheese is limp and faintly rancid. The bread is soggy and breaks apart when he tries to pick it up. He isn't really surprised, chewing listlessly as he sits in the shade.
The next two days pass much the same. Doctor Armstrong starts talking about lowering his medication again and Clay stares at the modern art on her walls and tries to remember what it felt like to feel. He can't quite remember.
He goes outside, sitting at the solidly bolted picnic tables today since it's overcast. His sandwich is still mediocre, the cheese limp but the steak perfectly seasoned. Clay chews and tries to remember what a proper steak tastes like. Someone clears their throat and he looks around to see Mabelle (this time in hot pink and god, his eyes might never recover) standing with her lunch box in her hands. (Clay still thinks it's fucking weird that they get lunch boxes given that asking for a goddamn crayon merits a 'Mental health and Stability checkup'.)
"I'm sorry to intrude, dear. Would you mind if I sat there?" She points to the opposite side of the table. He apologized to her days (maybe weeks) ago but she still looks timid.
"Sure." Clay shrugs and turns his attention back to the sandwich. The cheese just doesn't taste right but it's still better than the oatmeal or the soggy vegan burgers they'll have for dinner. It tastes wrong but at least there's a taste there.
Mabelle opens her lunch box and sets out a sandwich and cupcake. It takes Clay nearly five minutes to notice the cupcake. When he does, his stomach tightens a little and he just about manages not to choke on the crust. Mabelle is humming, god knows what the hell the tune is meant to be and she nibbles delicately at her sandwich. Clay looks at what's left of his own sandwich and sighs.
"Everything alright, dear?" Mabelle asks, finishing her sandwich. "You look down in the dumps."
"It's nothing." Clay picks up the last triangle of his sandwich.
"Is there something wrong with your sandwich? A big strong young man like you should have a hearty appetite!" Mabelle declares.
"It's fine, really." Clay smiles because he'd kinda forgotten what it was like to have someone standing up for you. It's a little pathetic that it's a crazy old lady in a loony bin but it's the first no-strings nice thing to happen to him since his mother died. "I just-, I asked for pickles."
Mabelle taps her fingers on the table and nods decisively. She breaks her cupcake into two more or less equal fistfuls of crumbs and icing and hands him one. "You leave it with me, dear. I have connections."
Clay doesn't realize he's still smiling until his cheeks start to ache. Mabelle's dafter than a brush but it's kinda sweet. The smile dies as it dawns on him; Jesus Christ, she's serious! She stands up from the table, dusts off the crumbs and wishes him a good afternoon.
He doesn't get a chance to talk to Mabelle for the rest of the day (art therapy with nontoxic clay). His dreams are a tangle of memories and nightmares and he wakes up a full hour before his alarm goes off. He looks for Mabelle but there's no sign of her at breakfast. Before he can search for her, Doctor Armstrong shows up and herds him off to group.
He finds Mabelle just before lunch (Tommy had another crying fit so they finished early). She's sitting in the garden, humming as she picks through the flower bed. There's a neat pile of dandelion stalks and dahlias on the grass beside her and the bed is showing a few conspicuously empty patches. He clears his throat.
"Oh, hello dear." Mabelle smiles up at him. "Isn't it lovely weather?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess." Clay hasn't really been paying attention but yeah, the sun's out and there's just enough of a breeze to keep him from boiling.
"You should spend more time outside. You're starting to look pale." Mabelle peers up at him, lips pursed and for a second, Clay could be looking at his mother. Then Mabelle sighs and looks at the flower bed. "I don't think I'll be finished for lunch. It's a pity but I am glad there'll be some dandelions to look at."
"You like dandelions?" Clay makes a half-assed gesture that means 'well why the fuck are you pulling them up then?'. He's not real sure how that worked out.
"My Jeffery, he didn't like them." Mabelle sounds matter-of-fact. "He would throw such a fit whenever he saw one. I used to argue with him back then. Not exactly reasonable but we do such daft things when we grieve."
Clay flexes his hands, tries to think of something to say but Mabelle dusts off her hands and rises awkwardly to her feet. Clay helps her up and over to the picnic table. She talks a little more about dandelions, about one of her daughters who believes in structured gardening. Clay sits down and offers a few of his mom's gardening stories. It's like remembering a totally different person, thinking of her back then.
Clay is surprised to realize how long it's been since he thought of his mother without that heavy drained hollow in his gut. Mabelle laughs and tells him his mom must have been a wonderful lady. Clay agrees and completely forgets what he wanted to talk to her about.
Until someone plunks lunch boxes down on the table between them with a gruff "Two-timing me now, Mabelle?"
Clay jumps and turns to look, then his jaw dropped. The guy is pretty tall - not as big as Clay but at least six foot even without the chunky soled boots. He was also, without a doubt, the weirdest person Clay has seen in Restful Meadows; green/blue mohawk sticking out over a neatly tied bandanna, more piercings than Clay can count in a glance and thick dark tattoos curled around his neck. He's kinda scrawny but with just enough muscle to fill out his shirt.
"Priestly!" Mabelle fucking beams.
The guy - Priestly - grinned back and ..was that eyeliner? The fuck? Clay's starting to wonder if maybe he's accidentally overdosed himself when Priestly hands Mabelle one of the lunch boxes and waves the other. "So, you wanted a special delivery?"
"Thank you, Priestly." Mabelle set the plastic lunch box down with care. "Oh, oh yes. Poor Clay didn't get his order yesterday."
Clay looks over at the flower bed a little too late for plausible deniability but Priestly must be used to people staring at him, lifting an eyebrow. Clay sits up a little straighter, fucking judgmental assholes. Priestly smirks, "One ham an' cheese, extra pickles?"
"Uh yeah." Clay fields the lunch box that comes flying across the table and Priestly turns back to Mabelle. The sandwich in the box is thick enough to need both hands to hold it. Clay loses track of the conversation mid-bite. The bread was fresh, crusts crisp and the ham was salty. The pickles were crisp and tangy and God, it was a good sandwich.
Clay opens his eyes to see Mabelle and Priestly looking at him. Mabelle fondly, Priestly's smirking. Clay considers defending himself but there's still sandwich left. Priestly whistles as the rest of it disappears. "Damn, I'm gonna have to start laying in supplies. No-one told me we were supposed to be feeding a man-giant."
The last mouthful of the sandwich sticks in his throat and Clay hunches his shoulders. Priestly claps him on the back and dips his head to Mabelle. "As fun as this has been, ladies, I gotta get. Lunch rush and all that."
Priestly disappears before Clay can remember how to string a sentence together. He settles for glowering darkly after him. He spends most of group brooding about it and he gets up before the alarm the next morning to shower with the prickly tangle of feeling still lurking in his gut. He's not insulted or shit like that; Clay's been around long enough not to give most assholes the satisfaction of reacting but it's still bugging him when Doc Armstrong cuts him loose and he wanders into the common room about ten to twelve.
The room is empty so he wanders to the best chair by the window and folds himself into it. The sky is grey and the wind is just strong enough to rattle the window frames. Clay stares out the window, eyes half-closed. He zones out for a bit, mind wandering back to the taste of dry dust and the thick humid smell of the lake. He jerks out of when something clatters to the ground behind him.
"Shit, sorry dude." Priestly scoops up a tray from right behind him. Clay stares - he was pretty sure Priestly had blue hair yesterday, not red. "Eh, I bore easy."
And Clay has lost his brain to mouth filter. Fucking awesome. "I wasn't-."
"Whatever, dude. I know that look." Priestly flips the tray into a crate with a casual flick of his wrist.
"What look?" Clay asks, forgetting for a second why he's pissed at Priestly. Then Priestly rolls his eyes and turns away and yeah, that's why.
He glowers at Priestly for the next seven minutes, which is how long it takes for the lunch rush. There's less than a hundred people, staff included, in Restful Meadows and Priestly is like some kind of sandwich Jedi, handing off lunch boxes and smart-ass remarks so smoothly that Clay loses count of how many of the sandwiches he's actually handed out. There's a girl in an apron with him but she's got the whole 'oh my god, save me from the freaks' thing going. Clay wonders when he started to count himself with the freaks.
He's sorting slowly through the days when Priestly drops the lunch box into his lap. It's bigger than the one yesterday. "One ham'n'cheese, extra pickles!"
Clay starts but manages to keep from dropping the lunch box. Priestly smirks and heads back to where the girl is stacking yesterday's lunch boxes into crates as fast as she can. He watches Priestly saunter away with mixed feelings.
When he opens the box, there's a small bag of salt and vinegar chips beside the thick sandwich.
The next day, there is another perfect sandwich but no Priestly. He's back the day after but Marcus is having a bad day and everyone's pretty much locked in their rooms until the meds kick in. Clay gets his lunch box later, from one of the nurses and it's been left in the fridge. He rubs his thumb through the beads of condensation and thinks that it's just like Priestly to co-ordinate the lunch boxes with his hair.
After that, there's a routine. Priestly comes four days out of seven. The quiet girl comes with him most days and on the days he's not there, there's an older man who chats with Mabelle and the others. Older Guy isn't entirely comfortable with people looming over him so Clay just grabs his sandwich and books. He's eating alone these days, outside when the weather permits. The sandwiches are never less than perfect and there's always something else tucked in. Usually chips but on rainy days there's an apple and the day after a really big thunderstorm, two fun-size candy bars.
Clay suspects that Priestly is the one who makes the sandwiches. He doesn't exactly have any basis for this, just the fact that he really wants it to be. The quiet girl, who is blonde and not as tiny as Clay makes her seems, has started to loosen up. Her name is Jen, according to Priestly, and she's just waiting for the day that her computer can clean her house before she gives up on humans altogether. She might actually be flirting with him by the end of the second week. Clay really hopes not - he hasn't been able to think of girls 'like that' since Crystal Lake and Jenna's blood all over him.
Priestly smirks at him and slaps the lunch box into his hands one day and Clay flips him off. He's horrified a second later but Priestly just stares for a second, then laughs his damn ass off. Clay's gaze snags on his lips and Jesus Christ almighty, is Priestly wearing lipstick? Clay scuttles off and doesn't sleep well that night for the first time since he started taking the green pills. His dreams are blurry, leaving a tingle of sense memory when he wakes, half-hard for the first time since he came to Restful Meadows. He's irritable when it turns out the next two days are Priestly's days off.
The day that, he tries to jerk off in the shower and can't even get half hard. He finally admits to having a problem with his dick to Doc Armstrong three days later. Before, he hadn't really thought about it. With all the crap about his mom and Jason being dug up over and over and fucking over, the fact that his dick seemed to have sworn off sex didn't really seem important. They weren't going to keep him locked up for a dick malfunction after all. Clay manages not to say that to Doc Armstrong and tries not to think about how his inner monologue was starting to sound like Priestly.
"I wouldn't worry too much, Clay." Doc Armstrong assures him. "The combination of drugs you're taking at the moment have been known to inhibit the libido. It's purely a temporary side-effect, I assure you."
"So, it'll stop when I stop taking the drugs?" Clay tries not to sound as pessimistic as he feels.
"Almost certainly." Doc Armstrong smiles brightly at him. "The drugs have different potencies but at most, the symptoms of the drugs will lapse within a week or so."
"That long?" Clay looks down at his hands. His knuckles are white and it takes a second to realize it's because they're clamped together hard enough to hurt.
"At most." Doc Armstrong assures him. "Now, before we start your session proper, I have something to tell you."
"Bad news." Clay says flatly. No-one ever says they have 'something' to tell you when it's good news. People like telling you good news.
"You might consider it so." Doc Armstrong concedes, fiddling with one of her pens.. "Your sister, Whitney, is being moved to another facility."
Clay's brain kinda stalls for a minute. He hasn't seen Whitney since the first day and it's only right this second that he actually stops to think how weird that is. There's a sudden surge of pressure in his chest and his voice is weak and unsteady. "What kind of facility?"
"A very reputable mental health institute." Doc Armstrong uses her 'soothing' voice. "We were doing all we could but Whitney wasn't responding to therapy as well as we'd hoped. Your aunt and uncle have agreed that a more ...formal treatment center might be preferable."
Clay is aware that he should be feeling something at this point. His hands are shaking and his head feels heavy and too-full of thoughts tripping over themselves. "She'll get better there?"
"We hope so." Doc Armstrong says with extra cheerfulness. "It's a very good facility."
Clay nods and the conversation loops back to his favorite hobby when he was a kid. He leaves five minutes late and makes it to the main area just after everyone else. It's raining, fat splotchy drops spattering against the glass and Clay looks away. He's going to eat in today, where he can't smell the rain and the mud. He shuffles up to where Priestly's stacking the last of yesterday's boxes.
"Thought you were standing me up, man." His smile's a quicksilver flash of teeth and charm and Clay hunches a shoulder. One pierced eyebrow goes up and Priestly looks him up and down. "Jeez, you look like shit."
"Thanks. Thank you very much." Clay snaps, neck muscles tensing up. The muscles are already aching and he wants to curse. He's going to have a bitch of cramp later and that just pisses him off. Whitney always said-...but he's not thinking of that.
Priestly steps back, hands up and out, and Clay feels like an asshole. "Just calling it like I see it, man."
"No. You're right. Sorry." Clay looks over at his lunch box all alone on the counter. "Can I just grab my sandwich and I swear I'll be outta your hair?"
Both eyebrows up this time and Priestly looks him up and down. Then he grabs the lunch box, another bigger box from under the counter and hops neatly over the flimsy table. "Fuck that. We're not leaving 'til this shit clears so you and me are gonna grab lunch and you can tell Uncle Priestly all about it."
Clay opens his mouth to protest and Priestly waggles his lunch box. "Or I can hold your lunch hostage 'til you cave. You like the bread soggy, right?"
"Asshole." Clay grumbles. His shoulders drop, loosening up as he trails after Priestly who just flashes him that megawatt smile. Clay attempts to glower back but he can't quite remember how to.
"So," Priestly starts when they find a couple of empty chairs outside the art therapy room. "Is there a reason you're trying to out-emo the goddamn weather, man?"
"Fuck you." Clay growls, snatching his lunch box and glaring at Priestly who drops the smirk. The tension's back in his shoulders but this time it's a prickly tension that makes Clay want to twitch and fidget. He clenches his fingers around the lunch box instead.
"Better." Priestly cracks the other box which turns out to have bagels and cream cheese and other ingredients that Clay almost doesn't remember. "Seriously, someone pee in your wheaties this morning, Gigantor? Cause I gotta be honest here, if you're on the rag, you're shopping solo. There are things men are just not meant to do." He pauses for a second. "Plus, I think the clerk might actually kill me with his brain if I buy tampons there again."
"You buy tampons?" Clay asks, utterly failing to bite back the shit-eating grin that spreads across his face at the idea of Priestly's punk-ass haunting the feminine hygiene aisle.
"Once. Then I got barred but only from the tampon aisle." Priestly waves his bagel. "Long story, ask me about it when I'm plastered sometime. Back on topic, dude, how're you feeling and all that touchy-feely stuff. We're talking about your massive problems."
Clay snorts. "You were talking about me. I was talking about you and the gigantic you-sized pain in my ass."
"Fine." Priestly shrugs, tucking into his bagel and looking over Clay's shoulder. Clay pulls out his own sandwich and munches away. There's silence for the next five minutes which Clay keeps waiting for Priestly to break. Priestly turns out to be some sorta Zen monk, apparently perfectly content to sit there and ignore Clay completely. Clay distracts himself with his sandwich until there's nothing left but a few crumbs at the bottom of the box. Clay tries to concentrate on getting every one of the crumbs instead of doing something stupid like grabbing Priestly and shaking that goddamn smirk right off his too-pretty face.
Finally, he licks his fingers and turns to look at Priestly. "Why do you care so much?"
Priestly has his mouth completely full, which makes for an interesting hamster effect and Clay's lips curl up a bit. Priestly has to swallow twice before he can speak. "Cause you're interesting. Most people here, they're space cadets. You're different."
"That...makes no sense." Clay says, honestly confused. "What's a space cadet?"
"The permanently medicated masses. They're like never on this planet for two days in a row." Priestly shudders. "It's fucking creepy sometimes."
"So what makes me so different."
Priestly cocked his head, brows drawing down in serious thought. He drummed his fingers on his thigh. "I dunno. You're...just different."
Clay just keeps looking at him. "Different how?"
Priestly huffs and scratches his tattoos before answering. "You're the only one here who still wants to get the fuck out."
"What?"
"Look," Priestly points back to the dining room to where Marcus is scowling at the potted flowers. "Dude like that..you really think he's going to go home? I've only spoken to the guy what, four times? and he's tried to fucking kill me at least three of them."
Clay grits his teeth, struggling to breathe past the pressure that's crushing his lungs again. "Don't fucking joke about that!"
"Who's joking?" Priestly snaps back. "You might not have noticed but Marcus doesn't like boys who don't like girls. Screaming denial, I'm betting. Ten bucks says he chatted up the wrong guy once too often, 'cause, man, his gaydar is for shit."
"You're straight...?" Clay trails off, not sure how to finish the question but eager to redirect Priestly's babble.
"I'm comfortable in my sexuality." Priestly tenses up a bit all the same, reminds Clay of the way Chewie and Lawrence were around Trent. Not situation normal but practiced enough to fake the fuck out of it.
He waits for a second for the flashbacks, the crime scene photos the cops showed him, to come rushing back. There's an uncomfortable feeling in his gut and the big, heavy pressure, but nothing solid. He blinks and it's fucked but he wishes he had had a flashback. Anything to get out of this conversation. Priestly's watching him, big fucking green eyes and fucking eyeliner. Clay wants to get up but he's barely able to breathe around the weight in his chest. He can't even lift his goddamn sandwich.
"...do you need a doc?" Priestly asks, drawing back, looking at him like he's a time bomb...or a lunatic. The pressure spikes and Clay just loses it.
"...you seriously think that I'm the only one that wants out? What about-?" Clay's fumbling but his memory's for shit and he can't think, can't match faces to names. He's got Priestly crowded up against the wall, hands fisted in the cheap cotton T-shirt. "The whole damn building and I'm the only one that wants to get the fuck outta here?! That's just bullshit! No one in their right fucking mind wouldn't want to be out of here!"
"Newflash, fuckwit," Priestly snaps back, jerking away. "most folks in here aren't in their right minds!"
It hits Clay like a table-leg to the back of the head and the pressure eases up all at once. He shoves himself off the wall, away from Priestly and back against the opposite wall. It's too fucking hard to stay standing so he lets himself slide down until he's huddled against the white plaster. He's shaking again and Priestly's right there and...what the fuck just happened?
He hears Priestly moving, waits for him to go get the Doc or security. It's not like Clay blames him but that doesn't mean Clay's gotta watch him go. There's a small ache under the confusion and the weariness that Priestly saw him lose it like that. He would have liked to believe Priestly was right.
"See that's why you're different." Priestly says from too fucking close. The idiot's on his haunches right in front of him and Clay pushes himself up because he's too fucking close and Jesus Christ, Clay just tried to put him through the damn wall! Priestly should be screaming for the security. "You lose your shit, you lose your shit. You'll fuck up a wall, you'll mouth off. Everyone else eats, breathes and shits the rules."
There's a pause, Clay peers at Priestly through his bangs, like Priestly can't see him from this close. Priestly does at least pretend not to notice. "Some people... they find a rut and they just get comfortable. Stop thinking about the crap and just adapt. So, yeah, they quit and they settle."
"So, what? You think they've given up? My sister's given up?" Clay's oddly calm, watching his fists curl with a detached bemusement. He feels hollowed out and fragile, like he's on the brink of something terrifying.
"If you're just gonna hear what you fucking want here, dude, I'm out." Priestly says. "I don't know your sister, but if she's in here, then I've seen nothing to suggest different and I got better things to do than play punch bag."
Clay forces his fists to relax. It's harder than he expected and he feels like he's forgotten how to do it. Doc Armstrong doesn't believe in acting out. "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry, this just...not my day."
Priestly tips an eyebrow, lips pursing a little and yeah, Clay's feeling kinda weird again. He's aware of the loose pants he's wearing in a way that he hasn't been for a while. It's kinda freaky - first the fists, now this awareness. He feels like a stranger in his body, like the clumsy kid who grew three foot pretty much overnight back in high school. He's so distracted by the distance he feels from his own body that the words just slip out. "My drugs are breaking my dick."
Priestly blinks then bends to rummage through the box still at his feet. "Since I'm not up to speed on the 'proper' way to mourn a dick, I'm going to just give you chocolate and pity your loss of manliness."
"Dickhead." Clay catches the Godiva bar and smiles despite himself. "It's not permanent, just while I'm taking these meds."
"That, dude, is a decision no man should have to face." Priestly holds up his hands, weighing up invisible choices. "Go crazy...be a eunuch ....go crazy..."
Clay flips him off, mouth too full of chocolate to reply properly. There's someone calling for Priestly and he tips his head to listen. Then he smacks Clay on the arm (and Jesus, for a midget the guy packs a hell of a punch). "That's me, dude. I owe, I owe and all that crap. Catch you tomorrow."
"Yeah." Clay says and watches him go, lunch boxes under his arm.
The next two weeks are frustrating. Doc Armstrong thinks they're on the verge of a breakthrough and she's not so much pushing his buttons as mashing the fuck out of them. Clay thinks, in a calm and detached sort of way, that if he wasn't drugged to the gills, he'd probably have hurt her. He hasn't gotten a full night's sleep since he started thinking about the way his body doesn't fit any more. He gets this prickling kinda awareness sometimes, usually completely random body parts, and it's really fucking with his attention span.
He spends one entire session with Doc Armstrong trying to remember how the skin on his knee felt before and if anything's changed. She finally packs him off to art group because he won't stop running his fingers over his knee, trying to catalog the sensation.
Clay makes it a point not to ask about Whitney. He's not ready to deal with that. He does get to say goodbye but for all the reaction he gets, he might as well have stayed in his room. She was blank-eyed, staring vacantly at the wall and her mouth was moving as if she was trying to speak. It was like watching a B-movie zombie and Clay hadn't been able to stay in the room in the end.
There are a couple of silver linings. First, he gets to use the gym more. Something about 'stress relief' and 'healthy outlets' which sounds like grade A bullshit but it means no more group and hours pretty much alone with nothing to do but work out. There's always a nurse or orderly in the room but they don't look like they're there to watch he doesn't cut his throat. He pumps weights, runs for miles on the treadmill and soaks in the jacuzzi.
The second is Priestly. He turns out to be every bit the snarky asshole Clay thought he was but a good guy despite it. He puts chocolate in with Clay's lunch, sometimes adding a PostIt if he isn't delivering that day. Trucker makes some 'love letter' crack and Clay has to bite his lip not to laugh at the idea. He does keep the notes, safely tucked away in the back of one of the novels the triple-As brought him over their last visit. He has no idea how he's going to explain the notes if anyone finds them.
'Sorry about your dicklessness.' says one. '
Have they initiated you into the Sisterhood yet?' says another.
The 'No salt and vinegar in the whole damn town. Enjoy your BBQ, son!' one has greasy thumb-prints on it, all Clay's.
It's kinda sad to admit it but Clay's warming to the little bastard. They hang out a bit, as much as they can. Priestly turns out to have a truly wicked sense of humor and even on the bad days, when Jason hacked through his dreams and Doc Armstrong is being extra pushy, Priestly can have him cracking up in minutes. He's got this dead-on impersonation of one of the regulars at the actual sandwich bar who complains about everything except what the staff can actually control.
Doc Armstrong finds them in the garden, Clay laughing as Priestly explains how the guy came in to bitch for twenty solid minutes during rush hour about the seagulls. On the beach. Trucker has apparently banned Priestly from speaking to the guy so Priestly tells Clay about it. That way Priestly gets to work in all the smartass comments he doesn't get to use to the guy's face and Clay gets entertained. Win-win situation.
"Clay and Mr..." Doc Armstrong fumbles the name and Priestly's laughter cuts off completely.
"Just Priestly." He doesn't stand until Clay tugs on his arm. He offers Doc Armstrong a plastic smile and looks a little to one side of her. "...ma'am."
"You needn't be so formal, Mr-...Priestly. We pride ourselves on being a welcoming place to everyone."
Clay doesn't like being casually lumped together with all the rest of Restful Meadows' looney tunes but he bites his tongue. Doc Armstrong looks cheerful which means this afternoon's session will be about childhood and school which is better than trying to walk through Jason's handiwork again.
"Cool." Priestly offers her another fake smile and Doc Armstrong beams back. Clay wonders if she's trying to mesmerize him with sincerity or if she's just missed the fact that he's faking. "Anyway, loving and leaving. Gotta beat the dinner rush back before Trucker gives himself a coronary worrying about Date Night."
He claps Clay on the shoulder, nods to Doc Armstrong and tramps off. Clay watches the blue mohawk disappear behind the hedge and thinks of a shark fin vanishing behind a reef. The Discovery Channel is doing Shark Week this week and Clay's been watching it in the gym. He thinks Priestly would make a fucking terrifying shark. He shakes the random thought away when Doc Armstrong clears her throat.
"Clay? Do you have anything else to do or do you want to start a little early today?" Doc Armstrong really sucks at asking questions. Clay glances around at Mabelle, diligently at work in the flower bed then shrugs.
"We could start early, I guess." He says and slouches along behind her. He's really hoping starting early means finishing early too.
Doc Armstrong waits until he's sitting before she starts. "Did you know Priestly before?"
Clay pauses. That really wasn't the question he was expecting. "No. Mabelle introduced me to him a while back."
"Interesting." She writes something on the legal pad. "What do you think of him?"
"He's alright." Clay concedes, still trying to play catch up and figure out what the hell she's getting at.
"Do you talk with him often?"
"Most days when he's here, yeah."
"Have you phoned him at all?"
"No." That one's kinda stupid. Clay doesn't have a cell phone anymore and the only phones in the building are in the offices. Even if he was going to phone Priestly for...whatever, he wouldn't be able to ring him without all the secretaries listening in.
Doc Armstrong hums thoughtfully and makes a few more notes, flicking through pages. "Does he come here often?"
"Four days a week." Clay doesn't mention that he knows Priestly's schedule until well past Thanksgiving. He's still not sure what she's getting at.
"Does it help, to talk to him?"
"I guess." Clay rolls a shoulder and thinks about it. Priestly's never asked about the Crystal Lake camp or Jason or even his sister. It's one of the cool things about Priestly. He knows when to just drop something and Clay's appreciated that. Well, he did once he noticed Priestly was doing it. He's sick of the damn drugs.
"Would you consider him a friend?"
"I guess."
"Hmmm." Doc Armstrong takes a lot more notes, scribbling some things out and writing a lot of scribbles around the crossed out bits. Clay looks at the stuffed tiger on her bookshelf and hopes he isn't blushing. This sharing-emotions shit is balls. "Well, I have to say, I'm impressed. You're doing very well, Clay. I thought it might take you longer to re-socialize."
"What does that even mean?" Clay asks before he can censor himself. "I'm cured?"
"You're not ill, Clay." Doc Armstrong says with that super tolerant smile that makes him feel like a kid being patted on the head for knowing his alphabet. "But you are making progress and at a very good pace. I think you can be proud of yourself."
"What does that mean? 'Good pace'?" Clay looks back up at the tiger. "Can I go home?"
"Not yet." Doc Armstrong says compassionately. Clay doesn't really feel disappointed - he's not sure where 'home' is or if it ever existed. "But I do think we can start to wean you off your current medication."
"You're taking me off the drugs?" Clay gapes. "Like, now?"
"As I said, you're making excellent progress and a lot of the medication you're taking can be phased out now that you don't need it." Doc Armstrong keeps going on about withdrawal symptoms and the dangers of addiction but Clay's not paying attention. His brain's slipped a gear somewhere around 'phased out'. He can't really remember what it was like without the drugs - his memories are all sharp-edged and too vivid for him to be able to get a grasp on them, edges too sharp to handle.
"No more drugs?" he asks, interrupting and not caring.
Doc Armstrong presses her lips together in a tight smile. "Eventually. Right now, we're going to work on less drugs and see how that goes, okay?"
"Yeah, absolutely." It is totally okay with Clay. It is so okay that he sleep-walks through the rest of the session. Doc Armstrong looks pleased when she leaves so he must have done something right. He goes back to his room to lie on his bed and stare up at the ceiling. He's aware of a weight in his stomach, muscles tightening up as he thinks about coming off the drugs. He's trembling a little when he goes to collect his new dose after supper.
A clock is ticking. Clay ebbs back into awareness by degrees. First the sound, then identifying it and then wondering fuzzily why there's a clock ticking. He drifts for a bit, content to drowse as he tries to remember what happened. His abs ache and his stomach feels like he took a couple of solid hits from a sledgehammer.
When he actually opens his eyes, he's lying in a room that he's never seen before. He recognizes the trees out the wide windows which is the only thing that he recognizes. The walls are clean and white, there's no pictures, no shelves. The only furniture in the room is the bed and the IV stand beside it. Clay doesn't notice the itch of the needle against his skin until he follows the line of the tubing back to his arm. Recognizing this takes the last of his energy and he drifts off again.
The next time he wakes, Clay can hear voices. He recognizes Doc Armstrong. There's a lot of talking - he kinda understands it but he can't really keep the words together in his head long enough to actually figure out what they mean. He tries to talk back through thick tongue and dry throat but he doesn't recognize the sounds coming out of his mouth.
More drifting, more tangled up pictures. He dreams of Crystal Lake. There aren't colors, just the sepia tones of an old photograph. Only the blood is red. Only the blood is real. Clay remembers the bite of the chain against his palms, the shocking amount of pressure and the certainty that Jason won't die; his neck won't break and he'll reach the knife dropped just beyond his reach.
The dream shifts, still in Crystal Lake and still no color but the bright splashes of blood. Clay's running along the lakeside, heart pounding. Bodies - old familiar faces from high school, grade school - hang from the trees. He's horrified but it's like the cabin all over again, he just keeps pushing it down and running because...because...
He takes the last corner, the open ground stretching out before him to the pier. There are bright splashes of red and Jason's there, a blocky muddy figure against the pale sky. The knife in Jason's hand shines brighter than the sun. Clay starts to run towards the pier, towards Jason.
Pallid bodies litter the lake, bobbing faces white against the dark water. His parents are among the dead and he's numb to it as he crosses the dry grass. He just wants to get to Jason, to stop him and just to stop everything.
Jason looms up ahead, blotting out the sky like a hanging thundercloud. He's sepia-colored but there's a flash of electric green ahead and Clay nearly trips over his feet. Jason turns towards the pier and Clay recognizes it, remembers the dead weight of his body and the way the boards creaked under his feet as he dragged Jason's corpse to the water. But Jason's not the only one on the pier-
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