Inside fic: The Gift (rated R) Danny-centric
TITLE: The Gift
Sixth in the "Deliberate Lies" Series
AUTHOR: Mnemosyne
Disclaimer: Not mine!
SUMMARY:
RATING: R
CHARACTERS: Danny-POV, Danny/Rebecca implied
WARNINGS: Thematic elements of rape/non-con
SPOILERS: General for the series
NOTES:
This has become quite the little impromptu series! And I have to say I'm THRILLED. Everyone's entries have been so engaging - I feel a bit like an interloper posting a second installment of my own! I hope y'all don't mind, and I hope against hope that others will continue adding on. I'm seriously loving what y'all have done!
PAST STORIES IN THE SERIES CAN BE FOUND HERE
The room is a little ten by ten rat trap under the floorboards of some suburban hellhole in the Hollywood hills. It's not quite a basement - Danny thinks it must have been a wine cellar once upon a time, back when the house had a bit of class and wasn't being used as a death camp. There's not enough room to stand up, but that's a non-issue thanks to his two broken knees and the rusted iron collar around his throat that keeps him chained to the wall. The pain's getting pretty bad now as infection spreads, to the point where he can't block it out; not even if he stays still as a stone and tries not to breathe.
Christ it's hot.
He blinks sweat out of his eyes and grits his teeth as he hoists himself up on his hands to get a better position against the wall. White bolts of excruciating pain stab up his legs, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. He tastes blood; thinks it tastes a bit like rare steak. God, he could go for a steak right now. A juicy, red steak, charred black and crispy on the outside, drenched in steak sauce, with a side order of Jack D and spicy fries. Maybe some broccoli; one or two spears, just so his mother would be happy. And a heaping basket of hot buttered rolls.
His mouth is watering, and he swallows his hunger down with the blood.
Funnily enough, it's the first time Danny's been hungry in months. Ever since he and Rebecca worked out their little... arrangement.
Despite his situation, he manages to snort at the fact he can think in ellipses.
Jesus, what's wrong with him? Why is he here? He's six feet, four inches of pure muscle, with government field-training and the survival skills of an ex-Marine. He should have wiped the floor with this guy. It should have been EASY.
What a joke. Head's been so scrambled lately, a chicken with a glass eye and one foot could've taken me down. Can't think straight, can't shoot straight, can't get the drop on the bad guy. Welcome to FBI 101, Special Agent Danny Love. This is why you don't sleep with co-workers.
Could you really call it "sleeping with" if you never got any sleep?
He closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall, and he knows it's the fever thinking for him, but he can't stop remembering what that last time was like, and how Rebecca spread out beneath him like a pale white lily, and her legs fought his hands as he held them open, and JESUS he liked that way too much, and JESUS what was wrong with him?
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and her teeth had split his lip as she bit him, he remembers that, remembers the taste, copper blood mixing with the medicated lip balm she always wears. No, he isn't going to think about that, how her hair was a tangled mess because she came to him fresh out of the shower, all uncombed and wet. Her skin was slippery, liquid and wrong under his palms as he forced her knees up next to her shoulders, and she still had his ring, that red ruby ring, on a chain around her neck, and it left a half moon red indentation on the smooth white skin between her breasts as he pressed his weight down on top of her. And she begged him, "Danny, Danny, no," but her eyes were pleading, "Danny, yes," and he's already so confused that it's really no surprise that he's back in Iraq and the girl beneath him has black hair and black eyes, and then she's Rebecca again and he's angry, so goddamn angry that she's making him remember that he teaches her lessons she'll never forget. And she LIKES it. Sweet Christ, she WANTS it. Even as she's screaming "NO!", he knows next week she'll be back at his door, asking for more, and he'll give it to her because he's forgotten how to say no, because she's got a monopoly and uses it wrong, because when she says "No" she really means "Yes," and that's backward and twisted and a hundred kinds of wrong.
There's a sound from above, like someone dragging a heavy rug. Danny blinks, feels tears rush down his cheeks, stares up at the ceiling and waits. He can see the outline of the trapdoor revealed as the carpet is moved aside. Daylight streams down through the floorboards into the dusty wine cellar.
"Oh Daaaaaaanny."
The voice is cloying, with a bit of a lisp; the vocal equivalent of patchouli.
"Oh Daaaaaanny boyyyyy."
Blinding white light pours into Danny's dark little hole as the trapdoor is thrown back, and he squints against the onslaught to see a wafer-thin figure hopping awkwardly down the stairs.
"Did you sleep well, Danny Boy?" the intruder asks with fake sincerity. The voice is high-pitched - womanish - but the figure is a man, tall and skinny, and he reminds Danny inanely of a piccolo. He has sandy brown hair that sprouts from his head Einstein-style. Danny has no idea what his eye color is, and for some strange reason that troubles him. A man ought to know the color of the eyes of the man who's going to kill him.
Fresh pain blooms in his right leg and he can't hold back a bellow of agony. "You answer me when I'm talking to you, Danny," the man chides, as if talking to a child. "Do you want me to kick you again? Now answer me - did you sleep well?"
Danny forces air in and out of his lungs, huffing and puffing against the pain. "Like a baby," he grates through gritted teeth. "Room service sucks though. SHIT!" This last as his captor kicks him again, squarely in the thigh. If he'd kicked him in the knee, or even lower down on the calf, Danny's sure he would have passed out from the pain. No doubt Mr. Piccolo knows this. No doubt Mr. Piccolo won't let that happen.
"I saw some friends of yours today," Mr. Piccolo says, giggling. "But they didn't see me." His voice hardens. "Because nobody sees me, do they? Nobody opens their eyes and SEES me. Oh, but they see you, don't they? Big, strong you. The man with the muscles and the shit for brains."
Another giggle. "But they don't see the real you, do they? The deep, dark parts of you that you want to keep hidden? The parts of you that make you sleep with the light on sometimes, or make you jump into bed so nothing can snatch your ankles from under the mattress. The parts of you that SCARE you."
Danny stares up at him and thinks Some people see.
Piccolo drops down to crouch in front of him, and Danny gets his first good look at his captor. Hair lip and one milky eye. At least he's seen the eyes now. "You don't like to admit you're scared, do you?" Piccolo asks, clucking his tongue. "Silly, silly. Foolish. We all get scared sometimes. You should accept it; embrace it. Fear keeps us alive when we'd otherwise die. It's not a weakness. It's a gift."
Piccolo reaches out to the side, and Danny can't resist a flinch as the man's hand comes back into view clutched around a baseball bat.
"And lucky for you, I'm in a giving mood," Piccolo grins.
Danny stares head on into that milky eye, and thinks of Rebecca's milk white skin.
Whatever comes next, he deserves it.
THE END
(to be continued by.... someone!)
xposted to literarylemming and theinsidefic
Sixth in the "Deliberate Lies" Series
AUTHOR: Mnemosyne
Disclaimer: Not mine!
SUMMARY:
RATING: R
CHARACTERS: Danny-POV, Danny/Rebecca implied
WARNINGS: Thematic elements of rape/non-con
SPOILERS: General for the series
NOTES:
This has become quite the little impromptu series! And I have to say I'm THRILLED. Everyone's entries have been so engaging - I feel a bit like an interloper posting a second installment of my own! I hope y'all don't mind, and I hope against hope that others will continue adding on. I'm seriously loving what y'all have done!
PAST STORIES IN THE SERIES CAN BE FOUND HERE
The room is a little ten by ten rat trap under the floorboards of some suburban hellhole in the Hollywood hills. It's not quite a basement - Danny thinks it must have been a wine cellar once upon a time, back when the house had a bit of class and wasn't being used as a death camp. There's not enough room to stand up, but that's a non-issue thanks to his two broken knees and the rusted iron collar around his throat that keeps him chained to the wall. The pain's getting pretty bad now as infection spreads, to the point where he can't block it out; not even if he stays still as a stone and tries not to breathe.
Christ it's hot.
He blinks sweat out of his eyes and grits his teeth as he hoists himself up on his hands to get a better position against the wall. White bolts of excruciating pain stab up his legs, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. He tastes blood; thinks it tastes a bit like rare steak. God, he could go for a steak right now. A juicy, red steak, charred black and crispy on the outside, drenched in steak sauce, with a side order of Jack D and spicy fries. Maybe some broccoli; one or two spears, just so his mother would be happy. And a heaping basket of hot buttered rolls.
His mouth is watering, and he swallows his hunger down with the blood.
Funnily enough, it's the first time Danny's been hungry in months. Ever since he and Rebecca worked out their little... arrangement.
Despite his situation, he manages to snort at the fact he can think in ellipses.
Jesus, what's wrong with him? Why is he here? He's six feet, four inches of pure muscle, with government field-training and the survival skills of an ex-Marine. He should have wiped the floor with this guy. It should have been EASY.
What a joke. Head's been so scrambled lately, a chicken with a glass eye and one foot could've taken me down. Can't think straight, can't shoot straight, can't get the drop on the bad guy. Welcome to FBI 101, Special Agent Danny Love. This is why you don't sleep with co-workers.
Could you really call it "sleeping with" if you never got any sleep?
He closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall, and he knows it's the fever thinking for him, but he can't stop remembering what that last time was like, and how Rebecca spread out beneath him like a pale white lily, and her legs fought his hands as he held them open, and JESUS he liked that way too much, and JESUS what was wrong with him?
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and her teeth had split his lip as she bit him, he remembers that, remembers the taste, copper blood mixing with the medicated lip balm she always wears. No, he isn't going to think about that, how her hair was a tangled mess because she came to him fresh out of the shower, all uncombed and wet. Her skin was slippery, liquid and wrong under his palms as he forced her knees up next to her shoulders, and she still had his ring, that red ruby ring, on a chain around her neck, and it left a half moon red indentation on the smooth white skin between her breasts as he pressed his weight down on top of her. And she begged him, "Danny, Danny, no," but her eyes were pleading, "Danny, yes," and he's already so confused that it's really no surprise that he's back in Iraq and the girl beneath him has black hair and black eyes, and then she's Rebecca again and he's angry, so goddamn angry that she's making him remember that he teaches her lessons she'll never forget. And she LIKES it. Sweet Christ, she WANTS it. Even as she's screaming "NO!", he knows next week she'll be back at his door, asking for more, and he'll give it to her because he's forgotten how to say no, because she's got a monopoly and uses it wrong, because when she says "No" she really means "Yes," and that's backward and twisted and a hundred kinds of wrong.
There's a sound from above, like someone dragging a heavy rug. Danny blinks, feels tears rush down his cheeks, stares up at the ceiling and waits. He can see the outline of the trapdoor revealed as the carpet is moved aside. Daylight streams down through the floorboards into the dusty wine cellar.
"Oh Daaaaaaanny."
The voice is cloying, with a bit of a lisp; the vocal equivalent of patchouli.
"Oh Daaaaaanny boyyyyy."
Blinding white light pours into Danny's dark little hole as the trapdoor is thrown back, and he squints against the onslaught to see a wafer-thin figure hopping awkwardly down the stairs.
"Did you sleep well, Danny Boy?" the intruder asks with fake sincerity. The voice is high-pitched - womanish - but the figure is a man, tall and skinny, and he reminds Danny inanely of a piccolo. He has sandy brown hair that sprouts from his head Einstein-style. Danny has no idea what his eye color is, and for some strange reason that troubles him. A man ought to know the color of the eyes of the man who's going to kill him.
Fresh pain blooms in his right leg and he can't hold back a bellow of agony. "You answer me when I'm talking to you, Danny," the man chides, as if talking to a child. "Do you want me to kick you again? Now answer me - did you sleep well?"
Danny forces air in and out of his lungs, huffing and puffing against the pain. "Like a baby," he grates through gritted teeth. "Room service sucks though. SHIT!" This last as his captor kicks him again, squarely in the thigh. If he'd kicked him in the knee, or even lower down on the calf, Danny's sure he would have passed out from the pain. No doubt Mr. Piccolo knows this. No doubt Mr. Piccolo won't let that happen.
"I saw some friends of yours today," Mr. Piccolo says, giggling. "But they didn't see me." His voice hardens. "Because nobody sees me, do they? Nobody opens their eyes and SEES me. Oh, but they see you, don't they? Big, strong you. The man with the muscles and the shit for brains."
Another giggle. "But they don't see the real you, do they? The deep, dark parts of you that you want to keep hidden? The parts of you that make you sleep with the light on sometimes, or make you jump into bed so nothing can snatch your ankles from under the mattress. The parts of you that SCARE you."
Danny stares up at him and thinks Some people see.
Piccolo drops down to crouch in front of him, and Danny gets his first good look at his captor. Hair lip and one milky eye. At least he's seen the eyes now. "You don't like to admit you're scared, do you?" Piccolo asks, clucking his tongue. "Silly, silly. Foolish. We all get scared sometimes. You should accept it; embrace it. Fear keeps us alive when we'd otherwise die. It's not a weakness. It's a gift."
Piccolo reaches out to the side, and Danny can't resist a flinch as the man's hand comes back into view clutched around a baseball bat.
"And lucky for you, I'm in a giving mood," Piccolo grins.
Danny stares head on into that milky eye, and thinks of Rebecca's milk white skin.
Whatever comes next, he deserves it.
THE END
(to be continued by.... someone!)
xposted to literarylemming and theinsidefic