Huzzah for T-Bag
Title: I’d Die With You
Character/Pairing: Theodore ‘T-Bag’ Bagwell
Prompt: 023. Lovers
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It started after he was accused, just before the trial.
Author's Notes: Just as a result of too much time considering serial killer groupies, and then wondering if T-Bag had any. A bit of swearing and some vague references to violence. And, I suppose, if you have trouble with the idea of serial killer groupies this wouldn’t be the best thing to read.
It started after he was accused, just before the trial.
He’d heard stories about it, lots of people talking about it behind his back, about people they considered almost more sick than they considered him. Groupies, those desperate strange sorts of women who haunted any place they could find news about who the latest murderer was, the latest rapist was, the latest serial killer for them to worship and write to and love like that was really what love is, not like he knew.
Most of ‘em all started the same way.
Mr. Bagwell…
There were the formal ones, of women living lives so shut off from being able to make their own decisions that they made a fantasy life of corresponding with some famous man. Just the only little quirk of the plan was that he happened to be a murderer. A pedophile. A rapist. A mutilator of bodies. A necrophiliac. A monster. Damn, he’d lost track of all the names the newspaper guys had come up for him. Didn’t change anything. The poor, stifled old ladies knitting away in their homes still wrote to him.
Theodore…
Some of them seemed to think he was really innocent. They all said it one way or another, but he could always sort of tell which ones really believed it and some of them really did. And they’d go on about it for pages and pages like he actually gave a damn and they’d profess that they’d always love him, always believe in him which seemed kind of funny to him. But he’d been told often enough that he was not a model on which the rest of human behaviour could be judged.
Theo…
A few of them wrote like they actually knew him from outside and he spent a little while reading each name again and again to try and remember if he knew them at any point. He never did. Yet, somehow, they knew things nobody really should know and he stayed up laughing to himself and wondering which one of the relatives or people from school went squealing to the press.
Theodore Bagwell…
The ones that fascinated him the most though were those really, really few that didn’t seem to think he was innocent. Didn’t seem to want him to be innocent. They just seemed to admire him, like they were wishing they’d been the ones to do it, or like they were wishing they’d helped him do it or something else along those lines.
They seemed to sort of be begging him to kill them next.
One girl named Dakota Daens went on for pages about how she wanted him to fuck her til she bled and then pound her head in with a rock because she wanted to know what it felt like to die at the hands of an artist. She drew a picture of a tree with grave stones under it and folded it up in the envelope with her letter and wrote in the sky ‘I’d Die With You’ in what looked like blood but wasn’t.
I just want you to know that you’ve got somebody out here that gets you and gets what you did and why you did it. I think that’s kind of important. Knowing that there are people out there whose minds function like yours.
He laughed and read it over several times and memorized the address Dakota Daens sent it from, so if he ever got out he’d go pay her a visit and see if she meant that. He decided it would be a lot more fun if she didn’t.
Character/Pairing: Theodore ‘T-Bag’ Bagwell
Prompt: 023. Lovers
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It started after he was accused, just before the trial.
Author's Notes: Just as a result of too much time considering serial killer groupies, and then wondering if T-Bag had any. A bit of swearing and some vague references to violence. And, I suppose, if you have trouble with the idea of serial killer groupies this wouldn’t be the best thing to read.
It started after he was accused, just before the trial.
He’d heard stories about it, lots of people talking about it behind his back, about people they considered almost more sick than they considered him. Groupies, those desperate strange sorts of women who haunted any place they could find news about who the latest murderer was, the latest rapist was, the latest serial killer for them to worship and write to and love like that was really what love is, not like he knew.
Most of ‘em all started the same way.
Mr. Bagwell…
There were the formal ones, of women living lives so shut off from being able to make their own decisions that they made a fantasy life of corresponding with some famous man. Just the only little quirk of the plan was that he happened to be a murderer. A pedophile. A rapist. A mutilator of bodies. A necrophiliac. A monster. Damn, he’d lost track of all the names the newspaper guys had come up for him. Didn’t change anything. The poor, stifled old ladies knitting away in their homes still wrote to him.
Theodore…
Some of them seemed to think he was really innocent. They all said it one way or another, but he could always sort of tell which ones really believed it and some of them really did. And they’d go on about it for pages and pages like he actually gave a damn and they’d profess that they’d always love him, always believe in him which seemed kind of funny to him. But he’d been told often enough that he was not a model on which the rest of human behaviour could be judged.
Theo…
A few of them wrote like they actually knew him from outside and he spent a little while reading each name again and again to try and remember if he knew them at any point. He never did. Yet, somehow, they knew things nobody really should know and he stayed up laughing to himself and wondering which one of the relatives or people from school went squealing to the press.
Theodore Bagwell…
The ones that fascinated him the most though were those really, really few that didn’t seem to think he was innocent. Didn’t seem to want him to be innocent. They just seemed to admire him, like they were wishing they’d been the ones to do it, or like they were wishing they’d helped him do it or something else along those lines.
They seemed to sort of be begging him to kill them next.
One girl named Dakota Daens went on for pages about how she wanted him to fuck her til she bled and then pound her head in with a rock because she wanted to know what it felt like to die at the hands of an artist. She drew a picture of a tree with grave stones under it and folded it up in the envelope with her letter and wrote in the sky ‘I’d Die With You’ in what looked like blood but wasn’t.
I just want you to know that you’ve got somebody out here that gets you and gets what you did and why you did it. I think that’s kind of important. Knowing that there are people out there whose minds function like yours.
He laughed and read it over several times and memorized the address Dakota Daens sent it from, so if he ever got out he’d go pay her a visit and see if she meant that. He decided it would be a lot more fun if she didn’t.