Chapter Text
It really will be sad, killing Charlie.
Sadness ain’t so bad. The killing will flood Dennis with enough emotion that the sadness can find its way out. It'll be a cathartic cry, and a fantastic memory. He’ll do what he likes with the corpse, then make his merry way back to New York City and the life he’s built for himself, the one that fits like a glove.
But it will surely break his heart. Charlie Dowd is a perfect specimen of a man. God shaped him to fit Dennis' mold. He has no clue. He's still trembling against the Butcher, slumped in a position that'll kill his back before long. He's panting. And he’s waiting to be hurt. Begging for it.
It’s so typical of Charlie, and Charlie doesn’t even know it. There’s a lot Charlie doesn’t know—about the Butcher, of course, but also about himself, and their time together.
For example, Charlie always wants a fight after the nightmares about the dark. Dennis knows better than to take it personally. Charlie gives him a good enough fight, chanting no before snapping into his proper self. Or, well, Dennis thinks of it as Detective Finley—the lie that keeps Charlie together. Boots on the ground. The man who survived the Great War and a decade of misery that Dennis enjoys speculating about. Charlie’s had the nightmares several times now, and has tried to instigate each time, but Dennis has never taken it this far with him. He’s never been this lucid, and, therefore, it wouldn’t have been near as fun.
“Don’t,” Charlie says, salivating for the fight.
“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” the Butcher breathes, all cylinders firing, the machine of his body red-hot. He’s always ready for Charlie. “Careful what you wish for.” He slides his hand up, countering Charlie’s desires just because he can. It’ll annoy him, just a little, just enough to be worth it. Charlie’s used to being obeyed. "You’ve never really seen me. Not like this."
"I'm not scared of you." Charlie’s voice is steady and clear.
The Butcher believes him. This is one particular instance where he likes that Charlie’s an idiot. It'll be all the more satisfying to see the fear in his eyes. Oh, will this hurt him terribly. Charlie will never forgive him.
Good. That will make it easier to kill him.
"You should be,” the Butcher says. “I'll tell you here and now: You're gonna regret this, Detective Finley. Must've slipped your mind that I have my fair share of rage towards you." He grabs Noel's hips and forces them up, closing the gap between their bodies. "I've been sweet on you up to now."
"I like sour candy, too," Noel says. His hips twitch; he wants to start moving. He wants it fast and hard. He wants it to hurt.
"Aren't you a clever boy." He kisses the side of Noel’s throat. Suddenly, he yanks back—Noel’s tried to slam his elbow into the Butcher’s face. Almost managed it, too.
Just like that, the Butcher is on. Noel may be playing, but he’s fighting like this is real, cursing the Butcher, taking shots, snarling, "No, no, fuck you, get off!"
Noel manages to fling him off the bed; as the Butcher’s recovering from the throw, Noel jumps to his feet and brandishes the Butcher’s knife. Sneaky dove.
“Ohhh-hoho, you better rethink that one,” the Butcher says, pushing to his feet.
“Don’t come any closer,” Noel says. “Just let me go.” His voice is firm; he’s panting but in control of himself. If the Butcher didn’t know this was all theatre, he’d think he means it. And he does mean it, a little. That’s the point. He wants to be forced. “Let. Me. Go. So help me, I will not hesitate to cut you open.”
"You don't know what you're doing." He clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Sweet thing."
“Don’t come any closer.”
Grinning, the Butcher lowers his center of gravity, hands out to his side, ready to snatch Noel if he makes a run for it. The Butcher jerks right—then left—and laughs at Noel’s stuttered attempts to mirror him.
Noel lunges. A risky move under any circumstances, but especially injured, in a room this dark, and against someone whose body knows this space. The Butcher disarms him immediately and slams him, belly-up, onto the desk. Pens clatter to the floor. Noel sucks in a sharp breath as the Butcher, smiling, slots the knife under his chin, an easy pressure. The Butcher leans over Noel, who's fully erect, breathing hard, wrist twisting in the Butcher's grip. His face shines with sweat.
“Don't,” Noel says.
“Don't yourself, boyo. You sure you want to fight me, the condition you're in? Smart man like you should just shut up and take it.”
“Who said I was smart?” Noel asks, grinding his hips up, up against the Butcher, the needy slut. Already, his blatant desperation is turning the Butcher feral. Noel grins like he’s thought of something hilarious, then, with his free hand, he slaps the Butcher across the face. The nerve of it shocks the Butcher, which gives Noel the opportunity to shove him off.
There they go again. Their violence is as spontaneous and as choreographed as their dancing was, each move deliberate yet unplanned, their bodies giving call and response before their minds fully register the cue. The Butcher lets Noel lead. He toys with Noel, slashing and stabbing, always just shy of his skin, never committing to the pin. He backs Noel into a corner—and, without a second thought, releases him from it. He tosses the knife onto the desk and lifts his hands palm-up, beckoning with his fingers: Come, then. He raises his fists into an upright stance.
Noel mimics him and cracks his neck. “You box?”
“I enjoy any hobby that lets me make men bleed.”
“Ever do it professionally?” His face in the moonlight is increasingly strained. He's overexerted himself, but sure as shit isn't about to admit it.
“Eh.” The Butcher tilts his head to the side and rocks a hand back and forth. “Let’s put it this way. I've won my share of pocket change.”
“I see.”
“Lie down, detective,” he says, soothing, calm, amicable. “You've done enough. You've made your point.”
Noel narrows his eyes. He moves in—and goodness, he’s impatient tonight, isn’t he? He’s surprised that Noel's decided to make the same mistake twice. For what little it’s worth, Noel’s light on his feet, pushing hard and gauging the Butcher’s reactions. He swings.
The fight is brief. Noel pops one good hit off, thanks to dumb luck and a misjudge on the Butcher’s part. But the Butcher's revving up, while Noel is already flagging, the poor lamb. He taps Noel a few times until he's dazed and furious, then grapples him easily to the floor. Noel lets out a ragged moan when the Butcher shoves his face into the hardwood. No surprise there.
“Stop,” Noel gasps. He’s so fucking hungry for it. “No, no-no-no, don't,” he pleads, as the Butcher slides a hand up between his thighs. “Oh, fuck, please don't.” Higher, higher, Noel's thighs shaking under his touch. “Please,” he moans, when the Butcher pauses just shy of touching his cock.
“Please?”
It's so dark in the room that Noel is almost invisible, even this close. The Butcher sees him more with his body than his eyes, which means he sees the truth of the matter clear as day. Noel snarls, “Don’t you dare fucking touch me,” as he rocks his hips down, grinding against the Butcher’s hand. He can’t even pretend he doesn’t want it.
The Butcher yanks Noel's pants down about his thighs and Noel gasps. “Stop stop stop—“
The Butcher shoves two fingers into Noel’s mouth. He starts to suck and roll his tongue against the Butcher’s fingers, the wet heat of his mouth an open invitation. Even the scrape of his teeth is eager and friendly. The Butcher offers his flat, open palm to Noel’s cock; Noel, the eager slut, ruts against it. It’s likely he’s never wanted Dennis as badly as he wants him right now.
Who he has, however, is the Butcher. And this isn’t what the Butcher wants.
All good things in time.
“Is this how John fucked you?” He thrusts his fingers leisurely, testing Noel’s patience. Noel bends into him, nodding, sucking. “And you liked that?”
Another nod, then a head shake, then he tries to pull off the Butcher’s hand to speak. The Butcher doesn’t let him. Just keeps shoving his fingers in, rubbing the roof of his mouth, the ridges of his teeth, his writhing tongue. Noel’s actively resisting biting him, but every time his composure slips, his teeth add pressure to the Butcher’s fingers. It’s not painful. Shame.
“You liked that,” he repeats, lower, from deep in his chest. He lets out a pleased sigh and tugs his fingers out of Noel’s mouth. “‘Course you did. You tart.”
He touches Noel’s hole with his wet fingers. Noel jerks as if he’s been struck and tries to scramble away. He doesn't get far; the Butcher hooks his arm around Noel's waist and yanks him back.
"Ah-ah, you ain't going nowhere." He twists one of Noel's arms behind his back and pins his head to the floor. Noel groans, gives his trapped arm one good pull, then finally goes still. "There, now. Are you done?"
"I don't know." He’s panting hard. "Probably. I—didn't really think this through."
"You're hurting now, aren't you?"
"Are you asking about my neck, specifically? Because my whole body feels kinda like I've been hit by a car."
The Butcher sighs against the back of Noel's neck, stirring the hair there. Noel shudders; he squirms under the Butcher, unintentionally at first, then intentionally. The Butcher doesn't stop him or encourage him. He keeps Noel still, and he waits. Patience. All good things in time.
"Fuck," Noel gasps. "Fuck." He tugs his arm, testing the strength of the Butcher’s grip. "How are you not hard?"
The Butcher starts to laugh. “Oh, lad, I'm just getting started. It won't be fun for me until later. This part is for you. Go on. Keep squirming."
"For—what? I..." It’s cute, really, that he thought otherwise. He swallows.
"It's okay, Charlie," he says, gentle as can be. He hopes he hasn’t misjudged the timing; it’s important to break his defenses down in stages, and this, here, is key to all the rest toppling down. He's not sure what to do if this doesn't work. The Butcher releases Noel’s head and runs his nails from his temple to behind his ear in one long, slow stroke. He cups Noel's jaw, then nudges his ear with his thumb. "You don't have to pretend with me."
The timing, as it turns out, is perfect. Charlie's walls collapse. There he goes. Now, the hard part: Don't give him a reason to rebuild them. Charlie's got a hair trigger. Not that Dennis blames him for that. The Butcher smiles as Charlie lets go and starts moaning under him, letting out a breathless stream of filth. He wonders if Charlie realizes what he's doing, what he's already done, invoking the Butcher's wrath just to beg under him. Maybe he does. This is a game for Charlie, too. He's smarter than he acts.
The Butcher grabs a fistful of Charlie’s shirt and makes as if he's going to rip it off.
Charlie jerks under him. "Wait-wait-wait! Not the shirt."
"Hm?"
"Don't—c'mon, man, don't rip my shirt."
"I'll get you a new one."
"I like this shirt, okay? It's a nice shirt! Just. Can we take it off like civilized people? Can we?"
It’s hard as hell to keep his composure. This’ll work. It's really gonna fucking work, and oh, how Charlie will hate him, and oh, will it feel fucking good to be the one to break Charlie, once and for all. Then, having won his petty victory, he will have no reason left to keep the man alive, and can kill him with pleasure, and without regrets.
He releases Charlie’s shirt. "Alright, alright,” he says, amenably, letting Charlie think he’s won this round. “Up." He sits back on his heels; Charlie flips onto his back, limbs splayed, eyes shut. His muscles tense and his back arches as he pulls himself into a long stretch. He knows how he affects Dennis—how eager he is to take a bite.
The Butcher, however, is a man who values his goals, and pursues them with single-mindedness. He lets Charlie finish the stretch; only then does he start unbuttoning his shirt.
Charlie's expression is hard to read in the dark, but the Butcher can feel his eyes on him. "I'm really gonna regret this in the morning."
"I said you would."
"Hey." Charlie swallows. "Why don't you ever cut me?"
A shiver of delight rolls through the Butcher. He wasn't sure that Charlie had noticed. So he has. For him to ask about it now is serendipitous; it is the perfect opening. Ah, Charlie. How he loves him. How he'll miss him when he's dead. He touches his cheek, the scabbed-over wound, that perfect mark—the only time the Butcher's used an edge against him. "Would you like me to?"
Charlie wavers. "I don't know," he says. “Not really.” That means yes.
"Get up," the Butcher says. "Let's get you on the bed. Then we can talk."
Charlie's a little unsteady on his feet; he laughs when he nearly topples into the Butcher. Is it intentional? It feels so pointed. But no—his walls are down, and they've been nothing but cream and sugar. When Charlie sits on the bed, he tugs the Butcher in for a kiss, which turns into several. But the Butcher ain’t so easily distracted. "Alright, alright," he says.
Dennis always carries a bit of rope on hand. He’s never actually used it on Charlie—never felt the need to. Because of that, it feels remarkably wonderful to pull it out of his jacket, testing its length between his hands, and to study Charlie’s dawning understanding.
“Butcher,” he says. It’s a warning. Interesting. The Butcher expected him to try appeasement first—the prospect of being tied up must be terrifying for his poor dove. The Butcher grabs his hand and tries to loop the rope around it. Charlie jerks out of his grip. “Stop right now,” Charlie snaps, with the full force of his authority. Frankly, it’s persuasive.
Not persuasive enough. Far from it. “You forget,” the Butcher says. “Your words don’t mean shit to me now. You might as well shut your fucking mouth.”
Charlie actually listens. His teeth click hard, once. Maybe he’s finally started to connect the dots. Still, he doesn’t really panic until Dennis shoves him down on the bed and loops a knot around one of his wrists. Charlie panics by fighting. He knocks a tooth loose with an elbow; Dennis doesn’t think twice, just whips his head around and bites. He doesn’t hold back. Charlie shouts and tries to rip his arm away. It’s funny—Dennis is short-wicked both ways, a mad dog, snorting and snarling with laughter and rage all at once, surely a terrible sight, were there any light to see him by. The moon might be streaming enough for Charlie’s eyes. The Butcher, however, has gone blind.
Charlie struggles, and yelps. The shirt sleeve shreds under the Butcher’s teeth. Charlie’s hips rock eagerly into Dennis’ body. He’s panting loud. Needy bitch. Dennis lets go, laughing full-on, because god damn, Charlie, god damn. He’s so fucking predictable. The second wrist is easier; Charlie’s too focused on thrusting to care what happens above his head. Already, the Butcher’s rage has ebbed.
He’s sad, if anything. He truly will miss Charlie something fierce.
It takes a few seconds for Charlie to register that the rope has fully cinched about his wrists. When he does, he freezes. Freeze isn’t the right word, exactly—it’s actually quite relaxed, if anything. Unnaturally so. Survival through flexibility, this time. Charlie swallows. “Don’t,” he says. Almost means it, this time.
The Butcher relaxes, too, and sits back. He could gag Charlie. He’s got a handkerchief that would do just fine. He tests the loose tooth in his mouth, tasting blood, thinking hard on how cruel he’d like to be.
“Don’t,” Charlie says again, and bucks under him. He’s gone flaccid. The Butcher doubts he came; somehow, that’s better. “I’m not kidding around with this one. Don’t—let me go, Butcher.”
“Is that who’s tied you up? You oughta be more nervous than that, if that’s the case.” The Butcher doesn’t need light to test and tighten the knots. Shame, though—he’d like to get a better look at Charlie’s expression. His fear is potent. Charlie never runs from fear. It’s as natural as breathing.
He’s confused Charlie. The distinction between the Butcher and Dennis blurs strangely for Charlie; he doesn’t always realize who he’s spoken to. It strikes the Butcher as very funny; Charlie, after all, sees his own identities as quite distinct, though, of course, they aren’t. Not nearly as much as he thinks, anyway. “Let me go,” Charlie says, firmly. He hasn’t even tried to test the rope. It’s a bit like having a puppet. Even his legs are loose. The Butcher wonders if the ropes have immobilized his mind too completely; he might not be able to move.
“Nah. I like you where you are.” The Butcher leans over and lights the lamp. One of these days he’ll try striking a match off Charlie’s jaw. He’s sure he could. No—no, of course he won’t. How silly of him. Charlie will be dead by morning.
The light’s almost too much for Charlie—he flinches away, then glares. He never looks away first, or almost never; the Butcher never bothers himself with such petty power plays. Charlie licks his lips. “I’ll bore you like this,” he says.
“You could never bore me.” Then, he’s up and off. Something dark and strange is whirling in his chest. It’s this damn bed. It’s Charlie’s blood on his tongue. It’s Charlie begging no, when he could only ever really mean yes. The Butcher needs a breather just as badly as he needs to break Charlie, and, by leaving, he can get both. “I’ll be right back. Sit tight, now.”
"Wh—seriously? Where are you going?"
"Relax," he says, dismissing him with a wave. “I won’t be long. Oh, and Charlie? We ain’t done just yet. Far from.”
“You can’t leave me here,” Charlie says, true panic finally edging into his voice. “You can’t—“
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he coos, already clicking and creaking toward the door.
“Mr. Collins! Wait!”
The door snaps shut.
-
Dennis will give it eighteen minutes. Long enough to make Charlie’s nerves run haywire. It’s the waiting that kills, not the bombardment. Madness feeds on silence. Let it feast.
Dennis knows how the sound works in this cabin better than any other place on Earth. Even his apartment can surprise him, but this place, this birthing ground, is familiar.
He won’t give Charlie the opportunity to question him or argue. He clicks his shoes as he walks. Let Charlie track him down the hall. He’s quiet, otherwise, his mind tumbling over itself, scrambling to make sense of everything he's learned about Charlie. This is it. Their coda. Tomorrow, the detective will be dead. Dennis wants to make this count.
Charlie bargains through the closed door.
Dennis doesn’t try to fight the memories. It’s pointless. They are relentless. Dennis has hardly given his childhood any thought since his twenties; he had the basic facts of it engraved in him, but had no interest in or need to reminisce. He thought he only had a handful of memories left. But every time he enters a room, there—a new memory waits for him.
Today, they’re all of his mother. Her singing, and the way it filled the cabin, chasing away Da’s shadows. The way she hummed under her breath as she kneaded bread or brushed their horse’s lather away. He keeps marveling at how he’d forgotten that. How he’d so completely replaced her music with Leah’s. How deeply her death wounded him, and overwrote what used to be the only love he knew, and, therefore, a love he treasured more profoundly than he ever knew.
He's thinking, too, of his mother trying not to cry out.
He’s angry at Charlie for dragging those memories out of him; or, he wishes he could be angry at Charlie for it, because that would be easier. Maybe it’s more that he’s angry that Charlie is right to ask this of him.
And, of course, there is his anger at God—that ancient thing, forever buried deep in his heart. Rage that He is asking Dennis to choose love over love. That He’s given Dennis everything he ever wanted, but that in exchange, he must give up everything he’s ever had.
Forget all that. The Butcher has work to do, and a strict time limit within which to do it. Charlie will soon be strong enough to fight this and win, if he’s not already.
The Butcher stops at the hall closet, where their toolbox waits with its humble offerings. He plucks a hammer from it. He’ll need nothing more sophisticated—not for his work. He spins it, testing its heft, and moves on. Snaps the door shut loud enough that for Charlie to hear.
At the threshold to the kitchen, he stops. The hammer swings idly in his hand. His eyes take the same path they always do, following the scene he left behind all those years ago: The notch in the floorboard that caught his eye and held it, just before he finally drove the kitchen knife into his father’s throat. The slash of darkness, his father’s blood, which he’d seen no reason to clean. Seemed more appropriate for his father’s shame to live forever in the house’s bones.
Dennis sighs, surveying the sight, and smiles. Every inch of this kitchen is his. Always was, after his mother killed herself. Only in the kitchen could he kill his father.
Dennis starts to whistle as he crosses into the kitchen. He never did see why a man shouldn’t whistle at night—after all, the worst thing he’s ever encountered in the night has been his self. Nothing more evil or more holy exists. Even without the music, he whistles, an old familiar tune, one he can’t fuck up. Charlie’s throat must hurt too much, because the hollering’s quieted down.
On and on he whistles as he circles the kitchen. The old stove burns peat as faithfully as it did all those decades ago. The peat, more than anything else, was a pain in the arse to get—even Charlie’s heroin came easy enough when he swung around his father’s name. They assumed Dennis was a doctor. Didn’t even bother to check. Small town logistics are often a pain, but the perks are undeniable. The peat came from a newcomer in town, a right prick who saw the Butcher a little too clearly to be friendly. Still, money is money. Pay a man enough and he’ll do anything. At the right price, he’ll even commit treason of the soul.
Dennis spins the hammer. Considering its weight and function; thinking of where it might land tonight. No use putting it off, is there? He paws idly through his goods, just to have something to do. Coffee and eggs. Sugar in a caved-in bag. He whistles hard; the sound echoes round the cabin, bouncing off the walls, chasing out ghosts. What Charlie needs is a proper exorcism. What the Butcher offers will have to be enough. He works in blood alone.
Dennis taps the counter with the hammer, a couple times, for good measure. It’s been twelve minutes. Curious, now, he stops his whistling and hushes his way back to Charlie’s door. He stops and listens. Charlie’s muttering to himself, unafraid, but agitated. The bed creaks as he shifts. It’s too small for him, really. It’s a wonder they haven’t broken the damn thing yet. He left Charlie with the lantern on, and time enough to undo the Butcher's knots. But he’s not worried about that—not when his dove went as limp as he did. Not when he wants to be hurt.
Eighteen minutes. He needs to wait at least that long.
He hadn’t considered that the waiting might be difficult for himself. All he has to do is roam the cabin, haunting it one last time. But he’s tired. He’s ready to burn the damn thing down.
It’s time, he supposes, to air out the last of his own demons, so that he can focus properly on Charlie’s. He owes it to both of them. And so, without preamble or hesitation, he crosses to his parents’ room. In all this time, he’s barely managed to touch the room at all, but he breaks that now, throwing open the door with all the force he can muster so it bursts and bangs. He crosses the threshold, pushing into the stagnant air, where the hatred and silence and misery is still palpable, even after all these years.
First things first—he throws open the windows. Air gusts in, cool and moist off the ocean; his father’s spirit sighs out, freed, finally, to go cast its misery elsewhere. Dennis gulps the fresh air down gratefully. Just like that, the last of his rage subsides. Good. Without it, he can properly work.
There’s a dresser in the room that never did sit right. It was always a heat sink for Da’s rage, the piece of furniture he could rattle and rant and rave at, a holy object in its own right. Dennis hasn’t touched it in—well—maybe never. But he’s doing holy work. Mother Mary work. The Butcher has always understood women’s work in a way other men rarely do; he knows the value of a good recipe and the most efficient way to handle blood. Knows, too, how to bury his tears. Ma made sure of that, before she died.
Dennis has enjoyed Charlie up to now, like another man might enjoy an aged brandy. But it’s a business matter, now. Rape me, he hisses through his teeth, then smashes the hammer into the side of the dresser. It’s taken this type of abuse before and only has two holes to speak of, but the dust—shit—that goes flying. Dennis wraps his handkerchief about his face before he slams the hammer into the dresser again. Again: Dust, wild, choking out the air. No matter. Dennis goes prepared anywhere he goes.
Detective Noel is angry, or startled, perhaps, by the noise. He shouts through the door. Good. A little anger goes a long way to expelling whatever’s got hold of Charlie.
He oughta kill Charlie. Just kill him and get it over with. Just kill him, just kill him, just—
Dennis grabs the dresser and shakes it hard. Wordless screaming. It feels good, cracking open this way. Feels good to scream his head off. To break and break.
Charlie’s voice takes a turn for the apologetic, plaintive, almost pathetic. Dennis didn’t expect such a quick turn. Maybe the detective isn’t so stupid after all.
But he decided to stay out for eighteen minutes, and so that’s how long Charlie is gonna stew. Dennis stands there, catching his breath. He’s winded like a beast. Always the dog, like it or not. His handkerchief is wet. He can smell the dust but he’s not coughing. It’s a win.
“Please, Mr. Collins.” Clear as day. “Come back.”
He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until the hammer catches his eye with its trembling silver nose. It surprises him into a laugh. Dennis’ hands don’t shake. The Butcher’s certainly never do. But of course this would be what does it. Da always saw this softness in him, and knew it would ruin him. Still: Nothing’s ruined yet. Memento mori, always; memento mori, with love. Just thinking it is enough to quiet the hammer. It’s with still hands and a forced smile that he finally turns from the room. He doesn’t bother to check the time. He’s done with keeping the detective waiting.
The detective’s face is damp with sweat. The lantern’s low light casts him into bronze. Even when the Butcher wore Detective Noel’s handcuffs, he thought the man was stunning—if loathsome. That’s the problem with cops: So many of them could be beautiful, if only they understood. And yet, what a shame it is that this one does. The Butcher rests a knee on the mattress, and the nose of the hammer on the detective’s knee. The detective blinks up at him, sedated, almost, like he’s swimming back into the room through a morphine haze. The bastard smiles—a dreamy thing, worth keeping.
"I ruffled your feathers, huh?" the detective asks, still smiling. He glances at the hammer and swallows. "I'm sorry. Okay?"
It puts the Butcher off-balance as effectively as a thorn in his foot. All the lead-up, all his work, suddenly seems so petty and silly, when faced with the detective flippant sincerity. He fully believes that he can torture the demons out of Charlie, but like this? Inside an hour, when he himself has been tortured for weeks and is the weakest he’s ever been? When he must kill Charlie, and therefore can’t afford to savor this last taste?
He pushes that all down. He will not let the detective sniff it out. The Butcher does not give up. "You didn't even try to slip the rope." The Butcher rolls the hammer in a lazy circle, following the natural curve of the detective's kneecap. "Now why is that?"
"Who says I didn't?" He flexes his wrists. The knots are unchanged, his wrists unmarked. Even the sheets are more or less undisturbed. Sweat runs down the detective's face. "Your knots aren't so bad after all. Arthur always did talk a big game."
The Butcher's laugh is slow. "Now, now, detective. No more lies. We’ve had enough of them. Haven't we?" He pauses. "You've seen what I do to men. You know what I've done. What I like to do." He catches the edge of the kneecap with a little pressure. Not too much. Just enough to press tension into the bone; that tension ripples all throughout Detective Finley's body, but stops before it makes it to his face. His smile hardly dips. The Butcher continues, "You know just how sweet I've been to you 'til now, compared to all the rest of them. And here you are, begging to be broken. With a smile, even!" He lifts the hammer and spins it.
The detective shows no interest in the hammer; his eyes stay pinned on the Butcher's face. "You can't break me," he says. "Don't take it personally."
"That’s what you don’t understand, Charlie. I don't wanna break you." He taps the detective's thigh with the hammer. "I wanna keep you." He rests it in the center of his knee and lets the weight impress itself upon the detective. The Butcher's tools speak just as clearly as he does, when he wants them to. "And I could. Couldn't I? Who on God's green earth knows where you are, detective? And who could stop me? I could break your legs. Your hips. Your spine. You think I don't know how to paralyze a man? We both know I don't mind the work of keeping ya alive."
Ah, finally. There it is: Fear. A flicker, gone in a flash as the detective masters himself, but real. He’s seeing things clearly now. He’s seeing the Butcher. No one else. “You…” He laughs, forcing it out. “Come on.”
“Think it’s funny, do you?” The Butcher taps his knee, gentle, gentle. No pain yet. But the detective flinches. Smart lad. “How sure are you that I won't?” The detective swallows and frowns, studying him, looking for the answer. That won’t do. He settles his weight on the detective’s calves and rests the hammer on his nose. “Do you remember what you said to me, Detective Finley? When we met for the first time? Think hard, now.” He tilts the hammer so the claw rests near the detective’s eye.
There it is again, sweet as spring rain—fear. He was a beast in the interrogation room, in-control, certain of his victory. “I…don’t recall being too friendly.”
“You called me a disgusting freak,” he says, nice and airy, like it couldn’t matter less. “You said I was gonna get what I deserved in prison. That I’d never know freedom again.”
“I…”
He snaps the detective’s mouth shut with a rap of the hammer. The detective inhales sharply. That one hurt. “You were salivating at the prospect of putting me away.” He runs the hammer down his throat until it’s resting over his heart. “So tell me, love. What’s changed? What’ll happen if I let you heal and make your merry way back to your precinct?”
“You know what’s changed,” he says. “I owe you my life.” His chest rises and falls under the hammer, but there’s something calculating about his expression, a hardness that’s replacing his fear. “Because I…” He licks his lips. The silence that follows is pregnant; they both hear what’s unsaid, clear as day. The fucking bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s playing with Dennis. “Don’t make me say it. Not like this.”
The Butcher is in control. The Butcher is going to kill him. “Oh, come on, then. Don’t tease.” He lifts the detective’s chin with the hammer.
But, somehow, that was the wrong move. Maybe they’ve all been wrong. The detective’s resolve solidifies, like a dog’s jaws locking. “No,” he says.
It hurts. He didn’t expect that. The pain transmutes to anger, but not fast enough for his liking—the lantern light, after all, exposes them both. He moves without thinking, propelled by his wounded rage, and cracks Noel across the face with the hammer. “No?”
Noel spits blood and looks at him, unfazed by the turn to violence. If anything, it bolsters him. Makes it fun again. “Temper, temper,” he tuts. It knocks the Butcher’s sense back into him. That’s right: He’s dealing with a fucking freak.
He grabs a fistful of Noel’s hair and wrenches his head back. “You love me,” he says, definitively, fiercely, “for the same reason you loved your King. You don’t have to think about who you are or what you want, because neither of those things matter in prison. You’re safe because you don’t have to make decisions. No one’s life is on the line but yours and mine. And no one here cares what you think. Isn’t that right? Even you don’t have to care about that when you’re reduced to this. All you have to do is be clever and resilient.” Gently, he releases Noel’s hair. He strokes his face. “I could paralyze you right now and you’d thank me,” he says. “So why shouldn’t I?”
He’s picked the right pressure point; the detective shifts nervously. But it’s still not enough: Noel recovers, and offers him another lopsided smile. “You think I’m clever?” “Not really, no,” he says. “Seeing as you aren’t taking this seriously.” He sits back and raps the detective’s knee with the hammer, hard enough to hurt, but not break. He barely even twitches. “I’ll take you seriously when you tell me what you really want.”
He doesn’t like that. Not one bit. Because the moment the words come out of Noel’s mouth, he understands clearly what he wants, and it’s not this.
He wants out.
Kill him, he thinks. Kill him and be done with it. Kill him and go home. Kill him, and reclaim Her, and be free of all this.
Charlie is steady in the lantern light. He is beautiful, and in control, and Dennis can’t stand it.
The Butcher laughs softly and drops the hammer onto the table. "Can't get a bluff past you, eh?"
"Nope," Charlie says—but there's a flash of relief across his face, and he relaxes. "For what it's worth, I wouldn't've taken that bet in New York." He glances at the hammer and swallows. "It was a risk taking it here."
The Butcher leans forward and starts undoing the knots at Charlie's wrists. "I'll tell you what I want," he says, thinking as he does of the professional calm of a slaughterhouse. "I wanna take a walk with you.”
Sometimes, Charlie is a clever one. His affect goes flat again, difficult to read. "A walk?"
"Just a short one," he says. "Some fresh air would do us both good."
Charlie studies him and rubs his raw wrists. “You sure that’s what you want?” He lifts his hips, testing the Butcher’s weight.
The Butcher could answer that one easily enough, but Dennis couldn’t. There’s usually no conflict between his two sides, but his chest is tender, aching, heavy as wet snow on spring blooms. Dennis has killed so many men that even Charlie wouldn’t believe the number, and, in his way, he’s loved every last one of them. None did he love like this. Being here has rattled him, made him the weakest version of himself. Charlie’s seen parts of him that he didn’t even know existed until they were ripped bare by this place.
He doesn’t answer. He climbs off the bed. “Come now, dove,” he says. He snuffs the lantern. The bed creaks as Charlie shifts. The Butcher doesn’t wait for him. He needs air on his face, a moment to breathe.
He needs out of this shithole.
Outside, the air is clear and clean, and the night black. Dennis leans against the wall and rolls a cigarette with steady hands. They’ve had a good run. Had their fun. It’s better to end it now, before Charlie recovers his good senses. This was only ever going to be a dalliance.
Charlie steps out in his coat, cane in hand. One hand sits casually in his pocket. Immediately the Butcher knows what he’s done: He’s taken the gun from the side table. Finally. A thrill shivers through him. What a gift. He never has liked it easy. His detective will put up a fight. But this is the Butcher’s turf, and his duty. The fight will just make the dying sweeter.
Dennis offers him the cigarette. Charlie chairs it between his teeth and bends down to let Dennis light it. When he takes his hand out of his pocket, the gun settles, pulling the coat with its weight, but something’s off about the weight, like there’s something else there, too. It doesn’t matter. He flicks Charlie’s cheek where the hammer’s bruise has started to show, straightens off the wall, and sets off for the sea.
“You said it wouldn’t be far,” Charlie says, “so does that mean we’re heading somewhere in particular?”
“You’ll see.”
Charlie doesn’t press. Dennis keeps the pace slow, steady, conscious, as always, of Charlie’s weakness. He misses the weight of the hammer. He thinks that if he had the chance again, he would smash Charlie’s knees after all. Save them both the trip. He doesn’t like the silence out here, nor the way the wind steals his awareness of Charlie’s breathing, of his smell. He should’ve fucked Charlie one last time, the way Charlie wanted. Should’ve respected that last request. Regret settles uneasily on him.
“Your dream,” Dennis says, needing to hear Charlie’s voice. “The one that woke you. What was it about?”
Charlie doesn’t look his way, just nurses the cigarette thoughtfully. “How much have I told you? About him.”
The question throws Dennis; they’ve had enough lucid conversations about the beast that it strikes him as a strange one. Charlie must be fishing. “Not much.”
“He tortured me,” he says, flatly, “for years. Even your stomach would turn knowing what he did to me. He toyed with my mind in ways I still can’t unravel. But you know what my nightmares are usually about?” He adjusts his grip on his cane and glances Dennis’ way. He smiles. “When he finally accepted that he wouldn’t get nothing from me, he put me into a pit, deep inside a mountain. It was nothin’ but a hole in the dark, guarded by these unthinking, unfeeling creatures. He left me there to die. For months I rotted there...” Charlie examines the burning end of his cigarette, then flicks it away. “That’s where I go in my nightmares. So, look. I get it. There’s nothing quite like silence. Real silence. I hate it, too.”
It feels like the forgiveness of the lamb. Dennis says, “So you fear death?”
Charlie stops. Puts his hand in his pocket. Too casual to be defensive or threatening; he must find the touch of the metal comforting. “Death is only silent for the living. To the dead, it’s nothing. I’m not scared of death. Is the Butcher?”
Dennis laughs. “Don’t insult me.” He pushes on.
There is a seam at the cliffs where a careful man can make his way down to a lonely, rocky cove. Even in the dark, Dennis can find it. He didn’t lie: It’s not far. He pauses at the edge of the cliff, studying the descent in starlight, a swirl of emotions fighting inside of him that are too confused and powerful to discern.
One thing is clear, at least: He is thrilled.
“Beautiful,” Charlie says.
“We ain’t there yet,” the Butcher says. “This way.”
The descent is slow-going. Charlie is good at hiding it, but he’s exhausted and in pain. Overdue for his next dose. The path down is rocky and slippery from the ocean mist. The Butcher has to stop several times to steady him, holding his arm or hand, laughing quietly as he does. “Almost there,” he says.
The change in the air becomes palpable when they reach the cove. It’s dizzying. Makes the Butcher giddy. He stoops and sheds his shoes and socks. Her power is thick in the air, potent, rich; he can feel Her hunger, Her desire. It’s his, amplified. He straightens and turns.
Charlie is standing at his full height, watching him. The ocean might as well not even exist to his dove. “This is where it happened?”
No use lying now—no use pretending he doesn’t know. “Aye.” Dennis throws his hat to the ground, spreads his arms, and turns, walks, turns, following the music in the air that is just out of reach. It’s there, there, on the salty air; it’s there, between the moonlight and starlight, waiting for the bloodshed She is owed.
Charlie, his prey, his sacrifice, stays rooted to the spot, his hand tight on his cane. “Show me.” He has to raise his voice to be heard. “Show me where she died.”
Where you will die, Dennis thinks, half-mad, the thought as slippery as the rocks and twice the risk.
Even after all these years, the stone stands unchanged. Its surface slants inland and gleams in the moonlight. Dennis half-expects Charlie to kneel and rest his head atop it, perfect bird that he is, but he stands quite rigid. He is afraid after all. Dennis kneels and strokes the cold stone. “I met Her here,” he says, and starts to hum. His knife burns in his pocket. Now, She whispers. Do it now.
“I haven’t heard of Her before,” Charlie says. “But…” As Dennis stands, Charlie’s grip on his cane tightens. “I do know of the entity who took your music. And I know he’d think this is the funniest thing in the world.”
Dennis hears him, but the words float by him, as meaningless as the spray of the sea. It’s a bluff. Charlie’s last attempt to talk him out of this. But Dennis knows the truth; he’s known it even before he held Leah in his hands for the last time, before that great rage swept through him. He’s known since they landed here. This is what needs done. It’s why they’re here.
“Mr. Collins,” he tries. But the knife is already in Dennis’ hand, right where it belongs. “Don’t. This isn’t the way to get Her back.”
The music is here, yes, here. Barely out of reach, muffled by the waves. The notes play along Dennis’ skin. Begging to be heard. Dennis breathes Her in, breathes that lovely salty air, and breathes out a low, steady whistle. He always knows when to put on a show. Charlie’s earned a good one, if nothing else.
“Don’t.”
Dennis is in no rush. The detective’s wounds are still dragging him down; he is still weak; he is surely exhausted. He won’t last. Dennis will have his fun. He twists his hand, letting the knife gleam in the moonlight, and letting the detective get one last, good, long look before he steps in.
Charlie is deft with the cane. He’s not afraid. Hardly angry. He’s expected this for days. They dodge and step about each other, Charlie snapping the cane, quick strikes that are hard to avoid.
“Drop the knife!” Charlie shouts. “Drop it now! I won’t let you kill me, Butcher, you hear me?” “Oh, you will,” he sings. It’s not just a promise, but a fundamental truth. “They all do.”
“Drop the fucking—“ He grunts; he’s landed a blow, but instead of recoiling, Dennis has latched onto the opportunity and grabbed the cane. The tug of war is brief. Charlie is too weak, too off-balance, the rocks too slick. “Drop it!” he snarls in vain. Dennis has already yanked the cane out of his hands.
He flings it away. “What now, dove?” he asks, throwing out his arms. “Will you draw on me?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He won’t dare give Charlie the chance. He surges forward, aggressive now, no more play—slashing and slashing at his sacrifice, who can only duck and weave. They're close enough now that he can hear Charlie panting over the sound of the crashing waves. Surely Charlie will draw the pistol. But he doesn’t, and still doesn’t, and then Dennis is on him proper, laughing wildly.
To Charlie’s credit, he wouldn’t have gone down so easy if the Butcher hadn’t spent the last hour wearing him down. He’s a big man, strong, skilled in hand-to-hand—but the Butcher is in his birthing grounds, and ravenous, and the rocks are slick from the spray. Charlie’s fury shines, raw and beautiful. He should’ve pulled the gun when he had the chance.
Dennis pins him, not laughing, not anymore, too aware of his singular purpose here, and too near Her song. “No,” Charlie snarls, like he still believes the word means something. Stupid thing. He already relinquished that power to the Butcher. “No—no—“ He’s losing; he’s lost. “No!” He stares Death in the face—seeing, finally, the Butcher’s true self—witnessing the dark beyond.
Dennis grabs his hair and yanks his head back. He pushes the knife’s long edge against Charlie’s throat. The ocean sings, lord how it sings, triumphant at last. He’s won. He’s won, and his dove’s blood will spill, and—
—Charlie shoves the barrel of the gun into Dennis’ ribs. “Stop,” he says, his voice tight. “Stop or I’ll fucking shoot.”
“It’s over, lad,” the Butcher pants, pressing the knife up and in.
“I’ll shoot,” he says again. “Don’t think I won’t.”
The Butcher believes him. The pressure of the gun is tight, narrow, its metal nose muddied by the layers of clothes and adrenaline coursing through Dennis’ body. If he slit Charlie’s throat, Charlie would have enough time to pull the trigger. One twitch is all it would take.
On and on, She sings. Just out of reach.
Dennis stares down at Charlie, at his rage, his bared teeth and sweat-slick face. The still-healing cut on his left cheek. The brink of death makes him beautiful. The gun nestles between Dennis' ribs. Charlie’s one last bid for freedom. As he gazes down at Charlie, the terrible truth strikes him like lightning.
He doesn’t want to kill him.
Not for Her. Not for this. Charlie could be as harmless and sweet-faced as Leah, and still, he could not.
He can’t.
“Please,” Charlie says, though he must see that final truth wrought across Dennis’ face. “Don’t.”
The sea crashes against the rocks. Dennis turns the knife against Charlie’s throat. If he fails, he will never hear Her again. Yet, as the revelation seizes him, a feral joy rises in his belly, a wild thing, too great to hold. “Ah,” he says. He relaxes his hold on Charlie’s hair. His hands tremble, too much for him to trust; he’ll cut him with the knife. Even that he cannot bear to do. “I do spoil you, don’t I?” The words come shaking out of him. He is winded, delirious, exhausted. All at once, it comes to a head, and all he can do is laugh, and weep, and press his forehead into Charlie’s chest—laughing as Charlie brings a hand up to thread through his hair—laughing, on and on, as Charlie pants under him and cusses softly.
He’ll never know how long they stay there, the knife trembling away in his hand, Charlie going limp under him as the truth of what’s to come washes over them both. Slowly, Charlie pulls the gun away from his ribs, lifts it, and taps the barrel against Dennis’ temple. When Dennis lifts his head, he is stunned by what he sees. It’s not the gun at all. It’s Her—his ancient wood carving of Leah. Her patient, smiling face watches him in the starlight.
“You…” Dennis swallows. “You’re a fucking moron, Charlie Dowd.”
“Eh.” Charlie tucks her into Dennis’ pocket with a smile. He strokes through Dennis’ hair. “I’ve always been a soft touch.”
And, Dennis thinks, laughing all over again, he can always be counted on to call a bluff.