Chapter Text
All of the long grass around them is dead. Some of the strands have been broken in half and hang limply; dew clings to their ends. The jagged tops of mountains peer over Collins’ left shoulder. Wherever they are, they've been caught in the middle of a sunrise. The sunlight glows rich and young and golden on Collins' skin. "Ah," Collins says. His grip is firm on the back of Charlie's head. "You're dying."
Charlie's just stubborn enough to try and answer. It takes longer than usual by several orders, but Collins waits patiently as he gags. "I—think so."
Honestly—this is pretty close to how he thought it would go. Statistically speaking, it's a miracle it hasn't happened yet. It just—seems like such a waste. He still has shit he wants to do. And if it were up to him, he’d really prefer Arthur as his final witness, but hey, fine, beggars can't be choosers.
Charlie's still got a hand pressed to the wound. Collins sets his free hand over it; his fingers slip. Charlie is slick with blood. He's never stopped being surprised by how much blood exists inside of human bodies. You'd think a guy would get used to it eventually. But no. He can't hear himself whimper, but it scrapes his throat raw all the same.
"Shh, shh, calm now," Collins says. His thumb rubs a little circle against the buttons of Charlie's spine. "Don't you worry. I'll watch you as you go."
And you know, that comes as a relief. Collins, above him, is quite relaxed, though his face is more serious than Charlie's ever seen it. He's not the worst person to watch Charlie die. Collins certainly won't forget this, and Charlie seriously doubts it will trouble him. It’s a comfort to know he will live on, and not at the expense of someone's suffering. He pats the Butcher's forearm. "Thanks," he rasps.
The sun grows brighter as it peeks over the mountains. But Charlie can't feel its warmth. He is cold, except where Collins touches him. If it were anyone else, Charlie would call what he's doing cradling. But this—this is weirdly possessive, like Collins wants no one else to have this death.
Charlie used to practice his last words. He liked to think they would be brave or funny. Flippant. But his throat is overrun. The last thing he'll ever say will be thanks.
There are orange-streaked clouds hovering behind Collins' head. The sky is a clear and striking blue, fresh and new. Wherever they are, they're on Earth. That's nice. Real nice.
-
Can't feel pain if you're dead. Probably.
So. Charlie isn't dead.
He's on his back in a lumpy bed. Someone is kneeling over him; their knees are locked against his thighs. They are bent over his neck. Charlie can smell blood and soap. His throat is wet.
His throat is wet.
-
Pain, and fear, and a voice saying, “Shhh, now, shh-shh-shh.”
-
Okay. Still not dead.
As far as Charlie knows, this is the first time he's woken up. He registers a few things: A steady, throbbing pain in his throat; a lumpy mattress that's digging into his ass; similarly lumpy pillows stacked under his upper back and head to keep his head and shoulders elevated; the imperfect sound of water being wrung out of a cloth; a man's humming voice, tenor and sweet. The ceiling is dark wood. Looks black in the low light. The walls’ faces are made of stone. A window to Charlie's left has no curtains, and reveals a gray sky and a thin sheet of rain. Where's Arthur? The—the King in Yellow was…he was the King in Yellow. But—they hadn't? Nothing coheres. Charlie's stomach swoops. He shuts his eyes.
The humming doesn't falter; rather, Charlie does.
-
Pain wakes him up. The cold keeps him up. He's trembling uncontrollably as someone fusses at his neck. The pain is excruciating, but he's too weak to put up a proper fight. The fussing person presses down on his chest. "Let me work," they say, gently.
Charlie knows that voice. Doesn’t he?
He can't seem to find his own.
-
A lantern flame burns sedately on the side table. Dennis Collins is slumped in a chair, head down, hat tipped over his eyes. He’s bloody up to his elbows, practically; his shirt is stiff and wrinkled from dried blood. It's on his jaw and chin, too, smeared and dark.
He's supposed to be dead. Isn't he?
-
A warm washcloth works over his collarbones and chest. The only light in the room is from a lantern. There must be a man attached to the cloth, but the shadows are deep, and the room won't stop spinning.
The washcloth cools. Goosebumps rise on Charlie's body.
-
Charlie resurfaces.
"Bad dreams?" someone asks.
He tries to answer, but his throat hurts too much. Well. His hand hasn't been hurt; he sticks up a thumb and twists his mouth into a pained smile.
Collins' face is settling into its details, becoming real. He's cleaned off the blood, which is a weird thought for Charlie to have, because he doesn't remember Collins being covered in blood in the first place. (Something about a dripping maw—about wet—?) In Collins' hands is a bowl of stew. "Well, you picked a good time to wake. Let's see if we can get some of this down you."
Charlie's not so sure it won't just run out of the wound. But—he's not dead, and the sight and smell of the stew has kicked his stomach into gear. He's hungry. He tries to sit up, but the movement makes pain lance through his throat; he gasps and goes still and stiff on his pillow ramp.
"Easy," Collins says. "You tear that thing again and I'll let you bleed out." He brings the bowl close to Charlie’s face. "Here."
The strangeness of it all only really hits Charlie halfway or so through the bowl. He's being spoon-fed soup by the fucking Butcher, who, to be fair, isn't looking at him with concern or affection, but in a businesslike way, like Charlie's a sick workhorse, or a broken-down car. As soon as he clocks the expression, it gets under Charlie's skin. But—fuck it—he's hungry, and he's not going to ask the man to stop. Now that he’s survived, Charlie would like very much to live, and that apparently means relying on the most infamous assassin this side of the Mississippi to mother him.
Collins tips the bowl against Charlie's mouth, letting him swallow down the dregs. Only then does Charlie try to speak. It comes out more of a croak than anything: "Why?"
Collins blinks. "You haven't eaten in days," he says. Matter of fact. Except that was a bigger picture why; no shit he needed food, seeing as that’s what happens to human beings given enough time—but before Charlie can clarify and get a better answer out of him, Collins is up and out the door.
Fine. Charlie resists the urge to put a hand over his throat, since that'll just exacerbate the pain. He gives the room a good once-over. It's dusty and bare. A Christ-on-the-cross statue rests on the floor in a far corner, facing the wall, which—Charlie’s not so big on religion, but he's sure that if he were feeling just a hair better, he'd have something to say about that. There's one window letting in dull light; from his vantage point on the bed, he can see the sky and the tops of distant mountains. A large bookshelf stands at one wall, and a desk sits next to that with a notebook open on its surface; its pages are yellow and warped from age and moisture.
Charlie's still in his white button-up, but it's been taken off at some point; the blood’s been cleaned. His tie, not shockingly, has not been retied, and has been left in a crumpled ball on the side table. He’s missing his jacket and the robe; wherever they are, it’s not this room. Charlie—really doesn't like the thought of the Butcher stripping him naked, but he does appreciate that his clothes aren't sticking to him and reeking of death.
He can hear the Butcher walking around the house, his shoes clicking on the wood floors.
He’s out before he returns.
-
“Who are we chatting up in here?”
Charlie snaps back to reality. Who—who was he talking to? Fuck, he’s dying. He’s really not going to make it out of this one.
God damn it.
Collins steps into the lantern light. “They aren’t here, lad,” he says. “It’s just you and me.”
“And him,” Charlie rasps, meaning, the Jesus statue, but when Collins follows his pointed finger, he realizes that it must seem like he's just pointing at the dark corner. Charlie is stone-cold certain, suddenly, that the Butcher can’t perceive Jesus at all, then thinks maybe that’s a little on the nose of the universe, and anyway, he has perceived a god—he saw John; he saw the King. They’re more real by far.
“Nah,” Collins says. “It's just the two of us.”
And, hell. He's not wrong.
-
Collins has a tin of shaving soap in one hand and a brush in the other. Charlie’s only been awake a little while, so he's still too dazed to process much further than, what the fuck is he doing?
"You need a shave, detective."
Charlie must've mouthed the question. Or his confusion is clear enough on his face. He doesn't flinch or try to pull away when Collins begins running the brush along his cheeks and jaw; on the contrary, he lies very still and tries not to breathe.
Collins sucks his teeth and examines Charlie’s face for bare spots. Satisfied, he leans back. "Don't worry," he says. "I won't cut ya."
He opens the razor. Charlie focuses on the ceiling, its splintered rafter.
Collins touches the blade to Charlie’s cheek and starts to hum.
Two things are immediately evident. One: Charlie is in no way, shape, or form capable of fighting the Butcher if he were to try and kill him.
And two: While it’s likely the Butcher is doing this to fuck with him, it doesn't seem like he actually wants to kill him.
Charlie struggles through his foggy memories. Wet throat, a weakly fluttering pulse. Pain as familiar as an old friend, though only half as welcome. The Butcher's footsteps going to and fro in the house. There is no reason for the Butcher to waste his time on Charlie, and yet. And yet. How long have they been here? Long enough that the Butcher sees fit to shave him. Long enough for him to starve.
The Butcher carves the foam off his face with patient strokes. He has a bowl of water that is still letting off steam; when he dips the razor clean, the next swipe on Charlie’s skin is warmed from the water. Charlie focuses on his breath. Or tries, anyway. The overwhelming feeling is, this isn't real. How can it be? He's braced for the inevitable pulling of the rug out from under him.
Charlie doesn't really have anything to look at except for Collins. The King? Maybe. That’d be his luck. Charlie’s head feels swollen and hot. Collins' mouth is a flat line; the corners of his eyes are relaxed. He is focused. The tension in his throat is visible as he hums. This isn't real. But Charlie isn't being tortured, so. He’ll take it.
He expects the Butcher to cut him—for a laugh, if for no other reason—but each time the blade scrapes his face, the pressure is true, and steady. The Butcher doesn't stray from his task. Each bared inch of his face makes Charlie feel more and more naked, as if the Butcher is cutting away his clothes, instead. He's too disoriented to examine any of his feelings too closely. The Butcher tips Charlie’s head back, which makes the wound at his throat throb; when he flinches and groans, the Butcher hushes him.
"Almost done," he says.
But the pain is eclipsing everything else. Charlie is dizzy. Collins’ blunt fingertips sit in the soft space under his jaw, holding him at just the right angle. Charlie isn't dead, yet, but he's not so sure he isn't dying. "King?" he asks.
"Nah." The blade flicks up, up, under his chin. "I'm more of a rook."
-
Charlie is alone, and he's absolutely fucked on—something. Morphine, or maybe heroin; it sits heavy under his skin and makes the world wobble. He manages to sit up, but that's as far as he gets for a little while as his head spins and spins. Outside, an afternoon sky, pebbled with clouds that seem to be considering rain or snow. A fresh notebook is open on the desk. Charlie’s shirt is unbuttoned. When he touches his throat, there are clean bandages wrapped around it.
An image flashes in his mind: A dog bent over his throat, lapping up his blood. He shudders and lets it flow away, like he's let so many thoughts flow.
He's zooted out of his gourd, but he's pretty sure he's strong enough to get up. Figures he should give it a try. He's managed to swing his legs over the edge of the bed when something heavy shatters in another room. It startles him so bad that he hits the floor—which he regrets immediately, because the morphine isn't strong enough to block that. He lays wide-eyed and shivering on the floor. Something else shatters. A man screams.
The pieces of Charlie's memories all fall into place. The cottage. Dennis Collins. The straight swipe of the razor on his skin. The fear drains out of him.
Slowly, Charlie pushes himself off the floor. He finds he can't quite stay on his own two feet, but that's fine. He leans hard on the wall as he goes. Something else splinters to pieces, and the scream forms into words that Charlie can't parse. Might not be English. He discovers that he's at the last room in a long hallway; at the end of the hallway, he can see a front door and part of a sitting room.
Something crunches. Sounds like wood. More shouting. From the mouth of the hallway, Charlie can see the doorway to the kitchen—some cabinets, a third of a table. He can hear heavy breathing. This isn't real, so he isn't afraid; even if it is real, he's not scared of what he might find. Anger is well within Charlie’s wheelhouse.
He leans hard on the kitchen's door frame and surveys the scene. The Butcher is, inexplicably, shirtless. In Charlie’s dazed state, the broken crockery and crumpled chair make more sense than the Butcher's bare back, with its old scars and dusting of gray hair. He watches as the Butcher pulls a bowl out of a cabinet and hurls it at a wall.
"You show 'em," Charlie croaks. He's deeply gratified by how much it startles Collins; seems a fair trade for the explosion of sound that made him hit the deck.
Collins whirls to face him. His face is red and—well, shit. Wet with tears. That's—something Charlie is too drugged-up to deal with. "Detective," Collins says. His chest is heaving. He swipes his forearm across his face and braces a hand on the counter. "The fuck are you doing up?"
"Thought I'd join the party," Charlie says. He's determined to not look into Collins' face, which means either staring at the mess Collins has made of the kitchen—which, given the context clues, is not much better to look at, vis a vis giving a man privacy—or staring at his body, which is a whole other kettle of fish. There's a constellation tattooed over Collins' upper-right chest and shoulder, which is easier to process than the dark covering of hair on his chest or the soft swell of his stomach. Charlie focuses on that. Never takes him long to find a conversation starter. "Nice ink.”
Collins immediately covers it with a hand, then seems to think better of it. He composes himself easily enough. Stops gulping down air. His throat and chest are pink. He has freckles. Freckles? Or more constellations? Jesus Christ, how much did Collins give him? "You shouldn't be out here, boyo," he says.
"What'd they do to you?" Charlie asks, gesturing vaguely at the scattered mess on the floor.
"Nothing," Collins says. He crosses the kitchen and grabs Charlie’s arm, hard. Too hard. "Come on. Back to bed."
"Maybe I wanna break some shit, too," he says, as Collins turns him around. "You're—taking all the—breakable shit."
"You've all the world left to break," Collins says. Which both does and doesn't make sense.
He lets Collins walk him down the hall. Christ, he's dizzy. This doesn't really seem like the sort of game the King would play, at least. "You're real," he says. "Aren't you?"
"No," Collins says. He sits him on the bed. "You're dreaming." He's lying. Weird thing to lie about.
"Weird thing to lie about," Charlie says.
"I'll cut that fucking throat if you don't shut up," the Butcher says. He undercuts the threat a bit by pouring a glass of water and handing it over.
"And waste all this effort?" Charlie takes a sip, which makes him realize just how dry his mouth and throat are, parched all to hell; he drains the glass in silence. For some reason, he expects the world to be different when he finishes it and opens his eyes. But it's the same small room, the same window, the same afternoon sun, the same shirtless man. Charlie’s flagging mind catches on a safe topic. "Where's Arthur?" he asks.
The Butcher doesn't answer. He pours more water into Charlie’s cup, then, without shame or subtlety, takes a tincture out of his pocket and adds quite a few drops to the water. "Go back to your dreams," he says.
"Whatever you say, boss," because Charlie really does not have the energy or desire to parse what the hell he's just witnessed, or why he's noticed the thick trail of hair that widens under Collins' belly button, or the shape of the constellation that Charlie does not recognize on Collins' flushed skin. Charlie empties his glass. He hopes Collins will be dressed when he comes around again.
-
The next one is the one that sticks.
The good news: Still not dead. The pain is minimal; somehow, the Butcher has got his hands on some laudanum and heroin, which—well. He has feelings about that, but he's willing to overlook them when his alternative is barebacking the pain. He's been shaved recently enough that his stubble isn't driving him crazy. The Butcher's fully dressed, except his hat.
The bad news: He's still got a bullet in his throat. So, that's a thing.
As for the neutral news: Pillows—still lumpy. Cottage—still weirdly cozy, with its dusty bookshelf and ancient window that's cracked just a little on the left side, letting in cool, but fresh, air. The Butcher—still here, in a chair at his bedside like a fussing mother. Though a mom would typically have a bit more affection for her charge; the Butcher’s eyeing Charlie like he’s prepared to be annoyed.
Far be it for Charlie to disappoint him. “Morning, sunshine,” Charlie rasps.
The Butcher’s expression doesn’t so much as twitch. “It’s half past one in the afternoon.”
“Huh. Okay, then—afternoon, sunshine.”
The annoyance eases out of Collins’ face, but he’s still closed off, like he’s bracing for some unpleasantness. How fucked up has Charlie been? What fool things has he said and done? Christ. It might be the lighting, but frankly, Collins looks exhausted.
Charlie’s tempted to offer up the bed. He’s just loopy enough for the words to come up his throat; he’s just together enough to stop himself from actually vocalizing some stupid thing like get in bed with me. (And isn’t that a whole pile of shit to ignore.) Instead, he picks a precarious topic; he’s already on his toes, so, why not. “Where the hell are we?”
The corner of Collins’ mouth twitches up; his eyes crinkle. “I’m not sure I should answer that,” he says. “Seems to be a waste of time.” When Charlie just stares, his smile grows. “We’ve had this conversation six times, now, detective. Doesn’t seem to be sticking.”
“Yeah, well.” Noel gathers himself. He’s fucked, but the least he can do is hang onto his dignity while he can. “Let’s try for number seven. Bet you it sticks this time.”
“You’d be a fool to take that bet,” he says.
Noel waits. They stare at one another. For one brief second, it’s like they’re really seeing one another on equal footing—no cat and mouse bullshit, no societal dressings—and what they both see is the naked absurdity of it all: That the world has brought them here; that the world brought them Arthur Lester; that the Butcher is, for some fucking reason, bothering to watch over Detective Noel and wait for him to heal; that Noel has, for some fucking reason, managed to survive being shot in the god damn neck; and that it is, for one very strange reason, the two of them stuck here, together, dealing with the fallout. A beat later, the intimacy of staring at another person tips into weird. Noel snaps his fingers for the Butcher to hurry along. “Well? Where are we?”
The Butcher blinks slowly at him. “The middle of fuckall, Ireland. Coast’s maybe a half mile that way. Town’s an eight mile jaunt to the north. Won’t be hard for us to get a ship out of here; the nearest harbor’s a good day’s hike. Which I intend to make as soon as you’re self-sufficient.”
Noel’s gears whir away. His memory is patchy, but he’s always been good at using slivers to discover the full picture. He squints out of the window. “No fucking kidding.”
“No fucking kidding.”
The Butcher sets his forearm on the back of his chair; he idly taps his fingers against the wood back. Waiting for more questions.
Fuck it. “Why are you here? Hell, why am I here?”
The Butcher pokes his tongue against his teeth and peers thoughtfully at the bookshelf. “I really thought you were dead.” He meets Noel’s eyes. “And then you weren’t. It seemed in poor taste to let you die, after that.”
“Poor taste,” Noel says, and laughs. “Thank god for taste, I guess.”
“Anyway,” the Butcher says, in a tone that makes Noel dread how this conversation has gone before. What did Noel say that needs to be cut off at the root? “Today is the fourth day, and it’s a little after one, as I’ve said. Let’s see, what else…there’s no way of knowing where that thing took Arthur Lester, but I doubt he’s dead. There’s been no news on Larson or the Order that I’ve heard, which is not that surprising as we are, I must repeat, in the middle of fuckall. I’ve sent no letters. No one knows where we are. And no, I am not the bloody King in Yellow.”
Well. That is pretty comprehensive.
Before Noel can cook up another batch of questions, the Butcher leans forward and scoops up Noel’s hand. “Now,” he says, gently pinching Noel’s thumb. “Listen close, dove. If you snap your god damn fingers at me one more time, I’m cutting them off, and we’ll have a whole new conversation the next time you wake.”
“…I take it we’ve had this conversation six times too, huh?”
“Nah. More than.”
“You didn’t go to thumb chopping by the second one?”
The Butcher releases him with a laugh. “Ahh. Maybe I prefer threatening you to dealing with all the mess that would entail.”
Noel rubs the tingling out of his hand. “Right. Okay.”
“There’s an outhouse out back,” he says. “I can help you there.”
“That was in fact my next question. This is getting weird, Mr. Collins.”
“Last one, then: Yes.”
“Yes? Yes to what?”
“You tell me. What were you just thinking of asking me?”
That’s a big case of fuck that. Noel has no patience for mind games. Guy wants to be a cryptic jackass, let him be a cryptic jackass. He carefully pushes himself to a sitting position, then swings his legs over the side of the bed. That’s where he has to stop and steady himself; his head’s spinning and pain arcs from under his jaw to below his collarbone. A few beats later, the pain fades to a dull ache. Collins has rested his elbows on his knees and is watching him, closely, too closely. Noel’s face is damp with sweat.
“I can do it,” he says. “Just give me a second.”
“Take all the time you like. It’s good entertainment.”
“Can—can you go easy on me? Huh? I—look, I don’t like pulling the pity me card, but I got shot in the neck, y’know? I’m doing my best.”
Collins laughs. “That wasn’t meant as an insult,” he says. “Just a statement of fact.”
“Right, so, it’s entertaining for you, witnessing my pain?”
“There she is,” Collins says, and smirks like he’s said something very clever.
Charlie would kinda like to punch him. He makes a note to catch up on that when he’s feeling more durable. Well. No, that would be a bad way to pay a guy back for—this. Whatever this is.
He sits on the edge of the bed a little while more, gathering his will. “You know something, Mr. Collins? This fucking stinks.”
“I’ve had better times myself." Collins stands and stretches his arms above his head. "Alright, up. This is all a grand emotional journey for you but I’ve seen this part play out five times, now." He bends down and tucks an arm under Noel's armpit. "Up.”
And, well, standing is considerably easier when he can foist some weight onto Collins. He can’t stop thinking, Don’t think about it, though he’s fuzzy on what it is that he shouldn’t be thinking about. Collins matches his stride, which is terribly slow-going. He feels shriveled. He wants very much to park his ass and give up on walking for another—oh—week or two. But Collins bears his weight like it’s familiar. He’s been on this journey five times, huh? Fantastic.
Collins separates from him at the door to the outhouse. “If you fall in,” he says, “I’m not coming after you. Just so we’re clear.”
“Yeah, well, that’d probably kill me immediately, so. I don’t blame you.” Over Collins shoulder is the cottage, squat and sturdy aside from the roof, which is pretty well fucked. Past that, green fields, an open sky that’s so blue it hurts to look at, and a lone, gnarled oak. To the northeast, the mountains, which bear a few fluffy white clouds at their peaks. Noel’s still warm on his right side, where Collins’ body held him upright.
He shuts the door.
Time has done its damage to the building; sunlight peers through gaps in the wood. Charlie stares at one of the gaps; it is a thin slice of a perfect spring green. He feels like he’s going fucking crazy. This can’t be real. That—Kayne thing sent him to the Dreamlands, where the King caught him, and he’s—he’s there. That’s the only way this makes any sense. Okay. So—so what now?
If the King really has him, what the hell is he gonna do? He can’t do this again. Oh, God. He has to do this again? He can’t. He can’t, he can’t, good god don’t let him have to survive another second if this is just another dream.
When he finally summons the strength to step back out, he’s shaking like a leaf. His teeth chatter away in his jaw. Collins gathers his weight and sighs. “Yes,” he says, “this is real.” Something in his tone catches Charlie in the chest. Collins has had to say this many times, and has, as a result, thought it over enough that he’s certain he believes it—and so yes, as he’s said a hundred times before—for what he would like to be the last fucking time—this is real. Sigh.
Charlie feels like his brain’s being cooked. Grease popping. But Collins’ weary certainty cuts through the noise. “Oh,” he says. “Good.”
“Is it? Well. We went to all the trouble to haul you out here. Let’s sit you in some sun.”
“Like a flower?”
“What doesn’t like the sun?”
“Bats.” He sinks gratefully into a patch of grass. “Raccoons. You, I’d assume.”
“You’d be right.”
Charlie shuts his eyes and lays down. It’s real. Probably. The King didn’t really enjoy the healing process, and probably wouldn’t waste all this time on it. He doesn’t move. He can hear birds, the whisper of the wind in the grass. Collins doesn’t interrupt his silence. He starts to whistle, after a while; Charlie’s ears prick at the tune. He’s not a very strong whistler, all said, but he’s good at carrying the tune.
Even then, it’s a long while before Charlie opens his eyes. He leans toward Collins. “Hey.” Collins raises an eyebrow. “You gotta stop giving me that—that heroin, or whatever. I can live with the pain. I can’t live…I can’t keep forgetting. Okay? I mean it. Please.”
Collins studies him. If Charlie didn't know better, he'd interpret the look as pitying. “Alright, then.”
-
The cottage is pretty nice, aside from being dusty and bare and, as far as Charlie can tell, abruptly abandoned. Collins walks them straight to the bedroom, so Charlie doesn’t get too good a look at it, but he remembers enough. “So,” he says, as Collins opens the door to the bedroom. “What have I missed? Catch me up on all the funny things I’ve said.”
“You’ve hardly spoken at all,” he says. Maybe that’s his way of being kind. It’s hard to tell; he’s become flat and glossy, more like a mirror than a person. He’s deliberately giving Charlie nothing.
It’s a bit of a miracle, finally sitting on the bed again. He shuts his eyes and tries not to focus on breathing, because everything between his eyes and his upper ribs is aching. He swallows and winces. “Is it odd? Being back here.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He’s taken on an easy, relaxed tone; sure, it’s odd, but he’s not bothered. Charlie’s fine with pretending he’s forgotten the incident in the kitchen. Least he can do. “I was fourteen when I left this place. Never thought in a million years I’d be back. I suspect Mr. Kayne thought this would be very funny.”
“Has it been?”
“Oh, sure. A real riot.”
“Yeah, I’m not a big fan of his sense of humor, either.”
The Butcher watches him steadily. There’s an exceptional neutrality to his expression and posture that’s putting Noel on edge. “You’ve slept,” he says, "more or less straight through to today.”
“Right.”
“You’ve asked me about that cunt about three times,” he says, jabbing a thumb at the Christ-on-a-cross. “The short story is, that predates you. But I doubt He wants to see you in your state, so there He stays.”
“Well, good. It weirds me out to have statues watching me. One too many has blinked.”
That gets a smile to crack through. Charlie’s pleased that he can make him laugh; that means he’s not total dead weight. Yippee. “Ah, I hate when they do that.”
“Right? That oughta be rule one for being a statue, y’know? Rule one: don’t blink.”
“Rule two: Stay put.”
“Stay put, exactly.” Every word scrapes his throat; you’d think he’d try shutting up. But this is the best he’s felt in days, and he’s optimistic about returning to normal, boring, linear time. And talking is making him feel less like he’s encased in jello. “Fourteen, huh?” he says, because fuck it, why not be nosy? The guy’s been itching to tell the story since he started to unveil it to Arthur in the hospital. “Is that after your dad died?”
Collins smile softens. “Yes. I buried him, and never looked back.” He blinks, and the neutrality is back. “Until now.”
Noel nods, and regrets that, because ow. Easy, now, he thinks. It’s not an interrogation. “That’s not an easy thing for a kid to see.”
Collins shrugs. “No man chooses the anvil that we’re forged against. I’ve done alright since. And witnessed many more deaths.”
“Sure. How many, do you think?”
He scoffs. “Do you know, I’ve never given an honest answer to that question.”
“Do you even know the honest answer?”
Something flashes over his face; has Noel wounded his pride? Then his eyes go soft, gentle. Like he’s thinking of someone he loves. “I know,” he says. “I remember them all.”
“I’m sure their mothers would find that a comfort.”
“I should hope so. Better that the prey be loved than discarded.”
“What would I have been? If I’d died. I’m not your prey.”
The chair creaks as the Butcher leans forward. “Dinner,” he says.
Nope, not touching that. Noel pivots back toward humor. “You’re a weird guy,” he says. “You were gonna fuck my corpse, weren’t you?”
“Is that what you think I do?”
“You were, weren’t you?”
The Butcher throws his head back and laughs.
“You’re not saying you weren’t. Come on, friend, at least put in a token effort. Just pretend you didn’t want to fuck my corpse.”
That’s just got him laughing harder; Charlie grins. When Collins gathers himself, he wipes at the corner of his eye. “I don’t like them dead,” he says. “I like them dying. There’s a difference.”
“That’s worse. I’ve been dying.”
“So you have,” he says, with a smile as sharp as a knife.
And that—see—that’s a problem. Those words, that smile—it’s like they’ve sliced through ropes that Charlie’s bound himself with, releasing parts of him he’d rather suppress. Or like the Butcher has said a code specifically designed to make Charlie lose his god damn mind. Because Charlie’s first reaction—and a very powerful one at that—is to become profoundly, painfully turned on. Or maybe he’s just finally become aware of what the sum total of their interactions has done to him, the build-up of tension and trust and fear and pain all coalescing between Charlie’s legs. Fuck. Fuck, he’s getting hard. The Butcher is telling the truth. He’s dead fucking serious. He’s been enjoying this—enjoying Charlie’s incoherent whimpering, his bloodied bandages, his vulnerability and helplessness, his weak and cracking voice. Maybe he’s already fucked Charlie. (His throat was—) Maybe he just knows what it is he’s doing to Charlie, and has been playing, and playing, batting at the skittering mice of Charlie’s mind.
Four days. Four days he’s had Charlie under his control.
Charlie’s not sure if he wants to kill him or fuck him. He’s not sure that the Butcher would see much of a difference between the two. Say something, he thinks, as a yearning opens up in his body and his heartbeat pounds away between his legs. Say something. But his shirt is still unbuttoned and he’s freshly shaved and the Butcher set a firm hand in the center of his chest as they limped into the garden. The Butcher smelled of woodsmoke and harsh soap. There’s a constellation on his chest and shoulder that’s just asking for Charlie’s tongue to map it. And—Jesus Christ, say something!
“That…” Charlie’s voice sticks in his throat; when did his mouth get so fucking dry? God help him. “That’s gonna be real disappointing for you, when I recover.”
“Maybe,” he says.
Charlie’s burning up. He wants Collins to touch him so god damn bad. His body is craving it, every inch of him sensitive with desire. What’s gotten into him? He’s a grown god damn man. Stop. Stop.
“The pain’s getting worse, isn’t it?” the Butcher asks, gently.
“Uh—” Yeah. It is. That’s not a lie, and it’s something for him to focus on aside from the pressure between his legs (and does the Butcher know? (And if he knows, how long will it take him to give Charlie what he wants? (And God, please, let him give Charlie—))). He licks his lips. “Yeah.”
“Should try to eat before it gets worse, then,” he says. “Sit tight, detective.”
Okay. Okay. Charlie watches him leave, then listens to his shoes clicking down the hallway. He bites the heel of his hand, hard. Fucking quit it. He edges back on the mattress until he’s leaning against the wall and struggles against his own teeth until the overwhelming mood isn’t thirteen-year-old-meets-a-stiff-breeze. This is—bad. To put it lightly. He adjusts himself in his pants so it’s not so obvious he’s lost it and tries to breathe nice and steady, which is harder than it should be, the pain ratcheting a little higher with every gulp of air.
This may not be the King, but it’s not a whole lot better. Just another asshole who gets off on hurting people. Just the most accomplished non-alien murderer Charlie’s ever known, whose fingertips pressed under Charlie’s jaw and—stop, fucking stop, this is just some crossed wires letting off sparks; it’s nothing.
The clicking grows loud, again. Charlie manages to calm down before the door opens, but there must still be some wariness in his face, because Collins stops in the doorway and raises an eyebrow at him.
“What?”
“You’re looking poised to bite,” Collins says, mildly. He crosses the room and offers him a bowl filled with stew and a spoon. “I take it you’re strong enough to hold this?”
Noel doesn’t answer the question—just murmurs his thanks and takes the bowl, which glows warmly against his fingers. Whatever possessed him a moment ago seems to have passed, for the most part, though he’s glad to have something to look at aside from Collins. He starts to take slow spoonfuls. It’s not bad. Hearty enough. Though the heat and act of swallowing is aggravating his throat worse than before; he grits his teeth and pushes through the pain. If he doesn’t eat, he won’t heal. If he doesn’t heal, he’ll never get out of here.
He can feel Collins watching him. He refuses to look up. He fishes around for something to say, something to distract himself, some stupid joke to move them along. He disappoints himself when he finally speaks up. “Why am I still alive?”
Collins’ interest detaches. He leans his elbow on the back of his chair and peers over his shoulder at the window. “You’ll have to take that one up with God.”
“He and I aren’t on such good terms. And He’s not the one changing my bandages.” He studies Collins, but the man’s giving nothing away again, except a vague boredom. How many times have they had this conversation? To say Charlie doesn’t like this power dynamic would be an understatement.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, lad. No one’s paid me to kill you. That’s all.”
“No one would blame you for leaving me to die.”
Collins shoots him a level look. “Arthur Lester would,” he says.
“That—okay. Maybe. You’re probably right, but so what? It matters to you that much what he thinks of you?”
Collins sighs and rolls his eyes. “Everything’s gotta be the simplest version of the answer, doesn’t it?”
“I just—what do you want from me?”
There it is—suppressed rage. Always just a few inches under the surface. The sight of Collins’ jaw twitching makes Noel relax back into himself. Anger, he can do. “At this point,” he says, his voice just a little too sweet, “I’d like you to stop asking me why I’m helping you. It’s making me reconsider chucking you out to sea.”
Y’know what—fair. Fine. It is what it is, or whatever. Noel’s willing to accept that sometimes, you just roll with what’s happening and hope things will make sense later. The Butcher’s a killer, but that’s not the start or the end of him.
He focuses on the stew for a while, but that’s become slow-going; the pain’s making his entire body tense. He keeps clenching his teeth and going very still, just waiting for the waves of pain to pass.
The Butcher watches. He doesn’t speak. One hand is loose against his inner knee; his thumb idly rubs the side of his index finger. His anger ekes out of him as the silence stretches.
By the time Noel drains the stew, there are tears in his eyes. He’s—reconsidering his earlier request, about the heroin. It’s getting harder and harder to think, and the tension of the pain is making his anxiety worse. Easy, easy, easy. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I just don’t get it.”
Collins leans forward and takes the empty bowl and spoon from Noel’s hands. He hovers there, quite close, his pale eyes raking across Noel’s face. “That’s because you don’t understand me,” he says. He stands. “You’d do well to reconsider the laudanum. The pain’s only going to get worse.”
“Lucky me.”
Collins stands there another moment, studying him; he rubs a slow circle into the spoon’s handle with his thumb. But whatever’s on his mind, he keeps it to himself.
Charlie listens to his shoes click, click, click down the hallway.
If anything, the stew has made him feel worse. He’s wrung-out, exhausted, shriveled, shivering with cold. The pain is taking up most of his mental capacity, along with his old mantras: This too shall pass; the only way out is through; I love you. He carefully pivots and lowers himself down onto the bed, but as he does, he can’t keep his neck and head still enough; the pain multiplies.
He’s so, so fucking tired. His mind and heart are all tangled. He misses Arthur and John terribly. Roland, too, and Noel, and every other friend he’s lost along the way. The isolation was probably the hardest part of dealing with the King in Yellow. Having no one. Holding onto memories for dear life. Now here he is once again—stuck in place, in pain, exhausted, alone.
The Butcher’s coming back. Click, click.
Okay. Not alone.
The door opens. The Butcher has rolled up his sleeves. There are old burn scars on his forearms and wrists, worse on the right side, though at this distance Noel couldn’t guess at the cause. Maybe Collins was a line cook in another life. Something deflates in Noel at the sight of him. No, that’s not quite right—the sight of him has made Noel relax.
Collins sits on the edge of the bed and folds his hands between his knees. “Well?”
Charlie’s too scattered, too tired; his throat hurts too much from all his yammering. He shuts his eyes. Collins’ weight stays still; it’s making the mattress dip toward him, putting Charlie at a slight angle. He’s close enough that his warmth begins to seep through the thin blankets.
“Detective,” he says.
Reluctantly, Charlie opens his eyes.
“Have you changed your mind?”
“Mm.” Charlie swallows, then winces. “It’s…pretty bad.”
The Butcher shifts. He lifts Charlie’s chin with two fingers; Charlie groans as pain lances through his neck.
“You haven’t bled through,” Collins says. “So there’s that.” His fingers swipe along Charlie’s jaw, a movement so brief and light that he’s not totally sure it happened.
But it happened. His jawline prickles and burns.
“You do take it well,” Collins says. “I’ll give you that.”
Take…? Charlie’s ability to think is slipping away. Did Collins drug the stew? He’s so, so tired. His confidence that this is real is weathering away.
Collins leans toward the side table. The light streaming through the window brightens the hair on his forearms and makes the burn scars shine. He pours a glass of water. “Shall I?” he asks, pulling the tincture out of a pocket.
Charlie swallows, then nods. Memories have begun to flood him, unbidden, following no rhyme or reason. John’s eyes in Arthur’s face, an orange gleam in them from the streetlights. Strapping on ice skates with Noel in the coldest part of February, Noel’s face already gone pink. The King in Yellow bent over him, one tentacle tracing Charlie’s collar bone as he soothed, “there, there.” The Butcher glancing up, and seeing him hovering by the door, and grinning.
Collins hands the glass over. “Maybe tomorrow we can talk about something new,” he says.
Charlie lifts the glass. “Cheers to that,” he says, and drains it.
Collins stays where he is, perched on the edge of the bed, the sun catching in his beard and making a statue out of his face. He looks not at Charlie, but out the window. Seeing, Charlie supposes, through the eyes of the boy he used to be.
He starts to hum, some sweet tune Charlie’s never heard. He’s still humming when the darkness pulls Charlie down.
-
There is a black dog at the window. It’s standing on its hind legs, and panting. It opens and closes one of its great furred paws, then shakes it loose.
Charlie isn’t supposed to see this. (Don’t look behind the curtains. Don’t ask how the sausage is made.)
The dog’s ears swivel up and it turns on its heel to face him. Its eyes are sky-blue, and wild; its fur all bristles at once as it sees that Charlie’s awake.
Things get fuzzy. (Moving past the boring bits? The King liked to do that; Charlie’s brain always skated past the dead time, filling it in as needed and discarding the rest.)
When things solidify again, the Butcher is leaning over him, one hand braced on the headboard. He’s down to his undershirt and pants; his suspenders hang loose at his waist. His eyes are wild, until Charlie is looking into them; they relax, then, become human again. “Hush, dove,” the Butcher says. “Back to sleep with you.”
Charlie wants to explain about the dog. It’s the dog that woke him. It—it had whined. That’s what it was. It had whined and its teeth had snapped and—and then it was at the window, dressed in moonlight.
“Shhhh-shh-shh-shh.” The Butcher cups Charlie’s cheek. His hand is surprisingly hot, and steady. “He doesn’t have you, anymore,” he says. His thumb glides across Charlie’s cheek and, with no hesitation, sweeps across his bottom lip. “I do.”
Charlie's lips part; he isn’t sure what to say. What do you even say to that? Charlie's not really troubled by the touch—his stay with the King in Yellow cured him of that, and besides, it's not unpleasant—but his mind keeps snagging on the words I do, and what that might mean. The Butcher puts an end to Charlie’s dilemma by pressing the pad of his thumb into Charlie’s open mouth. Salt and skin. It’s gone before Charlie can decide if he wants to suck it or bite it; it glides wet down Charlie’s chin, then back up to join the rest of the Butcher’s hand.
“Rest,” he says.
Behind him, the dog’s shadow creeps along the wall.
Charlie waits. He fully expects for the Butcher to mount him, to gather a fistful of Charlie’s hair, to grab and touch and bite and take what he sees as his. But the Butcher only strokes his cheek and hair, until the darkness once more blankets Charlie's mind.