[somewhere on the other end, gold to silver, there's a laugh surprised out of corry’s too-tight throat, thick with the shame, the horror of being that boy in that hotel room. he presents it coldly in retrospect, paints the picture of the steely, in-control killer, of someone so hardened and hollowed by five years of misery that murder was the only option. and there's truth to that, at the core of things.
but, also true: davey had sobbed the entire damn time, hands over his mouth, crumpled onto the floor, watching because he had to, because he couldn't look away. you don't burn five years without feeling it, it's not possible.]
Could've had some redeeming factors. He always recycled? There any karmic balance to be found there?
[joking, deflecting, the opened wound of acknowledging that time making corry lightheaded, maybe. he wants to say that's understandable, you can allow a just death of someone who deserved it, but what else, what else could you allow? where's the line, does one even exist when he can taste the blood bob's letting, the matched-teeth savagery of he fucking had it coming in the allowance of murder. and would corry do the same, with the same opportunity, with bob's father, dealer, whoever, laid out in front of him?
maybe. but -- he'd rather watch bob do it himself.]
Chicago. Some of the others at the truck stops shared names, numbers. People who'd gotten out, who could help. 2007, not a great time to have my resume consist exclusively of "sleeps with men", so. Found people. Figured it out. Success story.
[ even though he knows corry wants to make light of things, bob opts for sincerity. ]
most people do but it’s not enough
[ not enough good to outweigh the bad, balance the karmic scales, the horror of pushing someone to that brink.
he wonders if corry thinks about the act still, when someone like him isn’t dredging it up. bob’s mind often turns to the scientists — the smudges of them left behind — the idea that they didn’t know what he would become any more than he did. (well, they knew a little a more. they just assumed he would die before anything came of it.) he wants to tell corry that, to see what else they might understand, but it invokes that strange, inhuman part of him now. the monstrosity that thrust corry back to the house that first harmed him.
a story that would likely alienate rather than bring them closer, so he holds it back. ]
no more problems forever right barely think about it when you aren’t being forced to relive it for portia’s sick friends
[ speaking of individuals he’d rather see dead than fussing over their morning tea. ]
we can take a night off the bullshit, okay? do whatever you want
[not enough, a judgement passed, a verdict reached. there was a man who killed whatever was left of that lonely, scared, trapped boy named davey somewhere between missouri and michigan and maine and whatever else he did, there is no forgiving that. bob will never meet miles (thank fuck; the thought makes corry just shy of homicidal), but he's already made up his mind about what the man deserves, period, end of story.
there's something in that, in someone shouldering your enemies when they don't need to, when there's no battle left to fight. something that feels like caring, like protecting, like a lot of things corry had long since given up on having.
so:] I want you. Wanna be boring with you, y'know? Something Portia's friends won't find titillating. Something quiet.
You make it quiet, for me. Walk in the door and it all kinda stops. Did you know that?
[ with a simple, wanna be boring with you, corry turns the insecurity he felt at asking for a night off from the only thing that matters around here into something good. all his schoolboy nerves — over being the buzzkill, ever the oversensitive, problem child — dissipate.
the rest takes all his systems offline. faulty code, nonsensical inputs. bob has heard for too long, too often that he makes things worse, not better. and now his flaws have taken physical form, terrible enough to swallow new york city whole. maybe to end the world. the serum only makes you more of what you already are, so for all he denies it and depersonalises it, he must hold the same fundamental flaw as the void, contagious with grief and pain.
the pause stretches on, dots starting and stopping as he struggles to answer. ]
i didn’t never really been my thing before kinda the opposite, actually
[ a day’s shift suddenly seems too long, when he thinks of corry clearing out his room just to invite him inside, now sitting on his bed alone — ]
i’ll be there soon and then we can bore the shit out of everybody together watch tv get deep into a puzzle
[bob takes longer than usual to respond, and corry isn't usually bothered, but -- there's half a dozen empty fifth in the trash that have sanded away his careful edges, and he sits on the edge of the bed and scrolls back through what he'd revealed, and it's -- fucking terrifying, actually, because that's half his life someone else knows. but there's no backtracking, not now.
and then bob is so -- bob about it, baffled at the concept of his own effect, and corry knows damn well everyone feels it, everyone can see it. bob can't, he's the only one, the emptiness that lives inside him eating up anything good, an endless hungry mouth. a mouth sated, for the moment, only temporarily banished. and maybe corry’s selfish, but he thinks of sprawling sleepy-limbed and warm, one hand tucked up under bob’s shirt, absently petting along his spine while something mindless plays on the fuck-off-huge television, and he craves it like water, like rest.]
Hm. Never seen that, y'know. You've never made shit worse for me. One of the very few parts of this place I like.
[you, i like you.
corry flops back onto the bed, the unmade sheets, one arm slung above his head and his mouth is tucked into that sleepy-eyed smile and -- so what? who's watching that he gives a shit about?]
Make you watch reruns of Law and Order. Criminal Minds, maybe. You ever seen Breaking Bad? I'd say Monopoly, but I'm an asshole when I play board games.
[ reading corry’s messages makes him ache. a good-pain, workout-worn kind of feeling. you’ve never made shit worse for me, a gift, blinking up at him. bob arcs his thumb over the message, waiting for it to disappear.
he supposes that even when the void had drawn out corry’s worst memories, he hadn’t pulled away. not for long. ]
hey i’m not arguing with the guy describing my ideal night i like being around you too even more now than i did before
[ because corry has revealed more of himself, his thoughts, his hurts since they met. ]
[there's a balancing act, the very real potential that bob could (when he's himself again) pull out the shit that's even worse than father, missouri winter, five years in grimy motel beds, a man clawing his own throat bloody and dying in agony. there's another almost twenty years to account for, and corry doesn't come out nearly as sympathetic there. it weighs against the heated nights in saltburnt, the sex and the submission and the meeting of jagged edges like putting the last piece of the puzzle on place.
when corry’s alone, dark thoughts and silent phone, he thinks about the inevitable moment when bob pulls away, when it's too much. when he's here, messages and promises and i like being around you he can almost delude himself into believing it won't matter. that all the blood on his hands won't make a difference. you get it to a madman sounds like you can't drive me away, if he listens just right.]
Cable procedurals and room service are your ideal night in? Keep talking dirty to me, baby, damn.
Yeah. So. How long is your shift again? Cause I'm not opposed to throwing gold privilege around. Carry you outta the mines if I gotta. Over my shoulder.
[ and bob would feel Normal about it, thank you. ]
a few more hours so keep hitting that request button and see if it gets me outta here early i’ll come straight there
[ and he will, unbothered about things like, well, things when he can throw something of corry’s on for twice the comfort, if needed (probably needed, given everything, though less so when he has the real deal wrapped around him, fingers splayed under his shirt or tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck). it’s that contact he’s after now, curls strung out, eyes shadowed because they can be, for the first time in months — tired lines in place of perfect, unblemished skin. and yet the whole of him, from his weary features to his hunched shoulders, lifts when corry opens the door.
bob reaches for him without hesitation for the second time that month, an instinct driven more by the assurance corry offers than an innate confidence. he slips through the door quick, tugged shut behind him in favour of what little privacy remains, so he bumps up against corry immediately, hands on his shoulders, then bracketing his throat. no longer dangerous, meant only for this, thumbs stroking along the sharp angles of his jaw. wonder keeps his eyes wide, even as they dart up, around, checking corry for injury (or, perhaps, for proof of what he claims — that bob makes things better for him, when he can’t hear his heartbeat to know it for certain). ]
Hey. [ softly startled, as ever, by his own boldness and corry’s presence both, pressing him into the door. familiar warmth crinkles the corners of his mouth, though there’s heat simmering low, too. there always is, with corry. ]
[like corry is, self-indulgent fantasies painted in romcom-technicolor, officer and a gentleman, maybe a touch of possessiveness in the idea of sweeping bob up and physically carrying him away. very primal caveman of him, enough to prompt a huffing laugh, a thumbs up to the last suggestion -- then corry's swiping over to voyeur, to bob's page, obligingly starting to tap at the request button. he'll crash the damn app if he's gotta.
cause there's still too much time before bob's in his doorway, in his room, and it's time that has new tightness around his mouth, his brow, weariness and stress and corry's pissed off at him all over again for dropping, because bronze is gonna be brutal if he doesn't have that invincible stamina back. corry hears the click, the close of the door, gladly moves forward, crowds bob up against the door and tips his head down. bad angle, uninteresting, though he's sure the cameras will linger until it's clear they're not about to rip each other's clothes off.
which -- always there, always on a low murmur in the back of corry's mind, like a sweet sort of ache, imagining just that, maybe up against the door, arms under bob's knees, bending him in half like that first night, flushed and blushing and pinned and taking corry inside him. it'll never not be like that, corry imagines, smiling at bob's hands on his shoulders, his neck, bob's big eyes scanning his face.
but, the priority:] Hey, handsome. [murmured, corry reaching up to cover one of bob's hands with his own, holding still so he can turn and press a kiss against the cup of a palm. murmuring into it:] How're you doin'? [the drawl is deeper now, and corry's eyes are bloodshot and deeply shadowed, strain and exhaustion writ all over his face. still: he kisses bob's wrist, drops his hand, slips both arms around him, tugging him closer.]
Silver treatin' you all right? [tugtug, until bob's held against his chest, a full-body, broad-shouldered, thick-armed embrace that corry insists upon, resting his chin on top of messy curls with a sigh that comes from deep in his chest.] Nobody better be fuckin' with you up there. I'll kick their ass.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cw: allat, underage, murder, the usual cocktail
but, also true: davey had sobbed the entire damn time, hands over his mouth, crumpled onto the floor, watching because he had to, because he couldn't look away. you don't burn five years without feeling it, it's not possible.]
Could've had some redeeming factors.
He always recycled? There any karmic balance to be found there?
[joking, deflecting, the opened wound of acknowledging that time making corry lightheaded, maybe. he wants to say that's understandable, you can allow a just death of someone who deserved it, but what else, what else could you allow? where's the line, does one even exist when he can taste the blood bob's letting, the matched-teeth savagery of he fucking had it coming in the allowance of murder. and would corry do the same, with the same opportunity, with bob's father, dealer, whoever, laid out in front of him?
maybe. but -- he'd rather watch bob do it himself.]
Chicago.
Some of the others at the truck stops shared names, numbers. People who'd gotten out, who could help.
2007, not a great time to have my resume consist exclusively of "sleeps with men", so.
Found people. Figured it out. Success story.
no subject
most people do but
it’s not enough
[ not enough good to outweigh the bad, balance the karmic scales, the horror of pushing someone to that brink.
he wonders if corry thinks about the act still, when someone like him isn’t dredging it up. bob’s mind often turns to the scientists — the smudges of them left behind — the idea that they didn’t know what he would become any more than he did. (well, they knew a little a more. they just assumed he would die before anything came of it.) he wants to tell corry that, to see what else they might understand, but it invokes that strange, inhuman part of him now. the monstrosity that thrust corry back to the house that first harmed him.
a story that would likely alienate rather than bring them closer, so he holds it back. ]
no more problems forever right
barely think about it when you aren’t being forced to relive it for portia’s sick friends
[ speaking of individuals he’d rather see dead than fussing over their morning tea. ]
we can take a night off the bullshit, okay?
do whatever you want
no subject
there's something in that, in someone shouldering your enemies when they don't need to, when there's no battle left to fight. something that feels like caring, like protecting, like a lot of things corry had long since given up on having.
so:] I want you.
Wanna be boring with you, y'know?
Something Portia's friends won't find titillating.
Something quiet.
You make it quiet, for me.
Walk in the door and it all kinda stops.
Did you know that?
no subject
the rest takes all his systems offline. faulty code, nonsensical inputs. bob has heard for too long, too often that he makes things worse, not better. and now his flaws have taken physical form, terrible enough to swallow new york city whole. maybe to end the world. the serum only makes you more of what you already are, so for all he denies it and depersonalises it, he must hold the same fundamental flaw as the void, contagious with grief and pain.
the pause stretches on, dots starting and stopping as he struggles to answer. ]
i didn’t
never really been my thing before
kinda the opposite, actually
[ a day’s shift suddenly seems too long, when he thinks of corry clearing out his room just to invite him inside, now sitting on his bed alone — ]
i’ll be there soon
and then we can bore the shit out of everybody together
watch tv
get deep into a puzzle
no subject
and then bob is so -- bob about it, baffled at the concept of his own effect, and corry knows damn well everyone feels it, everyone can see it. bob can't, he's the only one, the emptiness that lives inside him eating up anything good, an endless hungry mouth. a mouth sated, for the moment, only temporarily banished. and maybe corry’s selfish, but he thinks of sprawling sleepy-limbed and warm, one hand tucked up under bob’s shirt, absently petting along his spine while something mindless plays on the fuck-off-huge television, and he craves it like water, like rest.]
Hm. Never seen that, y'know.
You've never made shit worse for me. One of the very few parts of this place I like.
[you, i like you.
corry flops back onto the bed, the unmade sheets, one arm slung above his head and his mouth is tucked into that sleepy-eyed smile and -- so what? who's watching that he gives a shit about?]
Make you watch reruns of Law and Order. Criminal Minds, maybe.
You ever seen Breaking Bad?
I'd say Monopoly, but I'm an asshole when I play board games.
no subject
he supposes that even when the void had drawn out corry’s worst memories, he hadn’t pulled away. not for long. ]
hey i’m not arguing with the guy describing my ideal night
i like being around you too
even more now than i did before
[ because corry has revealed more of himself, his thoughts, his hurts since they met. ]
you get it
[ a sentiment worth reiterating. ]
no subject
when corry’s alone, dark thoughts and silent phone, he thinks about the inevitable moment when bob pulls away, when it's too much. when he's here, messages and promises and i like being around you he can almost delude himself into believing it won't matter. that all the blood on his hands won't make a difference. you get it to a madman sounds like you can't drive me away, if he listens just right.]
Cable procedurals and room service are your ideal night in? Keep talking dirty to me, baby, damn.
Yeah.
So. How long is your shift again?
Cause I'm not opposed to throwing gold privilege around.
Carry you outta the mines if I gotta. Over my shoulder.
no subject
[ and bob would feel Normal about it, thank you. ]
a few more hours
so keep hitting that request button and see if it gets me outta here early
i’ll come straight there
[ and he will, unbothered about things like, well, things when he can throw something of corry’s on for twice the comfort, if needed (probably needed, given everything, though less so when he has the real deal wrapped around him, fingers splayed under his shirt or tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck). it’s that contact he’s after now, curls strung out, eyes shadowed because they can be, for the first time in months — tired lines in place of perfect, unblemished skin. and yet the whole of him, from his weary features to his hunched shoulders, lifts when corry opens the door.
bob reaches for him without hesitation for the second time that month, an instinct driven more by the assurance corry offers than an innate confidence. he slips through the door quick, tugged shut behind him in favour of what little privacy remains, so he bumps up against corry immediately, hands on his shoulders, then bracketing his throat. no longer dangerous, meant only for this, thumbs stroking along the sharp angles of his jaw. wonder keeps his eyes wide, even as they dart up, around, checking corry for injury (or, perhaps, for proof of what he claims — that bob makes things better for him, when he can’t hear his heartbeat to know it for certain). ]
Hey. [ softly startled, as ever, by his own boldness and corry’s presence both, pressing him into the door. familiar warmth crinkles the corners of his mouth, though there’s heat simmering low, too. there always is, with corry. ]
no subject
[like corry is, self-indulgent fantasies painted in romcom-technicolor, officer and a gentleman, maybe a touch of possessiveness in the idea of sweeping bob up and physically carrying him away. very primal caveman of him, enough to prompt a huffing laugh, a thumbs up to the last suggestion -- then corry's swiping over to voyeur, to bob's page, obligingly starting to tap at the request button. he'll crash the damn app if he's gotta.
cause there's still too much time before bob's in his doorway, in his room, and it's time that has new tightness around his mouth, his brow, weariness and stress and corry's pissed off at him all over again for dropping, because bronze is gonna be brutal if he doesn't have that invincible stamina back. corry hears the click, the close of the door, gladly moves forward, crowds bob up against the door and tips his head down. bad angle, uninteresting, though he's sure the cameras will linger until it's clear they're not about to rip each other's clothes off.
which -- always there, always on a low murmur in the back of corry's mind, like a sweet sort of ache, imagining just that, maybe up against the door, arms under bob's knees, bending him in half like that first night, flushed and blushing and pinned and taking corry inside him. it'll never not be like that, corry imagines, smiling at bob's hands on his shoulders, his neck, bob's big eyes scanning his face.
but, the priority:] Hey, handsome. [murmured, corry reaching up to cover one of bob's hands with his own, holding still so he can turn and press a kiss against the cup of a palm. murmuring into it:] How're you doin'? [the drawl is deeper now, and corry's eyes are bloodshot and deeply shadowed, strain and exhaustion writ all over his face. still: he kisses bob's wrist, drops his hand, slips both arms around him, tugging him closer.]
Silver treatin' you all right? [tugtug, until bob's held against his chest, a full-body, broad-shouldered, thick-armed embrace that corry insists upon, resting his chin on top of messy curls with a sigh that comes from deep in his chest.] Nobody better be fuckin' with you up there. I'll kick their ass.