Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hand to mouth. Hand to mouth. Hand to mouth.

You tend to get very good at math when it was necessary to micromanage every cent that traveled through your bank account. It got tedious, but when you played jump rope with the poverty line, you had no other choice. You never had more than $7 after you had spent everything on the necessities.

Rent was a leviathan you mentally wrestled with on the daily. That’s to say nothing of what you spent on your car payments. You started skipping lunch on odd days of the month to save money, and now your hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Minor consequences. You’d rather have an empty stomach than an empty bank account. Fuck the bank and their $35 overdraft fee.

One of your friends bought one of those new “bag phones.” The ones Motorola made. They put them on the market last year, and the fact she bought one made you jealous enough to breathe fire. Not of her bag phone, per say, but of the disposable income she had. (Well, maybe a little bit of the bag phone too). You wanted a cushy job like hers. Not one where you had to wear those tacky, shoulder-padded blazers, but one where you could at least have lunch everyday.

She worked at the front desk at a motel her dad owned. You? You worked as a janitor for a local night club. It wasn’t the worse job in the world. But it was in a warehouse, so you had a lot of floors to mop, and bathroom counters to scrub during your work nights. You didn’t even want to mention the kind of suspicious material they had you cleaning up. People also kept leaving bottles of pills in the bathroom. Joy. At least it wasn’t needles.

At this point, you were very talented at cleaning up anything that could possibly leave a stain. Some shifts were better than others, but you swore that some nights the club-goers had a personal competition to see how much blood, piss, and vomit they could coat the tile with.

It was at the end of one such shift when you happened to be approached by a sinister looking individual that would, unknowingly, change your life forever.

It had taken you a minute to notice his presence out of the corner of your eye. The night club wasn’t exactly well lit outside of the bathrooms, and he stayed well within the obscurity of the shadows.

It wasn’t exactly uncommon for patrons to overstay their welcome. Sometimes the security guards or the other staff missed a few stragglers in the bathroom and would have to usher them out the door past closing hours.

When you noticed the outline of his silhouette move in the shadows, approximately twelve feet away, you figured it was a similar situation.

“Sorry sir, but the club is closed. I’ll have to ask you to leave,” you said, sorting your cleaning supplies on your cart. You were almost out of bleach.

“I’m aware,” he chuckled, and the sound was enough have you turning around to face him fully. The deep bass of his vocal cords was startling, but his appearance was down-right frighting.

You could see why he stuck to the shadows. It took everything in you to keep from flinching at the sight the jagged, bone-white needles of his teeth. They stuck haphazardly from his mouth like that of a carnivorous plant. It didn’t help matters that he was at least a full foot taller than you. Even at this distance, you could tell he had no problem becoming a threat.

“I’ve come to ask for your…services,” he rumbled. It sounded like he was taking careful measures to choose each word before it was spoken.

You raised a brow, looking down at your work uniform. You were very much attired in the blue-collar uniform of a custodian. You’d been propositioned before by club goers, but the explanation for that was simple: they were inebriated.

But this guy? The cadence of his voice, the steady tone all spoke to his sobriety. You noted his stance, and the empty black focus of his eyes, or lack thereof. This man, if he was even human…thought you were open to being solicited for sex work.

Your lip curled.

“In case you couldn’t tell, I’m not that kind of girl. I just clean here. Now, if you please, the door is on your right,” you told him, gesturing toward the exit. Your patience was shot after an entire night of cleaning, and teeth or no, you had to finish your shift.

“My proposition is not of that nature,” he said, you noticed his hands were in his pockets as he adjusted his posture. You appreciated that he made no move to walk towards you. At least he was aware how unsettling he was.

“You would clean and dispose of refuse when I need you to. I would pay handsomely for your help in this.”

You’d yet to hear a job offer from any of the club attendees. This was becoming more and more odd by the minute.

Humoring him, you questioned just how much he’d pay you. The number he told you made your eyebrows raise.

“A year?” you squeaked.

His own eyebrow ridges furrowed as he inspected you.

“A month.”

The wheeze that left your mouth was comparative to that of a tea kettle. With that kind of money, you could buy a bag phone in every conceivable color.

“I would only work for you for a month, and you’d give me that kind of money?”

His smile remained steadfast, but perhaps it was a constant for his expression, “You would work for me as long as necessary, and I would pay you monthly until our contract ends. Your salary would be a given regardless of how much work I would ask you to do.”

You listened quietly, your knuckles gripping the handle of your cleaning cart. This was starting to sound too good to be true.

“What’s the catch? Why me?” you questioned, careful to maintain your cleaning cart as a barrier between the two of you.

“You happen to have the experience I need for this undertaking.”

You guess he meant the cleaning, but you had only had this job for a year. But did he know that? A little voice clawing at you from the back of your head urged you to take this deal before he went to someone else. Future consequences meant very little to the desperate.

You thought of the money. You thought of never being late on rent. You thought of eating lunch everyday. You thought of bag phones.

“I’ll do it, but I want to see this contract before I sign it,” you answered before he could rescind his deal.

“I’ll bring the contract with me tomorrow evening. You can choose to sign it then. Meet me outside after your shift.”

He made the motion to exit the warehouse, pivoting to his right. You realized that you hadn’t yet caught his name before you’d accepted his offer.

“Wait! Sir!” you called, the manners you’d been painstakingly taught suddenly rushing to the forefront of your memory. He paused, looking over his shoulder at you, expecting you to maintain his apparently very valuable attention, “Could I know what your name is? So I have something to call you when we meet again?”

In the dingy nightclub lighting, you could see his mouth stretch further in amusement, “You may call me The Dealer.”

And with that, he exited the club. Leaving only you, your cleaning cart, and your racing thoughts.

Wait, how did he know when your shift ended?

Chapter Text

“I’m not helping you hide bodies! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you screamed, shrill as a siren cutting through the morning. Your protests went unnoticed in the empty club’s parking lot. Unnoticed by everyone, except him.

It had only been ten minutes since you had met up with the mysterious being known to you only as ‘The Dealer,’ and the red flags were already at full mast.

You both stood beside his Jaguar XJ6 in the empty parking lot. A grim, black vehicle that complimented his overall forbidding demeanor. His right hand held a lit cigarette to his mouth. In the hours before the sunrise, he painted a very intimidating picture.

You fought to calm the jack-knife tempo of your heart. There was no cleaning cart to keep you two separated this time, and you had made an alarming discovery about your future job offer.

“You would also be cleaning the blood out of my car,” he rumbled, completely unfazed by your alarmed shriek.

You waved the sheet of paper he gave you. The contract that laid out your responsibilities in your future employment as well as what you would be paid, all terms and conditions gathered together in neat rows of black text.

You hadn’t gotten to any numbers yet, but the printed lines of “ensure that deceased guests are disposed of in timely and efficient manner” had alarmed you to the point of confrontation.

“Why are you murdering people at a club in the middle of no where? Oh fuck, are you part of the mafia?” you questioned, gripping the paper tight enough that its edges crinkled.

That would explain his clothing choices, equally as expensive and classy as his car. You felt almost insignificant in your own uniform standing beside him.

He seemed miffed. By your careless handling of his contract, or by your accusation that he was associated with the mob, you couldn’t tell.

“No, I am not affiliated of the mafia. The club doubles as my office. On the third floor, I make deals with those looking for money, and if they can’t finish the game, they find themselves in unfortunate situations," he explained, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something darker.

Like you? You didn’t know what he meant by “finish the game,” but the metaphor stood on its own. You played your own deadly game by entertaining this man and his offer. But the money still tempted you. More than it had any reason to.

“That is where you come in. I have my own affairs to attend to, and can’t split my attention between that and the discarding of human remains and scrubbing away evidence off my car’s upholstery. It’s a position where you have ample experience.”

“I can get blood out of fabric. I’ve never had to bury a stranger’s corpse!” you boldly chastise him again. He takes another drag of his cigarette, looking down at you. You felt like a yappy little purse-dog in the presence of a dire wolf.

“Then you are more qualified than I am,” he said, the ever-present smile still ticking the corners of his mouth up.

“Will I end up in an “unfortunate situation” if I don’t sign this contract?” you tucked one arm around your middle, using the other to continue perusing the black text.

“No,” he said, flicking his cigarette. You noticed he kept his hand far away from you as he did, as to not let any ash touch you, “so long as you keep the authorities out of this.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. Up close, he towered over you. You could stand on the tips of your toes and barely make it up to his sternum. You had your own reasons to keep the pigs out of your business, and if he thought you’d fuck yourself over just to report him, a man with more wealth than God, then he was sorely mistaken.

“If you’re unsatisfied with the salary written, you can name whatever price you like. I’m willing to pay extra for your…discretion,” he said, his voice carrying the slightest note of urgency. His eyes bore into yours, silently willing you to accept the offer.

There was still something that didn’t sit right with you. Of course you knew the legal repercussions of what he was asking you to do. The money, obviously, was your major motivator, but the nagging feeling in the back of your mind urged caution. You needed to ascertain that he wasn’t going to ditch you when things got tough.

“Would you protect me? If any of this got out?” you asked him, voice wavering, “I wouldn’t tell anyone, but I need to know that you won’t leave if the cops come sniffing around.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel his gaze pierce your very soul, "I'll ensure that you are taken care of, no matter what arises," he said, his deep voice devoid of any uncertainty, “You have my word.”

“Then I’ll sign your contract.”

…

And so your future job began.

Your generous benefactor called you on your first excursion a few days later.

It was 2 o’clock in the morning on a Sunday. You still had yet to turn in your two weeks at your cleaning job in case things fell through.

Fortunately it was your day off, and the metallic sound of your spiral cord telephone ringing from the kitchen prompted you into a run.

You pulled the handle off its hook on the wall and held it to your ear.

“Hello?” You asked, higher than you would have liked.

“It’s me,” a menacing voice sounded through the line, instantly recognizable, "Your first assignment starts now," he voiced with a haunting undertone, even through the tinny filter of the telephone.

“Okay! Um…what do-where do you want me to go?” you said as you frantically gathered your things, stretching the white spiral cord as far as you get it as you ran around snatching your purse, keys, and shoes. You grabbed your flashlight as an afterthought.

“Meet me in the woods behind the Methodist. Find a parking spot and come the rest of the way on foot,” he spoke briskly, leaving no room for argument.

“Got it. See you soon,” you told him, hanging the phone back up on the hook.

The Methodist church was a 15 minute drive outside the edge of town, on the opposite end from the club. You understood that he probably didn’t have the patience to be kept waiting for something as dire as this, so you didn’t bother putting on real clothes before getting into your car and starting the engine.

You hoped he wouldn’t take offense to your Garfield pajamas.

…

“What on earth are you wearing?”

You both walked into the treeline behind the church, him glancing over his shoulder at you. He held onto a spotless black bag over his other shoulder, unnervingly big.

Pulling your eyes away from the ominous sight of it, you looked down at your Garfield themed sweatshirt and sweatpants combo. They looked at little silly when worn with your trainers, but compared to the grey pinstripe trousers and crisp button-up of your new employer, you looked like a pathetic child.

“What, Garfield isn’t your style?” you grinned at him, pinching the hem of your sweatshirt, stretching the graphic of the orange tabby out. You found the sly fat cat hilarious.

He returned your jest with silence, and you tucked your hands back in your pockets. Well, hand (singular). The other currently had a death grip on your flashlight. Just because you had him with you didn’t entirely erase your fear of being in the forest at night, jokes aside.

He might protect you from the cops, but there was nothing saving you if you planted an unsuspecting foot on a pissed-off copperhead.

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting, so I just came in what I was sleeping in,” you said, dropping your attempt to be funny. His back looked exceptionally broad when viewed from behind, and you eyed his muscles as they shifted under his elegant shirt.

He sighed, adjusting the bag, “I’ll purchase more suitable clothes for these endeavors. I don’t want you ruining the ones you actually like for this.”

Oh, so his comment wasn’t because he didn’t like your clothes, it was because he knew you valued them and didn’t want them dirtied while you were on the clock.

Offering to buy you new clothes wasn’t something you anticipated from him, but you weren’t about to turn him down.

“Thank you…” you said, quietly touched by his magnanimity.

He turned his head slightly, the only signal he gave that he heard you.

You both continued to walk. The Dealer, you, and the poor soul being carried in that bag.

…

You’d give a rough estimate of a twenty-five minutes into your walk in the woods before he stopped you.

“Here,” he said, tossing the bag onto the ground with all the care that he’d show a sack of potatoes.

“Why here?” you asked, watching as he knelt down, “I can still see the steeple if I squint hard enough. Shouldn’t we go further?”

“No. The brush only gets thicker going further, and there no over hanging branches here,” he said, “Grab those twigs and that tree limb.”

“Why is that important if we’re going to bury the body?” you said, scampering over to drag the requested items to him.

He chuckled, the low sound quiet in the still air of the night, ““We’re burning the body, dear.”

Oh. That explained the lack of shovels.

He began breaking the tree limb into structured pieces. You watched him intently, internally wishing you’d brought something to take notes with. He rolled his button-up sleeves to elbow length. You quietly noted the multitude of scars running up and down his forearms. You bit back asking about what or who had hurt him.

He requested that you gather large amounts of dry brush while he encircled the medium pile of wood with dinner-plate sized stones scattered about the ground. It wasn’t difficult work, but you still eyed the far horizon through the trees and the distant peak of the Methodist’s spire with your flashlight.

By the end of your task, you had created an area of wood approximately six feet in diameter, and reaching over your head, like a stationary tumbleweed.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thirsty rhino lighter. The metal gleamed in the cold shine of your flashlight. With a flick of his wrist, he opened the flip top and held the small flame to the edges of the twigs.

The glow of the fire spread languidly, jumping down the lines of each spindly branch. The warmth of the growing fire a welcoming feeling. You clicked your flashlight off, finding the fire’s light sufficient to see. To your right, The Dealer unzipped his black bag. You could almost pretend you were going camping. Camping with The Dealer, though? He almost looked too distinguished for that. You wondered if he preferred roasting marshmallows or hot-dogs. The entire scenario was almost mundanely amusing.

You know, if not for the gruesome sight of the dead body suddenly being thrown on top of the burning pile. You jerked back in fright at the sound of its weight crushing the twigs, embers flying through the air.

Immediately, you noticed the body’s lack of a face. The horrifying absence of features resembled more of a bloodied crater than any human expression. Blood stains splattered down their chest and neck. This person did not die peacefully. Something had gone off directly in his face, almost like an explosion that tore straight through his head.

“How did he die?” you squeaked, unable to pull your eyes away from the macabre sight. The flames slowly consumed him too, reaching ever higher.

“A shotgun shell to the head,” spoke The Dealer.

“Oh,” you took that as your cue to not ask anymore questions on how exactly this guy perished. He didn’t pay you to pry. You could almost feel the tension alleviate from the shoulders of your employer from your perceptive silence.

For a while, the both of you just stood, watching the body slowly burn, feeding the growing bonfire. You tried to ignore the smell of cooking meat. After this maybe you’d stick exclusively to roasting marshmallows.

He gave you pieces of advice that he believed would benefit you while you warmed your hands. The warm light of the flames almost made his fearsome exterior seem almost inviting, handsome even.

“Do not keep any of the clothes or valuables from the bodies I ask you to dispose of. I don’t want any consequences to be traced back to you.”

“Okay, I won’t take anything,” something about stealing from the dead sat uneasily in your stomach.

“If you see anything you like, I can just cover it as a business expense,” he rumbled, leaning close to you.

“That really not necessary, but thank you anyway. You’re already paying me to be here,” you answered, shuffling your feet in a rare show of shyness. You almost felt like he expecting you to take advantage of his generosity.

“That’s right, but I’m going to ask you not to burn the next one. You need to find different ways to dispose of each body I bring you. We cannot have a trail leading back to us.”

“Understood,” you would panic about how you were going to do that later, but right now you were just stunned at how rapidly you became an accomplice to a crime.

“I won’t be present for your next assignment, but you’re a clever girl. I have no doubt that you’ll figure out all the details.”

You mentally froze at him complimenting you. “Clever girl.” Were you? Why did his praise make you feel so flustered? Perhaps it was the setting you were in.

Or maybe you liked having a wealthy man’s attention on you.

You deliberately shook yourself. You needed to get it together. You met him literally yesterday, where was this coming from?

“Now, I have game I need to see to. Be sure to pick up the teeth. Never leave the teeth or hair behind,” he instructed in that low voice, interrupting your brief mental freeze.

“Wait, you’re leaving me here? Out in the woods?” you asked.

“Why do you think we’re still in sight of the church?”

Oh. you guess that’s why you were so close, he didn’t want you getting lost in the woods. That wouldn’t look well on your first day, for either employee or employer.

“Alright, I guess…I’ll see you soon?” you said, waving a farewell as he began to make the trek back to his car. His long strides ate at the earth beneath him.

“Oh, yes. I think you will.”

Chapter Text

He paid you under the table, so to speak.

So when he called you to meet at discreet location, this time the back of butcher’s shop, you were expecting to work, this time wearing actual day clothes. But no.

He stood against the drivers side of his car, the glossy black paint gleamed in the moonlight, and you parked your own vehicle several parking spots away. You needed to appear inconspicuous if someone suspected something while he gave you another assignment.

But luckily for you, it wasn’t another assignment. He had your paycheck and your new “uniform” ready to give you.

You thanked him profusely when he gave you the clothes, which consisted of sturdy, elbow-length gloves, a rubber apron, gardening overalls, and cute little rainboots (which you sneakily noted were Garfield orange).

They were all well-made, easily cleaned and in colors that complimented you. He seemed aware that a solid black wardrobe drew more attention than a colorful collection of garments. You would look less like a body-disposer, and more of an eclectic cleaning enthusiast with a phobia of fluids.

He then reached into his jacket and handed you a wad of bills for last week’s bonfire excursion. Your breathed hitched in your throat, as you accepted the cash.

You shakily counted each bill. Benjamin Franklin had never looked so handsome, and his face just kept appearing in an endless wave of green paper.

“You’ll be paid biweekly. I’m only paying you now because it’s the end of the month,” he explained.

You, still hypnotized, by the ever flowing amounts of money you had in your hands, nodded dumbly. You missed his charmed smile at your awe-struck expression.

“I’ll pay you strictly in cash. You can deposit it into your bank account if you like, but you will never receive a check from me. Your payment is something I can’t allow to be traced.”

You nodded at him. In an attempt to not look like a desperate pauper, you quickly slipped the money into your back pocket.

“I’ll put it to good use,” you said, embarrassingly breathless.

“Put to any use you want. I’ll have more for you in the near future. In the meantime, keep by your phone,” he open the driver’s side door and stepped into his vehicle, “I’ll call you for another assignment soon,” he said looking at you intensely.

You remained standing by the car. You nodded again, not trusting your voice to avoid simpering in gratitude.

His door closes with an audible lock, and the engine rumbled with a low purr. He then reversed his vehicle out of his parking spot, and into the black night.

You stand there in his absence for several more minutes in an almost hazy cloud of joy. Holy fuck, you just got paid!

…

The next day, you spent your morning hours at the local library.

You weren’t normally an early riser. As a matter of fact, the majority of the time, you rose with the moon. But you needed information. And the library was a bastion of information and learning.

You didn’t know the first thing about disposing of bodies. Well, that was a bit of a lie. You spent a very lovely bonfire last week doing just the very thing, but aside from cremation, what all could you do?

You needed to be careful about phrasing your questions to the librarians. You doubted they’d be amenable to you asking, “Can you show me a book on how to dispose bodies?”

So, you jotted down some ideas on what to say to keep them from calling the cops.

You arrived just as they were opening, making a beeline directly to the front desk. The bespectacled lady from behind it eyed you over the front of her glasses. Her perfume smelled overpoweringly of peppermint.

“Can I help with finding anything, sweetie?” Her voice was too saccharine to be genuine. No matter. You weren’t here to be nice, you were here to be a good employee, and avoid jail.

“Oh, yes! I’m doing a project and I need multiple books to complete it.” You had been out of school for some time now, but you wore another Garfield sweatshirt in order to sell your “project” act to the librarian now helping you.

She turned to the computer sitting on the desk. The box-shaped, cream-colored machine came to life at the click of a button. It hummed mechanically as she tapped at the keyboard, “And what kind of books do you need for your project, sweetie?”

“Oh, let’s see,” you pulled out your list, “Do you have anything on medieval battles, home butchering and preservation, gardening for beginners, and oh, anything on the history of serial killers?”

As you listed off helpful subjects, she stopped typing at your last request, tilting her head at you.

“That’s…quite the list for a school project, sweetie. What class is it for?” she asked, suspicion coating her tongue. The sharp arch of her pencil-thin brows rising ever higher.

“Oh, uh…creative writing. I wanted to write about…uh, a time-traveling serial killer who becomes a knight. Who likes to garden in his spare time,” you said, your voice trailing off as you realized how absurd you sounded.

“And the butchering?”

“…It’s what I want to be when I grow up,” you squeaked.

You’re a great liar.

She shrugs, exasperated, continuing to type. The matching cream keyboard sounded with a soft click every time she hit a key. You were almost impressed anyone could type that fast.

You drummed your fingers nervously on the desk, hoping the she couldn’t see you sweat through those glasses of hers.

Your prayers were answered as she rattled off titles and authors of books available in the library. She pointed to the various sections you would find them in, and most importantly, didn’t bother you anymore probing questions.

You gathered your stack of books, checked each one out using your library card, and headed back home. Success!

Medieval battles were a round about way of asking how people in ancient times disposed of mass corpses on the battlefield. You, like them, were not an expert, and had very few resources to devote giving special treatment to each body.

Apparently after Christianity became popular, burning bodies fell out of fashion, and mass graves were dug for the collective bodies. You learned that burying the body intact was called inhumation.

It was mostly unhelpful, but, there was a reason you picked up a book on gardening. Your yard was not the most well-tended, and you were hoping to change that. Particularly, with strong smelling flowers and herbs that could mask the smell of a rotting corpse tangled under their roots.

Hyacinths, heliotropes, and lavender were all ones would help hide the rot, and make your yard look lovely too. You noted what kind of environments each flower and shrub likes, along with the type of soil preferences each had.

The butchering book, though the diagrams of pigs and cattle were largely useless, did give extensive strategies on how to prepare the meat. If need be, you could hide pieces of a body in your fridge. You don’t think you could bring yourself to eat a person, but you still took detailed notes on the butchering book.

Now, the book on the history of serial killers was, by far, the most useful book you picked up. You poured over the pages well into the evening hours. The gruesome killers had rather creative ways of disposing of their victims and you jotted down each and every method that you could reasonably accomplish with the means you had.

Well, perhaps now that you were on a wealthy man’s payroll, you could explore more options than originally thought.

Your head lifted from the pages as an inspired idea struck you.

Checking the clock on the wall, you noted the time. The electronics store didn’t close for two more hours.

You wrote a quick reminder to return to the library for more books on a sticky note before placing it on your refrigerator. You wouldn’t go back any time soon, not within the next week at least, but it was important to keep acquiring information on new methods.

You quickly grabbed your keys and slipped on your trainers. It was time you bought yourself a bag phone.

Chapter Text

You’d been in this business for a good while now, and this was by far your favorite method of disposal.

There were a LOT of methods you tried out. Some worked more effectively than others, and you still strongly preferred it when The Dealer just asked you to clean out the blood from his car, but if you absolutely had to pick a favorite, this would be it.

A squeaky ‘meow’ sounded from behind you. Tuxedo, one of your favorites, begged for the goodies you carried with you. All of her feet were white up to the first joint except for one. She was missing a sock on her left front paw.

The city park had a large clowder of feral cats near one of the covered bridges. Too many people dumped their pets when they didn’t want them, and now they’ve interbred with each other to a rather concerning number. At a glance, you would estimate there were around 30 cats total.

They were all hesitant to trust you the first time you tried this, but when you came bearing delicious offerings in a plastic ziploc bag, they quickly warmed up to you.

Fortunately for them, dinner was on you tonight. Well, it’s actually on the latest sap that crossed your boss. You’d chopped the body into safe, kitty-bite sized pieces.

When requested, the Dealer purchased a rather pricey knife set for you. Your favorite piece was the 7” stainless steel meat cleaver. He tended to spoil you with the good stuff, and how could you refuse him?

You wondered if he was able to write your expensive requests off on his taxes. You wondered if he even filed taxes.

Tuxedo meowed again. Pawing at you with her “missing sock” foot.

You tossed her a few meat chunks in apology. To reduce the risk of food poisoning, you always cooked all the meat offered, even though the smell of cooked human made your stomach both growl and churn. You’d never sample it yourself, but your babies didn’t need to know if your home-cooked meal was ethically sourced.

You tried to come here at least once a week. You didn’t bring a body with you every time, you weren’t dumb enough for that level of predictability, but sometimes you brought packaged chicken, or salmon with you. The deli staff in the grocery store had come to expect you buying half their stock on those days.

What can you say? Having disposable income made you particularly magnanimous.

Another, raspier, meow caught your attention. The sound was like a saw being pulled over fiddle strings. Your eyes crinkled with affection at the sight of an elderly orange cat padding over to you. He too, had white socks. Though his were mismatched in length, not amount.

White flecked over his scarred muzzle, and the crooked jut of his narrow, sharp teeth endeared you terribly.

You gently placed several tender cuts of flesh in front of the ginger tabby, and he flicked his one intact ear at you. He was moody, old, and scarred from years fighting other feral cats and the wildlife in the park.

Fiddle, named after his raspy voice, knew he was also a favorite, and acted accordingly.

During your first week here, you couldn’t even look at him without him hissing, but now? You could coddle him like the baby he was. He favored chin-scratches, and you lived to serve.

He was the hardest to win over, and it was a battle every week not to take him home. You gave him a little extra. He was a wiry cat by nature, but you disliked seeing the ripple of his rib cage under the stripes of his soft coat.

You scattered more pieces of meat around the area. Several more kitties came pouring from out of the shadows and darted to where you sprinkled cooked cubes of their dinner onto the flat earth.

You spotted a solid black tomcat (Night), a purring orange juvenile (Noon), and a sandy-coated girl with one eye (Noodle) all chewing vigorously at your offerings.

Not all had names, but they all had shares in your affection. Damn your bleeding heart. You gingerly set down more chunks of human flesh.

You didn’t have your gloves on The Dealer bought you, but another pair you purchased for yourself, strictly for your dinner-dates with the local cat community. Cross-contamination wasn’t a risk you were willing to take. But other than the gloves, the rest of your uniform remained the same.

You only stopped when your ziploc bag was empty, and every fuzzy little head was ducked down, eating their share of a good meal. The sight was enough to let out a sigh of contentment.

At your hip, a rhythmic chime sounded from the black bag you had strapped over your shoulder.

Some of the cats bristle, and others raise their heads, startled, but none flee. It’s not their first time hearing the tell-tale chiming of the peak symbol of your disposable income, and you toss the empty ziploc bag in the trash in favor of attending to the noise emanating on your hip.

At an abandoned picnic table nearby, you undid the black Velcro of the front flap. The “Motorola” label in white stitching opened to reveal the black-handheld phone that emanated the dinner disturbance. You pulled up the black antenna from within the bag, picked up the phone, and happily chirped a hello into the receiver.

Your only caller chuckles darkly, amused, “You know, ever since you bought that bag phone, you’ve sounded so smug every time you answer the line.”

“What can I say? I like having it on hand. Being so accessible never felt so good,” you said, twirling the shorter cord around your index finger.

The bag was the size of a large purse and twice as heavy as one, but you felt lighter than air carrying it around. It was quite the status symbol, and you were brazen enough to flaunt it everywhere.

He almost purrs down the line, approval dripping from every word, “I’m glad of it. I have another assignment for you. We’ll meet at the club in an hour.”

“The club?” you questioned, peering in the direction of the evening sun. It wasn’t quite dipping below the tips of the park’s spindly trees, but what little light there was let you know that the club would be opening soon.

“They’re closed for renovations, so the parking lot will be empty.”

“Maybe they’ll finally fix the mirrors on the third floor bathroom,” you said, half-jokingly. You remembered being secretly grateful they were cracked to hell and back while you were working there; it meant you didn’t have to bother cleaning them, “You didn’t close for renovations?”

“No, not while the demand is so high,” he answered, his voice eerie though the filter. You added a notch to your mental tally of questions you permitted yourself to ask about his line of work. You always kept it in the single digits.

“Are you asking for a day off?” he questioned, after the silence continued. You scoffed, playing up your disbelief playfully.

“Like you’re not generous enough with me. The club, one hour, right?” you asked, cradling the phone between your shoulder and cheek as you gently ran a hand over Fiddle’s back.

“That is correct.”

“I’ll wear the outfit you like the most,” you confirmed, referring to your uniform, adorably eclectic as it was. If he was calling you for a job tonight, it must have meant he won at his mysterious “games.” You didn’t bother asking about them, through the phone or in person.

He responded well when you kept your calls short and clipped. Though it was difficult maintaining the concise mannerisms you’d adopted for this career path.

“Take care, see you soon!” you spoke into the receiver, unable to completely suppress your naturally chatty nature.

“Goodbye, dear.” he responded, hanging up the call. You could hear him faintly chuckling before it he ended it with tell-tale click.

The dial tone’s flat drone sounded before you clicked your own corresponding button. The learning curve on your new accessory was surprisingly gradual.

You packed up your things, tenderly placing the phone back into its cradle, shrinking the antenna, and fastening the velcro back into place.

Most of the cats had finished their dinners and had wondered off, though a few still sniffed around to see if the others had left any scraps.

Fiddle was one of them. So was Tuxedo.

You clutched the strap of your bag, looking at the two kitties. Their sweet eyes, their little socked feet.

Down on their luck, starving, and desperate for a gentle hand, you were reminded of yourself a few months ago.

It wasn’t until The Dealer, a being with more power and wealth than you could ever imagine, was kind enough to approach you that you were able to thrive. It was because someone noticed you.

Damn your bleeding heart.

…

“I’ve adopted two babies.”

If he had eyebrows, they would have probably disappeared into his hairline.

If he had any hair.

The evening air is crisp and cold, and, true to his word, the parking lot is empty except for the Jaguar and your own car. You took advantage of the opportunity and parked close. Now the two of you stood facing each other, backs leaning against your own parallel vehicles.

He’s imposing, handsome even, in the red glow of the sunset. You wondered if that’s why he favored meeting you in the evening hours; he knew he looked good in this lighting.

He had his usual cigarette in hand, the embers flutter in the light wind. He’s quick to control his expression, though you caught the brief stunned flash across his hollow eyes. You bite your lip to keep from smiling at him.

He took a much longer drag of his cigarette, “Is this your way of asking for additional time off for a maternity leave?” He almost sounded out of breath as he spoke. It was amusing compared to the composed bass of his usual speaking voice.

Tuxedo’s light mew emanating from your cracked car window interrupts your response. Both cats had ducked into the footwell of the passenger seat, pressed against one another like they were each other’s life-raft. You didn’t blame them. You’re sure being in a car for the first time was a stressful experience for an animal so little.

The Dealer tilted his head ever so slightly, ribbons of smoke trail into the air at his fingertips. You know he heard her.

“Would you like to meet them?” you don’t bother hiding your grin, gesturing a welcoming hand toward the passenger window of your car.

He arches the muscles over his right brow bone, and carefully approaches, leaning to see your newly acquired babies hiding under the glove compartment.

Fiddle’s pupils narrow to needles as The Dealer’s shadow falls across him. He lets out a vicious hiss, revealing more of his endearingly crooked teeth. Tuxedo yowls in distress at the sight of him, puffing her coat out like a little sea urchin.

The Dealer respectfully backs away from your vehicle, out of sight of the two alarmed cats. You catch flash of relief in his empty eyes.

“I would like to extend my congratulations,” he tells you. You can’t quite tell if he’s joking.

“Thank you. I anticipate parenting will be a magical experience.”

“With you? I have no doubt,” he said, grinning playfully. He takes one final inhale of his cigarette, savoring it, before dropping it onto the pavement and crushing it under his heel. He wore black brogues this evening. They matched your bagphone.

“Now, as much as motherhood suites you, I have need of another particular skillset you possess.”

He was always courteous enough to help load the body into your car so you can dispose of it.

You lift the door of your trunk. Fiddle and Tuxedo remain silent in the front as you both transfer the body bag from one car to the other.

Well, he does most of the work.

The Dealer’s stature is immense, and you seem to always forget how much strength he contained underneath his crisp, bespoke clothes. The transfer barely takes minutes, and the sun hasn’t even set.

Now, unloading the body yourself and the process of disposal was another story. That would likely take you half the night on your own.

“Are you consulting the library again for this one?” he asked, dusting his perfectly clean hands on his pants. You wondered how you looked next to him, in your colorful garments. At some of your meetings with him you felt like a little bird of paradise standing next to a hawk.

“No, but I do need to go there again soon,” you responded, leaning back against your trunk.

“Another school project due?” he asked, the Venus fly-trap smile on his face growing wider as he seized the opportunity to tease you.

You had told him what happened with your first visit and asked if it would cause suspicion. After laughing for a solid ten minutes at your retelling, he reassured you that no authority was alerted to you checking out books, despite your inability to lie effectively.

“Very funny. I just need to take more notes on the mortician’s guide, and maybe check out some more books. Maybe some fiction. Not just something to throw the librarians off our scent, but…something I’d like enjoy in my down time.”

Last week at the library, a particularly eye-catching cover had snagged your attention away from learning new burial methods. A tan, golden-haired man clutched an open-mouthed maiden to his shirtless chest. Both had the most voluminous hair you had ever seen. Based on the girl’s dress, just barely covering her heaving bosom, you guessed it was historical fiction. You glanced behind you before picking it up.

The summary on the back spoke of a wealthy lord stumbling upon an impoverished servant girl of dubious origin, the assumed main character, and elevated her to the status of a lady in order to avoid scandal. The scandal in question? The pair were caught alone in a drawing room becoming…intimately acquainted with each other.

You reminded yourself to come back to retrieve the book when you weren’t on the clock.

“Oh? I didn’t know you enjoyed reading. What genre do you prefer?” The Dealer knocked you out of the memory with his question, his voice like distant thunder.

You hesitated before answering him. He wouldn’t be the first man to belittle a woman for her hobbies, and you feared his dismissal at your interests. Interests you now had time to pursue because of him.

Your sudden, unexpected silence seemed to perturb him.

“Dear, I hired you to bury bodies for me, there’s very little you could do that could surprise me. Spontaneous adoption aside,” he said, his deep voice gentle and quiet in the cool air between you.

You laughed, the air leaving your lungs in a relieved exhale. It was unintentionally disrespectful to him that you’d assume he’d ridicule you for something like this. It was unlike his character, but your insecurities still fought to overcome you.

“There was a romance novel I looked at. Historical. The plot looked…intriguing,” and by the plot, you meant the very steamy interactions the main pair were going to have. Not that you could blame the main character. If you had the chance to fuck the tall, wealthy man you worked for, you’d jump too.

Not that he needed to know that.

He’s silent for a minute. Too long. You almost worry that your fears about his opinion of your interests had been confirmed.

Then he speaks.

“I imagine this job has allowed you very little chances to seek a romantic partner,” he pauses, take a deep breath, “It’s the one disadvantage compared from your previous job, that I’m afraid I can’t rectify.”

Your brows slid up your forehead unconsciously. You weren’t expecting that. In all the conversations you had with your boss, romantic partners were never brought up. You…weren’t sure how to proceed. You checked the mental tally of questions, and calculated how many you would allow yourself to ask him.

“What do you mean?”

He turned to look at you. You were arrested by the intensity of his gaze, “I know you were propositioned by club-goers when you still worked as a custodian, and I’m sorry to have taken those options away from you.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Most of them were inebriated anyway.”

A sudden thought struck you, forcibly, like a punch to the teeth. He discussed your romantic options, but remained mum on his own. What if he had someone? You were ashamed of the panic that gripped your mind when you thought of him going home to another.

Who did he give his time to that wasn’t you?

“Do you have anyone?” you were proud at how steady your question came out.

“No,” Rejoice! “I suppose I find my self equally matched with you in that regard. My career also permits very little opportunity for romance.”

You could have bench pressed your car you were so pumped. Fortunately, you were able to maintain a neutral expression, ever so delicately continuing the conversation.

“Well, maybe I can recommend you one of the romance novels I read once I’m finished. I’ll be honest, I’m mainly basing my enjoyment on the book based on the people on the cover,” you chuckled lightly.

He pauses, going still.

“Is that your type, then? Svelte, oil-slathered models with flat teeth?” Though you could see him struggling to suppress it, there was an edge to his voice you could not parse. It was unfamiliar to you in all the conversations you had ever shared with him.

Jealousy, perhaps? You hesitated to even think it. He seemed above such juvenile emotions, especially when it came to you. What could he possibly be jealous of?

Did he worry over your opinion like you did his? Perhaps he did not find your questions or your disposition as vexing as you previously thought. Did he think you found him unattractive? The thrum of your heart quickened it’s already frantic pace. If only he knew how much you thought of how he looked in this lighting.

“No, no, it’s just a silly fantasy. Just something I’d like to live, if only for a few hours.”

“A handsome gentleman from a historic era sweeping you off your feet?” he questioned.

You saw an opportunity.

“Like a wealthy man from a different world lifting me from my poor, mundane life into something better,” you held your arms to your chest, looking up at him through your lashes. You took it.

The first stars appearing in the velvet blue of the night blanketed his wide-eyed expression. This time, he didn’t bother hiding how stunned he was. Victory.

The sun had set, and while it was tempting to stay and flirt with him until it rose again, you had kitties you now needed to attend to. Let him think on your words.

“It’s getting late, and I need to get my new babies home. You’ll take care, won’t you?” you said, walking around to the driver’s side of your car.

“Of course,” he answered, the same shock still etched onto his face, though his eyes followed your every footstep.

“Goodnight!” you called, ducking into your seat.

“Goodnight, dear.”

…

That night, after welcoming Fiddle and Tuxedo into your humble abode, and hiding the body away to be dealt with later, you nestled into the pillows of your bed, hoping to dream of romance novels and sharp-toothed smiles.

Chapter Text

The flowers were a surprise.

There, in the passenger seat of the now spotless Jaguar, was an assorted bouquet.

You wouldn’t have even noticed it had you not been in his backseat.

He had left the sleek vehicle in your care while he was inside the club, no doubt playing his “games” that paid you your very generous salary.

You were just scrubbing the last of the Jaguar’s upholstery completely clean of blood and viscera when you saw the swirls of color out of the corner of your eye. The vibrant petals and the jade and emerald leaves of the flowers against the black leather snagged your attention and refused to let go.

You dropped your wet rag into the bucket on the floorboard. Leaning forward between the driver and the passenger seat, you made sure not to touch the front seat with your wet, rubber gloves. The mystery bouquet was large enough to fill half the seat.

The intertwining red carnations, fragrant honeysuckle, and blush orange roses accompanied exotic blooms that you could not even begin to name. They were all artfully combined to coalesce into a experience of color and scent all tenderly wrapped in brown paper.

You wondered what kind of shop would sell a bouquet that big and elaborate.

Was it even for you? Your pulse spiked. You fought to get it under control; there was no guarantee. There was no need to get your hopes up. Your conversation with him a few nights ago was no indication of a future.

If the bouquet wasn’t for you, you wondered just what kind of person could warrant getting such extravagant flowers from him.

Your rubber gloves squelched as you curled your fist. Jealousy coiled in your gut like a ravenous serpent. He said a few nights ago his career doesn’t give him a lot of opportunity for romance. But he didn’t say it gave him none.

You were tasked with cleaning his car this evening. That meant removing anything in the car that would be perceived as abnormal. Things that wouldn’t usually be there. Blood stains? Yes. Bodies? Yes. Elaborate bouquets to mysterious potential paramours? Absolutely.

And if he ever asks where it went, you can tell him you delivered it to the person it was meant for. He would applaud your altruism and never suspect that you had kept them for yourself.

With your sound logic backing you up, you tenderly searched the brown paper wrapping for a card revealing a name or address.

Perhaps you could bury a body in the receiver’s yard. You snickered as you thought of burying a fresh corpse three feet deep instead of the standard six. And if the cops came sniffing? How unfortunate for them.

Luckily for you, there was a card. A little white paper peaked up at you, beckoning, like you were meant to see it. You took off a singular glove, and plucked the card to hold between your index and thumb.

The relief you felt was like a holy blade carving into the jealous snake within you.

Your name stood alone at the very top of the card, printed in inky black followed by a comma. A more reassuring sight could not have existed.

The rest of the text was printed in the same font, just a singular sentence. It read…“To experiencing something better.”

You slumped into the backseat. Running a sweaty hand down your face, almost ashamed at how jealous you were. You peaked through your fingers at the bouquet innocuously sitting at the front, oblivious to your excitement. Maybe it was an indication of your future.

You took your other glove off, draping it with its twin against the rim of your cleaning bucket.

Leaning forward between the front seats, you gently cradle the bouquet against your apron. The paper crinkles in your arms as you stroke the edge of a blossoming carnation. Knowing the gift was for you made it look all the more beautiful. Not just because the flowers themselves were gorgeous, but because he went out of his way to gift them to you.

You exited the Jaguar, shimmying your way out with the gigantic collection of flowers, and tenderly placed the bouquet in your own front seat. As an afterthought, you buckled the seatbelt over them.

The sun had completely set by the time you finished cleaning and returning your supplies to your own car. It was far too early to wait for The Dealer to finish his games, so you’d have to wait to thank him. If your next assignment was particularly far off, you would have ample time to think of a particularly creative way to thank him.

Now seated in the driver’s side of your own car, you glanced at the assortment of flowers. There were too many for it to be something he saw and chose to buy. No, this was no doubt a custom order. You wondered how much he paid the local florist to create such a gift. You also wondered why he chose each flower.

Was there even a reason? Taking the flowers at face value was certainly an option, but your curiosity bloomed at the thought of something deeper. It was too late in the night to investigate it now, but as you drove home, you mentally adjusted your schedule for tomorrow, bumping a new plan to the very front of your agenda.

First, head to the library, and pick up a book on flower meanings.

…

The librarians knew you on sight. Immediately, the one at the front desk was suddenly captivated by her computer screen. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

At this point, you had ventured through every shelf your local library had to offer. The Dewey Decimal system was at the forefront of your recall, all sections almost memorized in your repertoire. The librarian at the front had all the usefulness of a potted plant.

Though, you were sure a potted plant would be less judgmental in your body disposal method research.

No matter. You now had three different books on flower meanings and another cheesy romance novel. The two on the cover somehow looked even hornier than the last one you checked out. You were sure to enjoy yourself.

Fiddle and Tuxedo greeted you with asynchronous jiggling from their belled collars upon your arrival. The library, while a great place for collecting information, could not beat your own home when it came to comfortable research. Nor did it have your new babies.

While the two kitties played on the carpet, you immediately got to work. You sat at your kitchen table looking at intricate illustrations of different flowers, starting with their identification first. Your eyes traveled from the bouquet (now housed by an ornate glass vase) to the open book where you sought out each flower’s unique name and meaning.

You were able to identify some of the more exotic plants as the purple iris, the folded pink plumeria, and the pronged bird of paradise.

The boisterous combination of beautiful blooms were not arranged in any particular order, so you chose each flower at random to discover its closely guarded secret. The thrill of curiosity owned your heart as you flipped and skimmed the well-loved pages of the borrowed books.

Your first flower possessed a delicate fanning of five pale yellow petals unfurling to a more vivid blush on their outer rim. The plumeria’s simplicity was delightful, but was its meaning equally so?

The text under the corresponding illustration revealed that plumerias had many positive associations, but chief among them was new beginnings. You quirked an eyebrow. New beginnings. Where was he going with this?

You skimmed the pages again, eyeing the diagrams and paintings carefully.

The exotic orange of blue of the bird of paradise was next to discover. You had to flip for a few pages to find the symbolism of this obscure flower, but among all its meanings, joy and prosperity was listed at the top. Your lips quirked up, that one definitely couldn’t be overstated.

The impact The Dealer had on your life, financially and emotionally, was evident by your new adoptees and your expensive bagphone accessory. You’d never been this stable in your life.

Excited, you thumb through the pages again, looking for honeysuckle.

It was almost like a puzzle game. You were rewarded each time you stumbled across a new meaning, and a new piece slid into your repertoire of romance in a perfect fit.

The tender white flower now perfumed your humble home with its sweet fragrance, and you wondered if it’s scent had any connection with its meaning.

‘True happiness’ is the top symbolic meaning of the honeysuckle, typed on the page in a thin font. Something so simple as two words had set your heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings. Did he really feel true happiness when he was with you?

You thought of the easy conversations between you both, the genuine interest in your hobbies, and the advice he gave for your safety. All indicated a fond regard for your company.

You carefully turn the pages again, this time feeling more hesitant. It was almost frightening seeing the confirmation of what your heart begged to be true.

While your…connection…with The Dealer was relatively new, you hesitated thinking about any future with him; what exactly could you offer a being as powerful as him? But the hopeless romantic within you refused to be denied the chance to yearn. These flowers fed into this hope, this constant pining for more.

The purple iris, one of the more exotic blooms identified in the bouquet, had the most intense color. You scanned down to its definition and saw words like ‘respect,’ and ‘admiration,’ and ‘tied to royalty.’

You knew he appreciated your presence as an employee, and your skills disposing of bodies certainly made his life easier, but actually seeing evidence of his respect for you was another thing entirely.

You laid the back of your hand against your cheek. The warm skin revealing just how effected you were by his high opinion of you.

The red carnation was next. You had an inkling about this one. You’d seen enough Valentine’s Day bouquets in the windows of stores to understand this one was romantic in nature, and the definition confirmed your suspicions. ‘Deep affection.’

It was starting to feel less like solving a puzzle and more like peering into the soul of the man you desperately wanted. Your hands shook at the thought of him returning your desperate attachment to him.

You were onto your final flower. You had never seen a rose this color before. The soft blush orange evoked feelings of a sunset. Or a bonfire. One shared in the woods within walking distance of a church.

You flipped to the meaning before you could reminisce for too long and you coughed at what the text revealed. Stunned, you reread the text, once, twice over. You quickly slammed the book shut, your eyes defocusing as you considered what you’d just read.

The cats paid you no mind, they were too busy pulling their claws through your shag carpet.

You inhaled, sure that you had just misread the text, or perhaps looked at the wrong flower. You glanced again at the bouquet. The delicate color of the coral rose created a soft balance against some of the more vivid pigments of the brighter flowers. It was misleadingly innocent.

You opened the book and flipped through the pages, going to back to where you previously were. Coral rose, coral rose, coral rose.

You did not misread the text. The meaning was right there, uncaring of the cognitive dissonance it inspired.

Desire.

Now, you were well aware that you lusted, unrepentant, over your boss. Who wouldn’t? His hands and his broad shoulders were more than enough to have your gaze locked on him at all times. Combined with his deep voice and gentle demeanor, it was a daily struggle not to drop to knees in front of him whenever he was in your sights.

To think he felt the same regarding you? It was unfeasible.

You weren’t like him. You were simply his employee. A girl he picked up because he needed someone to clean.

The thought of reciprocated desire from him seemed unimaginable. But the allure of the coral rose had spelled out an undeniable truth.

He wanted you.

And there wasn’t enough honeysuckle in the world that could show what you felt at this very moment.

Chapter Text

Why, in all of creation, were there so many people at the grocery store?

It was a Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock. Did these people really not have families to go home to? Or jobs?

Then again, you were only in here because of the latter. And you were also trying to secure the former. Yesterday, you had a dream about an elaborate spring wedding with your boss and the damage you inflicted on your poor alarm clock upon waking was, in hindsight, undeserved.

But alas, the day continued. And with no bagphone calls during the morning, you decided to take advantage of your off hours and get some shopping done.

You were originally here to purchase more cat toys (that sweet, sweet disposal income just kept rolling in), and some groceries, but you were…distracted from your original goal.

The card isle.

It drew you in like a harpooned sea beast. Frowning, you maneuvered past people peering at greeting cards, get-well-soon cards, and birthday cards alike. Just rows upon rows of colorful folded paper and envelopes.

You were reminded of the ornate bouquet sitting prettily on your dining table. It had been permanently etched into your psyche. How could it not? The bodacious blossoms boasted their opulence, a cheeky reminder that you now very well knew the meaning conveyed by their soft petals and thorny stems.

The only issue was: what on earth could you get that could match it?

Perhaps The Dealer liked cards? In this vast aisle of options, they surely sold thank-you cards here, right?

You pulled your cart into the aisle, narrowly avoiding bumping into a haggard looking stranger in bifocal glasses and red hair.

“Sorry,” he muttered as he walking past you, as if in a daze. You shrugged him off, far more interested in the selection the store had for thank-you cards.

Some were silly, some heartfelt. Some even had flowers on them.

You picked one up, fingertips running along its matte finish. It’s design was sleek and monochrome. He likes monochrome, maybe he’d like this card.

Inside read the most derivative swill that could be printed on paper.

How generic. And disappointing. You slid the card back, neatly setting it in front of a matching black envelope.

You chose another. This had one had a more silly design, a strawberry waving on the front, the pink text above it containing a pun. How cute. Upon opening, it contained the same generic drivel. You closed the card and put it back.

You tried another. Yet another. And then another.

You started noticing a pattern. If you liked the design, the writing was dull on the inside. If the design was crude or uninspired, the writing managed to be decent.

You put your last card down, all but shoving it back into its slot, uncaring if it crinkled it’s matching envelope.

You needed to match him for effort. For appreciation. For affection.

You looked at your own shopping cart. Cat food, cat toys, and a few items to make dinner for tonight. Peering back around the grocery store, you saw nothing that could make for a suitable gift to give your potential paramour.

You still didn’t even have a clue as to what to you were going to give him.

But whatever it was, you weren’t going to find it here.

…

This is so stupid. Just go in.

On your way back from the grocery store, you stopped outside of your local florists shop.

But you hesitated. You were looking at the front door from your driver’s seat in the parking lot. You tapped the leather on the top of your steering wheel, where the leather was warm from your anxious pattering.

Even before you stepped foot outside your vehicle, you knew that this wasn’t where you needed to be.

Flowers, as it’s been previously established, were an excellent gift. Especially when the bestower of the bouquet took the time and effort and money to purchase flowers with specific meanings special to the recipient.

Flowers were an excellent gift, but he beat you to the punch.

You wanted him to know that this gift was unique to him. You weren’t to going to get that point across if you ‘piggy-backed’ off his idea.

Giving him the same thing he gave you felt like it lacked thought and creativity. This was an endeavor to show him that you cared about making him happy, not that you felt like you owed him something in return.

Though if he told you he wanted you to ride him in the backseat of the Jaguar, you would be all but jump at the opportunity.

Your mind wanders.

”My my, dearest. Had I known you would be this receptive to my advances, I would have given you that bouquet the night we met,” he takes another puff of his cigarette while he uses his massive hand to caress down your waist and hip, sliding down to your thigh as you roll your hips.

He wouldn’t dare disrespect you by exhaling the second-hand vapor in your face, but the closed windows allow a mirage of discretion; any stumbling club-goer would be unable to see you through the smoke.

But through the clouding grey, as you gazed up at him, you could see his charming grin. The fine needle points of his teeth, each tooth was sharper that Cupid’s arrow and poised to strike. His smile was smug and dangerous, it was like he knew he’d always get you here: panting like a whore on his cock.

It was certainly proportionate to the rest of him, and you squirm and writhe in aroused fervor as he forcefully adjusted the angle at which you took him. The stretch is intoxicating, and you can’t help the slutty noise that escapes you when you feel his tip hit something that melts you from the inside out.

“That’s right, dear. Tell me all about how good it feels,” he purrs in your ear, voice deep as sin.

You cry out again as his hands, rough and calloused from his work, attach themselves to your hips. Fuck, his hands on you! His considerable bulk forces you to contort deliciously as he dominates the pace, impatiently bouncing you on his throbbing dick.

Any sense of rhythm is completely abandoned as you embrace your new role as your boss’s fucktoy. Holy fuck, it had never felt this good to be this powerless. The wet squelch of your dripping pussy accompanies the high-pitched ‘uugh!’ ‘uugh!’ ‘uugh!’ sounding from your open mouth.

You’re glad he decided to fuck you in the Jaguar. Your own car definitely was not big enough for this.

Wait.

Fuck.

You shook your head, bubble efficiently burst. You were almost disappointed you came to your senses, face in hand.

But alas! You knew from personal experience, from cleaning the upholstery top to bottom, that the Jaguar did not have enough room in the front or backseat that could accommodate you both fucking in there.

Unless he wanted to fuck you in the trunk.

The part of your brain that houses all of your depraved fantasies and sexual arousal immediately tries to fire back up a different fantasy at that thought. You quickly put the car into reverse to prevent such a thought from going through.

You needed to get the out of this parking lot before you committed an act of public indecency.

Needless to say, you did not end up deciding on a bouquet.

…

On your drive home, you took several moments to think about the core properties that your gift needed to have.

The gift shouldn’t be monetarily valuable alone. God knows he wouldn’t be impressed by how expensive your gift to him would be. He signs your paychecks.

Plus, it would defeat the idea of your gift being ‘thoughtful.’ For a being as powerful as he, you can’t see money being that important to him.

It needed to be unique, and something that would suite him. Nothing contrived, or lame. If he could mistake your gift for something bought in the Valentine’s Day isle in February, then it was a no-go.

Lastly, it had to be something he would treasure. Something that he would immediately see the effort you put into choosing it and be immediately charmed by it. And you.

And hey, if you played the cards right, and your gift really was something special, maybe you’d get to actually live that wedding dream you had.

You couldn’t tell if that would be more realistic or less realistic than the Jaguar sex fantasy.

…

The cats were overjoyed to see you.

It felt nice, to be greeted at your door, despite knowing you were a failure at deciding what gift to give your boss.

Tuxedo, paying no heed to your doom and gloom, winded her way around your feet as you tango’d your way to the kitchen with her.

Fiddle, in no mood to dance, began meowing his demands as you put away the groceries you had collected.

You grinned at the two of them, and shook the bag that contained their new toys.

The sound of synthesized squeaks coming from the bag had their eyes wide and ears perked.

You tossed the paper bag down onto the carpet and watched as they dove in to find the toy mouse you hid inside. You’d have to pick up the remnants of paper bag from off the floor eventually, but their joy was worth that small chore.

After all the groceries were either in the cupboard, the fridge, of the cabinets, you headed straight to your room, leaving the cats to their playing. Unbeknownst to you, two sets of little ears perked when it was noticed that you were no longer in the room with them.

Exhausted, and a little down-hearted, you fell into the bed, feeling the weight of stress settle onto your shoulders.

You didn’t even know what kind of timer you were on for this. There was no schedule as to when The Dealer called you. You might have a day, you might have more than a week to go gift-shopping.

And you were sure he would never presume that he was entitled to your affection, and the gifts that came with it. You wanted to return his kind gesture. This was more than giving you a job or buying your uniform. This was him bearing his soul, being vulnerable with you. You needed to meet him where he was.

Fiddle, as if sensing your misery, came bounding into the room.

The orange tabby took one look at you and carefully came to lie, loaf-style in the divot where you had curled in the fetal position on your bed, like a a little fire lighting up it’s hearth.

Your fingertips felt his purr as you tenderly stroked over his head and down his back. The awkward jut of his crooked teeth and malformed jaw almost made it look like he was perpetually smiling.

You made the effort to smile back at him. You felt better.

Between Fiddle and your fun Garfield pajamas, maybe you would feel okay enough to rest through the night. Fiddle’s purring seemed to soothe the very beat of your weary heart. And your pajamas were the comfiest you owned.

The signature orange fat-cat on the front was always something that brought you joy. Even when you mistakenly wore his themed pajamas to bonfires.

Wait.

Wait!

You looked to Fiddle, eyes wide with inspiration. You knew exactly what you were going to gift The Dealer.

It wasn’t something you could find. It was something you needed to make.

The next morning, you set out on a mission. It involved journeying into your dust-covered attic to recover your sewing machine.

Now, your “home ec” skills were a bit shoddy. It’s been a hot minute since you’d even used your sewing machine for anything more complex than repairing a busted seam on an odd pair of pants.

But as you continued, muscle memory worked its magic, and you and the machine performed in tandem to produce your gift.

The cats, curious about your new activity and sudden burst of energy, sat with their eyes round as the machine rumbled, chugging as the needle plunged a path through the orange material as you twisted and turned the fabric to keep the yellow stitches a consistent distance from the edge of the fabric.

And all at once, it’s like he came to life in your hands. A little soul of your own creation, complete with two triangular ears and endearingly sharp teeth made with soft spikes of felt. He was the color of an evening bonfire, complete with stitched tabby stripes.

You quickly sew him a little bespoke suit befitting of a powerful and awe-inspiring being. One you had seen before on a much larger form. The grey pinstripe of his small suit coat, white button up, and trousers looked precious on him, and they even matched his little booties. The finishing touches were his glossy button eyes, a familiar deep black, sewn at just the perfect angle on his sweet little face.

“Happy birthday!” you cheerily say to him, holding him up to the light to admire every detail.

His limbs weren’t even, and his right sleeve was longer than the left, but the softness of his fur and the care you placed in each stitch gave him a unique charm, unlike any you would be able to buy at a store.

Oh, the pride to be had in bringing to life a little guy from thread and cloth.

You’re sure that even an authentic Garfield plush would be jealous to sit beside a stuffed animal so handsome.

…

The phone call came at 8:45 pm the following Thursday. To say you lunged for the phone would have been an understatement. You were half surprised that you didn’t pull the thing off the wall.

“Hello?” you spoke into the receiver, desperately willing that his voice would answer from the other line.

"It's me, dear." His voice crackled through the line, filled with warmth and a hint of amusement. Your heart does a cartwheel. “Another assignment needs your attention. No cleaning this time, just the usual transfer, so the uniform isn’t mandatory. I’ll meet you at the park in an hour to deliver it to you.”

“Great choice in location!” you said, genuinely, “I’ll meet you there soon.” You take a considerable amount of pride in the excellent control of your enthusiasm. Now was your chance!

“Take care,” he answers low and soft, oblivious to your silent victory. He ends the call, as he does every time, and you hang up the phone once the dialtone sounds. Force of habit made you don the apron and gloves, anyway. You took pride in your uniform, why not wear it? Besides, you knew he liked to see you in your eccentric getup.

Swiftly grabbing your keys and new gift, you toe on your trainers and head out, making sure the cats had their bowls filled as you walked out the door.

You know he said an hour, but the park was a decent drive away, and you wanted to prepare your presentation while you waited. Driving provided you the perfect, distraction-free opportunity to rehearse exactly what you wanted to say.

The only tell of your rising anxiety was the pitter-patter of your fingers on the steering wheel at the occasional red light.

…

The gravel parking area was empty upon your arrival. Good. You could rehearse some more. The sun had just set, and it colored the sky a dusky blue, the color of fine velvet.

Still yet, there were several people enjoying the cool evening air and strolling under the towering trees.

You anticipated it would be a bit longer before he arrived, so you quickly exited the vehicle and began rehearsing. The gift itself remained safely buckled in the front seat.

“I have something I need to give you…no, where the passion in that?” you circle back, the small rocks crunching under your shoes as you pivot. “I must confess that your flowers inspired me to….am I a regency novel heroine, no!” you kicked a random piece of gravel and started again. “Your flowers were…”

“Am I interrupting anything?”

You let out startled gasp, and a deep voice had you wheeling around to face your boss, who had been silently watching you pace and mutter to yourself for several minutes.

In your rehearsal trance, you failed to notice he was in fact, already here. His car is parked several spots down from yours. Not close enough for you to see it, but not far away enough to be an arduous walk.

He’s smiling at you, and his hands are in the pockets of his tailored black slacks. He looks so handsome, and you’re sure you resemble out-of-water trout. Eyes wide, mouth open. Perhaps you can recover the situation.

“I got your flowers,” you blurted out, too stunned by his sudden appearance to come up with something more eloquent, despite your efforts at practicing. Okay, perhaps not.

“Did you find them suitable?” He rumbled, his tone betraying how hopeful he felt.

“Yeah, uh, yes! They were incredible! I have them in my kitchen to look at everyday!” your say, your voice now an octave higher as your vocal cords were slowly being strangled by your nerves. Something about him and this whole situation turned you into a shy little schoolgirl talking to her crush for the first time.

“I, um, I actually,” you pause to cough, dignity at an all time low, “I actually have something for you too.”

“For me? That was kind of you, dear.” His voice indicated an incredulity at your actions, “But you didn’t have to give me anything in return.”

“Yes, I know, but just let me go get it,” you scamper back to your car to retrieve your little guy, the gravel crunching under your trainers. With your back to The Dealer, you quickly hide the little kitty in the inside of your jacket, hidden from his view.

“Okay, hold our your hand!” you say, waiting for him to remove one hand from his pocket.

You see his eyes widen as he beheld what you were offering.

“I figured you had enough money to buy anything in the world you wanted, so I gave you something money can’t buy. Something from the heart that I made myself. He’s no Garfield, but I still hope you like him,” you said, gently placing the suited orange kitty in his palm. He takes it with the gentleness that one might hold a baby bird.

“I see…,” he says softly, captivated. He tilts the plush delicately, the size of his hands dwarf the felt animal.

Your heart feels that it might burst out of your chest as he examines your gift. He was probably noticing every mistake you made during the creative process.

When you feel like you might break out into a cold sweat, he speaks.

“Thank you, dear. This is the nicest gift anyone has ever given me.”

“Really?” you ask, your own bashful smile tugging at the edge of your lips.

“Yes, he’s the perfect reminder of you. I’ll treasure him always.”

You shuffle in place shyly, ducking your chin just the slightest, “I knew that I wanted to match your effort with the bouquet, and I did it the best way I knew how.”

You felt his fingertips gently tilt your chin up. He’s close enough for you to breathe in the smell of gunpowder and the warmth of his skin. “My dear, I consider myself the luckiest man on earth to have earned any semblance of your affection,” he murmurs, his empty eyes holding yours in a steady gaze before he leans down to gently kiss you.

Chapter Text

You are both giggly as children for the remainder of the body transfer.

He had gently tucked your gift into the passenger seat of the Jaguar. The sweet little kitty seams even smaller there, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d say that the gleam in his little button eyes spoke of an excitement to journey to his rightful home.

You just can’t rid yourself of the bashful smile embedded in your face as you both carry the body out of the Jaguar, making conversation as you went.

Joyfully, you note that the two of you now have matching expressions, as he always wore his signature grin.

Once the body is loaded into the the back of your car, he courteously closes the trunk, saving you the effort of reaching up to do it yourself.

You thank him by stepping up on your tip-toes, giving him another affectionate smooch.

A height you definitely didn’t mind reaching.

You definitely linger too long as you run your hands down his arms as you depart, eyes widening at the power you felt under his clothes. If he noticed your allured grasping, he doesn’t say anything. But perhaps he didn’t need to, as his face was the color of a cactus blossom.

Whoops.

“I’d prefer it if you burned this one,” he tells you, that deep voice running under your skin and through your soul. He referred, or course, to the corpse now safely hidden in your trunk.

“Oh? Thinking of another bonfire?” you tease, holding your hands behind your back as you rock on your feet. You weren’t trying to be flirtatious, but you needed a way to expend this excited energy before you jumped him in this public park.

The Jaguar is too small, girl. Remember!

He chuckled, his eyes crinkled in earnest amusement, “As much as I’d love to, dearest, it’s getting too cold to make a bonfire look inconspicuous. You’ll have to get creative.”

“Like breaking the body up? Throw a limb in the fireplace in the evenings?”

“Precisely.” His eyes gleamed in approval, “I knew I’d chosen the right candidate for this occupation.”

“And here I thought you chose me because I looked cute in my custodian uniform,” you tilt your chin up at him playfully, “But why burn this one in particular?”

“He wore the most unflattering, striped polo I had ever seen on a person.”

You laughed abruptly, not expecting his answer. You knew how high his opinion was when it came to clothing, but the article must have been truly hideous to cause such offense. “What, even more unflattering than my Garfield pajamas?”

He cocks his head, looking at you. “You thought those were unflattering?” He paused to rake his eyes up and down your form. Unprepared for that insightful comment, you immediately stopped rocking.

Your apron, long gloves, and overalls allowed him to see very little of you, but somehow you felt he had stripped you bare with nothing but a glance.

“Don’t sell yourself too short, dear. There’s something…irresistible…about how vulnerable you allow yourself to be around me,” he leaned in close, admiring the alarmed arousal rising in your wide eyes. Months ago, his close proximity would have frightened you into cowering behind your cleaning cart.

But now you just felt horny.

You silently curse the manufacturers of the Jaguar XJ6 for not designing their vehicle large enough to accommodate your depraved fantasies of you and your employer.

“Call me whenever you please. Or when you dispose of the refuse. Whichever comes first,” he said, gently brushing the back of his knuckles against the side of your face. You were almost surprised that you didn’t catch his hand alight.

You gave each other your farewells, more tender than the professional transfer called for, and headed off to your own respective vehicles.

On the drive back, it began to rain. The cooling air tempered your blood into something calmer. Gentle, syncopated, beats of each drop on your windshield created a comforting soundtrack to your indulgent daydreams.

You wore a ring of gold under your gardening gloves, and his fine suits always had cat hair on them.

…

Upon unzipping the black bag containing the latest body, the first thing you did was assess how they died. It remained your only clue to what the Dealer’s “games” consisted of.

Typically, it was by a gunshot wound, but frequent red herrings appeared in the form of track marks on the abdomen (of all places), and the rancid smell of alcohol souring in a dead stomach.

This latest guest that was unfortunate enough to lose to The Dealer, was fired upon at close range. It was like he held the shot-gun himself, and aimed for his chin. The explosive tunneling of a single bullet had left nothing but red tendrils of sinew desperately tying the remaining pieces of muscle and grey matter to his hollowed face.

And despite the gruesome mess that remained of his head, his polo still managed to be uglier.

You imagined it was originally blue before the blood seeped through the floppy Barrymore collar. The mustard yellow stripes running down the shoulders harkened a tacky race-car driver. Maybe one that moonlighted as an accountant. What catalogue would even sell a shirt so ugly?

Regardless of your exasperation regarding a dead man’s apparel, you prepped your surroundings to drain the blood before you began chopping. Your radio plays a sugary pop song as you steadily hack into the deceased gambler until his remains can fit into air-tight bags. From there, they can sit in organized stacks in your freezer.
You hum along as you do your tasks, checking them off mentally.

Afterward, you were off to clean your fireplace.

…

A sudden knock at the door had your cats scrambling for cover under the nearest furniture item.

Fiddle chose the couch. Tuxedo chose the adjoining coffee table. You couldn’t even accuse them of being over dramatic; you were alarmed as well.

The three of you had been spending some quality time together. You were laying on your couch reading your romance novel while the cats curled up in front of the newly cleaned fire place, blinking as they watched the flames slowly eat the logs and limbs you had thrown in. The smell of cooking meat was ignorable if your blanket was freshly laundered, which is was. All in all, you had created the perfect living room ambiance for a quiet evening in with your cats.

You had assumed, ideally, that everyone who had the option of staying nice and toasty inside their homes would choose to do so, but no, you had assumed wrong. Someone thought it was more entertaining to bother you.

But who would come to visit you on a random Tuesday evening? Surely not…? Your presumptuous heart leapt.

You threw off your blanket and padded over to the door, setting your book on the table Tuxedo cowered under. Upon opening the door, the brief crescendo of your heartbeat halted. It wasn’t your newly acquired darling, but a woman in a knee-length black coat. Her face is unfamiliar to you until you inhale her peppermint perfume, clinging like cobwebs to wall of an old house.

The smell yanks forth the memory of you, newly employed, standing at the front desk of a librarian as she quickly typed away at her computer, judging as you stumbled through explaining a fabricated student project.

She continued to stand in front of you. You see a second person standing just over her shoulder. A stranger with bifocal glasses and red hair. You presume he’s connected to the librarian in some regard.

“Can I help you?” The question mark at the end of your sentence was more implied than anything that could be audible in your voice. You weren’t particularly in the mood for visitors. Well, no visitors except for one, and they definitely weren’t him.

The librarian’s expression implies that she recognizes you too, but she remains silent, her lips compressing as she looks at you.

You note she has a sheet of paper tightly grasped in her perfectly manicured hands. It’s just a shade too yellow to be considered off-white. The man behind her has a stack of paper in the same color.

“Hi there, my name is Carol Finch. This is my husband, Nathan,” she starts, obviously rehearsed, gesturing to him. Nathan gives you a very tired look from behind his wife, “and we’re looking for my brother, David McGregor.”

She turns the paper so that you may see the contents of what it contains. At the top, in bold text reads “MISSING PERSON.” The smaller text underneath reads a phone number, presumably the couple’s, or at least the pigs’ hotline.

The large picture that features in the center of the paper is of a smiling, blond, male in glasses. The picture depicts him outside underneath a maple tree. The leaves create a dappling effect of sunlight on a truly unfortunate blue polo with mustard yellow stripes.

Your stomach lurches, and it takes everything in you not to gasp in shock. You quickly try to school your expression into something that wasn’t ‘blind panic.’ Your vision blurs a little bit with the effort. You can feel beads of cold sweat form on your forehead as you grip the doorframe.

Holy fuck, this was bad.

Nathan adjusts his grip on the stack of papers he held. His expression suddenly looked more alert. You could feel his bloodshot eyes scrutinizing you as his wife continued talking, oblivious.

The librarian, Carol, holds the paper out to you. She doesn’t seem to notice your inner turmoil, saying that her brother “went missing two days ago,” and that “she would appreciate you keeping a look out,” you just nod as her voice travels in and out of your racing thoughts.

“Y-yes. I’m sorry for your-sorry, that your brother’s gone missing. His name was-is!-David?” you stammer, voice choked by dread coiling within you.

Carol nods demurely, you almost miss her eyes squinting as she examines you closer. You know damn well she remembers the books you select, and you weren’t talking about the romance novels.

Nathan is staring daggers into you as you continue to lie with all the social skills of a rock. You hoped his glasses shattered at how pointed his gaze was.

“T-that’s really tragic. I’ll be sure to stay-um, stay vigilant,” you murmur, tilting your body further into your home.

She sniffed delicately, tucking her coat closer around herself. You almost felt a twinge of guilt through the rampant anxiety blasting through your veins.

For a moment, the three of you just stood there, awkwardly waiting for the other person to continue the conversation.

“So, um, what was your brother’s job?” you ask, hoping to throw them off your scent, “Maybe-maybe his job was stressful?”

Carol nodded, “He was an accountant.”

A cushy fucking pencil-pusher. No stress to be found. You’re sure your expression was fucking abysmal, but there was no hiding this amount of stress. Not even three days ago you were being catty with your boy-toy about this man’s grody polo, and now his family was at your door with a missing person’s flier?

What the fuck were you meant to do!?

“O-oh, well maybe…”

Carol sniffed again, this time taking a deep inhale, peering around your shoulder into your home. She interrupts you, “Are you cooking something?”

Yeah, your brother.

The smell of the fireplace must have crept out onto the welcome mat. Seeing an opportunity to get the fuck away from the situation, you immediately jumped on it. “Yes, actually, and I think it’s currently burning. Goodbye!”

The slamming of the front door rattled everything on the attached wall. You clutched the doorframe like your legs might give out. You weren’t entirely sure you could depend on their support.

Through the closed door, you shouted (squeaked, brokenly), “Good luck finding your brother!”

You ran a shaking hand down the front of your sweaty face.

You think it could have gone better if you actually were a rock.

After a safe amount of time had passed, and you had managed to settle your breathing, you opened the door again. Just to check that they had left for good.

No one in sight. Whew.

Looking down, you noticed Carol and Nathan had deliberately placed the missing person’s flier on the welcome mat in front of your door.

David McGregor looked back at you. The smell of his burning flesh wafted from smoldering logs on your fireplace.

Chapter Text

Garbage bags of cooled ash and charred wood were all that remained of your perfect night in. The tranquility of the evening was shattered by the prying eyes of Carol and Nathan Finch. Two venomous snakes crawling into crevices they didn’t belong in.

The cats had long since emerged from their hiding places, now sitting beside you as you ran a shaky hand down each of their backs. You all sat in front of the fireplace, pensively staring at the smudged soot on the structured stone, mind racing far from your humble abode.

Their gentle purrs did little to calm the erratic beating of your panicked heart, though you appreciated the effort. Your poor nerves were set alight at the possibility of being found out by that horrid couple, of it coming to light that you were complicit in the murder of one David Mcgregor.

You drew your hand away from the soft back of Fiddle to tightly clench your fist. The edge of your nails pressed little red crescents into your palm. Even with your muscles wound as tight as you could get them, you still trembled like a leaf in a winter storm, windswept by rapid, uneven breaths.

You tried rationalizing the situation. Maybe they didn’t even suspect you. Why were you getting so worked up over this? You closed your eyes, and exhaled slowly, grimacing in the blue dark of your house. In the ensuing panic following the couple’s visit, you had turned off every light in your home.

This was going to have to be a phone call, wasn’t it?

You knew he preferred keeping your correspondence over the phone short, but this was something he needed to be informed of immediately. Even if it was only as an employee informing their boss of a problem, it needed to be done. Never mind the fact that you two were definitely more than just boss and employee.

You could be professional. You could keep it together for this. You didn’t need to be reminded that your Dealer was also at risk if Carol pried any further into your business.

You could remain calm enough for one phone-call. The breakdown could come afterward; you didn’t need to burden him with your pathetic sniffling.

You are wound up so tight that your joints creak as you rise from your seat. How long had you just been sitting on the floor? You use the feeling of the carpet against the soles of your feet as an anchor for the rest of your body. The abrupt change to the cold tile floor of the kitchen maintained the same effect. The cats slowly blinked as you stumbled your way there.

You unhook the phone from its cradle on the wall, holding it close to your face as you push each number in the correct order. You ignore the tremble in your hands as you make contact with the dial pad.

A small, secret part of you wanted this call. This new, desperate need for the comfort and guidance that The Dealer could provide was a shameful admission. But the pink, inner-lining of your heart where you held everything soft and dear to you begged to hear his voice. You were nothing if not a creature of comfort.

The speaker is nestled close to your ear, and you twirl the cord on your index finger purely on muscle memory. Your head began to feel fuzzy. You straighten your spine as a reflex. You needed to knock this shit off. Just tell him what happened and be done with it.

You were competent enough to handle at least that.

As the metallic chime sounded for each second you waited for a response, you could feel the pressure building from within you, like a dam beginning to crack, as the threat to your safety fully sank in. If Carol and Nathan were suspicious enough to the degree you thought they were, then you were in serious trouble.

Get it the fuck together, you could not cry on the phone with him.

You took another deep breath, lungs stretching at the effort. It was a futile fight against a throat that was closing in on itself.

“Hello?” a deep voice sounded after a click, signaling he had answered your call. Your boss had excellent timing: the first tears had just brimmed over your eyes the second he picked up the phone.

“S-something happened,” you choked out, humiliated, while bringing a hand to your face. The brewing shame caused you to cover your eyes despite the fact that no one could see you other than the cats. Your paper thin plans of “being professional” were reduced to confetti before they even came to fruition.

“What has happened? Darling please, talk to me,” he says, the tinny veil the phone created could not hide the concern in his voice. You could hear shuffling sounds in the background, like paper scattering, as well as a slight increase in volume, indicating his mouth had moved closer to the speaker.

“Do you remember the last assignment?” you weep into the speaker, not waiting for his response. You needed to power through this before you started full-on sobbing, “Connections to the-the assignment are…suspecting my involvement. I spoke to two. I-It didn't go well. There’s a flier on my doorstep,” you blubber into the phone, using the heel of your palm to wipe your tears away. You had all the dignity of a wet kitten in a cardboard box.

You couldn’t exactly tell him what had occurred. Not while you both were on the phone at least. When you first started work-related calls, he encouraged you to be vague about updates, and this was no exception. You were compromised enough as it was.

“Breathe, my love. Have you been hurt?” his voice had more severity than you had ever heard, and his concern for you was touching. Unfortunately, it did nothing but make your crying worse.

“No, no, they’re gone now. But I’m so scared of-of what's to come. What do I do if they come b-back?” you hiccup, both hands now gripping the curved handle of the telephone. You had slid down onto the floor of the kitchen, back pressed against the wooden wall panels. You eyed the windows through the blinds. Nothing but the black cover of night gazed at you.

“I’m right here, darling. I won’t let anyone lay a hand to you,” the steady cadence of his words slows the rapid rise and fall of your chest, “I told you that I’d take care of you when you signed that contract as my employee, and I have every intention of keeping my word,” he spoke into his own receiver, and you could almost feel his words blanketing you, soaking up the running rivulets gliding down your face. He continues.

“I recognize it was hard for you to reach out to me about this, but I appreciate you still calling me regardless. You’re a smart girl, and you did the right thing,” your chest warms at his praise, and you can’t help the upward quirk of your mouth despite your tears.

“Well, y-you’re also on the line if I mess up. It’s not just me that has to deal with the consequences of my own actions,” you respond, noting your voice is more stable.

“Ah, but I’ve been in this business a while, dear. Rest assured that I can and will deal with any…contingencies that pose a threat to us,” he says, his voice a soft rumble. You tried not to obsess over his use of us. Not himself solely, but the two of you together. A united front. Just one word from him and you were a melted puddle on the tile.

“So I didn’t need to panic over this, and just wasted your time on an unneeded phone call?” you asked, feeling the notch between your brows form as you reflected on your lunacy. You really just sat at the fireplace for hours reflecting on an unexpected social interaction.

As always, he was endlessly patient with you. “As this situation has yet to arise during your time with me, I commend your quick thinking in calling. This situation does have the potential to escalate, so some disquiet is expected.”

You felt better knowing you did the right thing, but if things did escalate, you wondered how you could handle it? Carol and Nathan played games with your blood pressure just by standing on your doorstep. The Dealer continues, ensnaring your attention and heart.

“And no amount of time spent speaking with you is wasted, dear.” He almost sounded affronted at the implication that you annoyed him. “You must know that I cherish you beyond measure, and it would be terribly inconvenient for me if something were to happen to you.”

You gurgled out a laugh, “Just inconvenient?”

“Well, who else would I bestow my lavish bouquets upon?”

You hide your face in your hand for a different reason. He had an innate talent for making you feel bashful. But the butterflies in your stomach did not outweigh the serpent of anxiety coiling below.

You take a deep breath. This playful flirtation was fun, but you needed to know for certain what you could do if the worst happened. He was your boss and ally, but if you were cornered at the park feeding the cats, at the grocery store, or worse, disposing of another body, what did you need to do? What could you do?

“If connections to the assignment do come bac—?” you start, but he cuts you off. The alarm in his voice immediately quiets any grievance you would normally have about the social faux pas.

“We must no longer speak of the assignment on the phone. I cannot know if the line is secure. In the interest of protecting your safety, I will be…relocating you. Meet me at the Methodist. I will come to retrieve you. Prepare the things you will need for an extended stay.”

At that, he cut the line, ending the call. The abrupt end had you reeling. The monotonous dial-tone sang out from the speaker, and you absent-mindedly set the phone back in its cradle.

The befuddlement he had incurred in you overrode any leftover anxiety you had. Hell, you weren’t even crying anymore. Which, you would later reflect, might have been his entire goal. That and preventing any important information from leaking on a potentially tapped call.

He was relocating you? To where?

Chapter Text

You were running riot trying to get all of your shit together. For every internal check mark you wrote, it felt like three more items were added to your mental to-do/to-pack list.

You needed to dispose of any blatant evidence of the bodies in your home, so the garbage bags of David McGregor’s ash were immediately tossed onto the curb. Any chemicals you used to dissolve bones were poured into the sewer drain outside, and you threw extra charcoal on your porch, just to eliminate any leftover smells.

Okay, now what about the stacks of vacuum sealed meat in your freezer? The “mysterious” packages of meat could stay, fortunately. Human meat marbled like beef, so it just looked like you raided the fridge from a steakhouse. With your home now adorned with more expensive items acquired through your disposable income, it wouldn’t be that unreasonable to believe that your palate had become pricier. So steakhouse mystery fridge was safe.

Now, what about your clothes? You immediately shut the freezer door to gather your things in the bedroom. Your suitcase, buried under all of the other pieces of dusty clutter you barely used, was under your bed. Dragging it out into the open, you started throwing shit in it like you were making kitchen sink soup. Socks, underwear, and whatever clothing items were closest were all fair game.

You didn’t know if he wanted to meet you immediately, but you guessed it was better to not keep him waiting, so fashion wasn’t really a priority. If it was laundered, it went into the suitcase.

This included your Garfield pajamas. You would need the comfort they would provide in the coming days. Maybe you could buy yourself some matching slippers as a treat for yourself once this was over with.

Wait, how many pairs of shoes should you bring? You could just wear your trainers, but would you need your orange boots for work? Would he even have you work while you were lying low? You didn’t know how long you would be absent from your home, so you scrambled to grab the articles to your work uniform to throw them into your suitcase. You could just re-purchase your cleaning supplies, if needed.

Oh fuck, did you need toiletries? You dropped your uniform apron into the suitcase before scurrying to the bathroom. He didn’t specify where you were being relocated, but you assumed it was some sort of motel, like the one your friend’s Dad owned: a quiet, unexceptional place you could stay whilst avoiding Carol and Nathan. After some deliberation, you grabbed your bottles from the sink and shower. You packed your toothbrush away in a sealable plastic bag, and threw your soap and shampoo, conditioner, and other hair-care bottles in your suitcase as well.

What about snacks? What if your relocation destination was across state-lines? If you were in for a road trip, you definitely needed snacks! You immediately do a one-eighty back to the kitchen.

To outside observers, your erratic behavior could be compared to that of a flustered hen lacking her head; Clucking and scratching around the coop at random as you frantically packed, threw away incriminating items, and spiraled further into panic when another, previously unknown task on your to-do list sprang up from out of nowhere.

Two outside observers, already present, still curled up in front of the empty fireplace, made no such judgments on your behavior as you wobble past. In your fervor to do everything possible as quickly as you could, you missed the subtle cues coming from Tuxedo, bidding you for more pets.

Eventually, in an effort to be observed, she bounded up onto the coffee table. With a few tentative curls of her white-socked foot, she had knocked a paperweight onto the carpet. The plush material muffled any noise the cup would have made upon contact with the floor. When your attention failed to be captured by that, she did the same again to an empty drinking cup, taking delight in seeing it fall.

You noticed none of this. And perhaps that was for the best as Tuxedo’s eyes were as big as the moon as she swatted yet another trinket off the table.

Fiddle, however, was not one to be outdone, and let loose a raspy yowl that no one could ignore, especially not you. Your head nearly snaps off your neck with the force you use to swivel it. You slowed to a halt in front of the living room where the two slowly blinked at you, drawing you in.

You immediately dropped the bag of chips, and wandered over to them, taking extra care to approach softly, so as not to startle them. Kneeling down upon the carpet, you let your shins support your weight.

Fiddle arched his neck into your hand as you drew it over his orange fur. Tuxedo bounded down from the coffee table, and bounded over, rubbing her head against your leg. Their purring, each with the same frequency, was a balm to your frantic state of mind. It was almost as if they were casting a magic spell to soothe your packing frenzy. You sighed, partially because you were out of breath, but also out of guilt.

If only you could take them with you.

Unlike you, who could see past The Dealer’s ominous exterior for the kind gentleman you knew him to be, the cats, as evidenced by their first meeting, were petrified by him.

You imagined being stuck in a car with him (for who knows how long) would spike their stress levels beyond what you could assuage. Additionally, your relocation accommodation had yet to be disclosed, and you weren’t going to risk the place you stayed at not allowing pets.

Fortunately for them, and your nerves, you had a plan.

Your friend worked the night shift at the front desk for her Dad’s tacky motel. You knew she loved cats, and you could trust their safety with her. You gave her a quick dial, knowing she kept her own bagphone with her on shift, to confirm that she could take your babies in, indefinitely.

“Girl, this is really short notice. Are you sure everything’s chill? You’re not running from the law or something, are you?”

Yes.

“No, no, nothing like that. I, um, just have an emergency with my family.” Your future family, if you could convince your boss to put a ring on it.

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. She just didn’t need to know the details.

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry,” she says, falling for your deception. Thank goodness. You didn’t know what you’d do if she didn’t believe you, “Yeah, I can take them when I get off shift. Can you meet me in the motel parking lot? I’ll be done with work at 4.”

You look at the clock on the kitchen wall. That was almost an hour from now. Perfect.

“Great, see you then. I’ll have their dinner schedules written up for you.”

“Dinner sche-?”

You hang the phone back on its hook before she could finish her sentence.

You had a little over an hour to finish packing your things, drive to the motel, and then meet The Dealer at the Methodist.

You threw more clothes into your suitcase, making sure to throw in articles with lined fabric. The temperature was quickly dropping, and you weren’t going to assume the heating quality of the location you were heading to.

You had to sit on the suitcase to get it to completely close, but with tremendous effort, you were able to wrestle the zipper around to where it needed to be. You threw your books in a spare backpack along with your comb, first aid kit, and the unopened bag of chips you dropped on the floor. You also grabbed the cats’ feeding schedule from the fridge, scribbling out the words “human meat” underneath Tuesday.

You were certain you had everything you absolutely needed. You double, triple checked that every incriminating item in regard to your job was burned, trashed, drained, or at least very carefully disguised.

Ushering the cats into a carrier was nightmarish, and they squalled their disapproval despite the oodles of treats you showered upon them.

You empathized greatly, you didn’t like it either, but you weren’t willing to compromise their safety just to keep them close. You slid in a few of their crinkly toys through the thin bars as a compromise.

Sliding on a pair of slouch socks, your trainers, and your winter coat, you began hauling everything into your car. You think that ate more time than packing did, with your clumsy attempt to haul a suitcase half your weight, but you eventually had everything in its place. The cats’ carrier sat in the passenger seat, the bagphone and your backpack was in the backseat, and your suitcase was shoved into the trunk.

Now, sitting in the driver’s seat, you took a long look at your home. You told yourself it was to check if anything was out of place, but the sentimental part of your soul knew that it was to intake everything before you left. The snow had accumulated on the roof in a thick blanket, and icicles shimmered on the gutter. The next time you saw this place, perhaps the snow will have melted, and flowers would be blooming again.

You started the car, and made your way to the motel.

The drive, fortunately, was uneventful. The kitty drop-off even more so. Your friend remarked on how good you looked, but you could see the hesitancy in her gaze. She knew something was up, but lacked the ability to ask about it in a way that seemed casual. You concurred that you enjoyed seeing her again, and that the two of you should meet up once the family emergency blew over. The whole interaction was maybe fifteen minutes, and you maintained the most chipper mask you could muster as you gave her the carrier containing the two halves of your heart.

You blew a kiss to your darling angels, gave your friend their feeding schedule, and told her to take good care of them. She promised she would, and you waved a tender goodbye before heading out. You knew they didn’t understand what was happening, but you hoped they would forgive you for this, in good time.

If you dabbed at your eyes while driving to the Methodist, well, no one was around to see you anyway. You consoled yourself with the thought that you would see them once your safety, and by extension, theirs, were assured again.

…

He was in the best suit you had seen him in to date. You could have killed him. And as the sun was cresting over the horizon, he looked positively mouth-watering.

You on the other hand, might as well have been dragged from a river. If he noticed the sheen of sweat on your skin despite the frigid air, or the faint puffiness from your wet eyes, he kept quiet. You’d gotten quite the workout from running back and forth during your packing frenzy, and your brief breakdown in the car had left your overall appearance something to be desired.

“Had I known that we needed to be in our Sunday best for this, I would have worn my good sweatpants,” you joked, rolling out of the driver’s seat.

He chucked, indulgent, “We are at a church, dear, but I had an engagement prior to this. Hence, my attire,” he gestures to his front, to the notch lapels and shiny black buttons of his fine coat, interwoven with thin silver stripes. It was thicker than his usual blazers. The dark iron color of the material was stark against the snowy earth and the towering white of the steeple.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you wear this suit before,” you tell him, carrying your backpack to the backseat of the Jaguar, the bagphone strapped over your shoulder. He intercepts your hold by offering his arm to take the bag. You, internally swooning, oblige him. The bagphone, you kept a careful hold of, setting the expensive accessory in the passenger seat.

“You haven’t, it’s a new addition to my wardrobe. I wore it to impress you,” his blatant admission of his want for your attention nearly causes you to stumble on your way back to retrieve your suitcase.

Your eyebrows approached your hairline as you looked at him. “Oh, well consider me impressed! Now I really wish I would have worn something better,” you say as you open the trunk of your car, your suitcase hadn’t moved during transit, “Come to think of it, I don’t think you’ve seen me in anything but my pajamas and my work uniform before.”

“When I gave you your uniform, you wore denim jeans and a yellow sweatshirt, but that remains the only time.”

“Ah, I remember that now. But still, it’s nothing like what you wear to our meetings.”

“It’s a requirement for my job that I dress a certain way, but regardless of my suits, an expansion in your choice of clothing will be a development that I look forward to seeing during your relocation,” his voice is closer than you expect. As you turn to look at him, he’s approached to assist you with your suitcase. “May I?”

You acquiesce, letting him handle your luggage. You take a step back to admire the sturdy breadth of his back as he lifts. It’s as if the considerable weight doesn’t even register to him. A far cry from the struggle you endured when you loaded the heavy thing into your car.

“What do you mean? Are you staying with me at the motel?” you ask as he shuts the Jaguar’s trunk.

“Motel?” he asked, incredulous. He turns to face you. The muscles over his eyes are lifted in a quizzical arch.

“Yeah, the place where I’m being relocated to. Or did we have it in the budget to spring for a hotel?” your eyes widen as you consider room service and a door that opens to a hallway and not to a parking lot. Ooh, hot towels! It’d be just like in the movies!

Unblinking, with an amused grin working at his mouth, he looks down at you. Not out of condescension, but just due to your sheer height difference. However, you can tell he is trying very hard not to laugh at you.

Your own mouth thins and your eyes narrow as you gaze up at him. You’re trying to figure out how what you said could be considered humorous.

His smile widens further as he acknowledges your disgruntlement, “My apologies for the confusion, my dear,” He didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. No, if anything, he sounded pleased, “You’re going to be staying with me, at my home, for the foreseeable future.”

This time, he completely fails to muffle his outburst of laughter at your look of complete astonishment.

…

“Where are your adoptees?”

You lift your head from its perch on the heel of your hand to look at him, previously lost in thought. You were wondering what your little kitties were up to now, hoping that they found their accommodations agreeable.

The Dealer and yourself had been driving for around ten minutes in comfortable silence. The Jaguar had a smoother tread than your own vehicle, and the sleek leather seats were far more comfortable. But the highest luxury, by far, was his quiet company in the driver’s seat, separated from you only by the center console.

“Hmm?” you murmured, missing his question completely. Just being in his presence was soothing enough to send you to another state of peace. You could almost drift off.

“Your cats, I thought you would have brought them with you,” he clarified, patiently, in that startling baritone. His eyes never left the road. With both hands at the correct position on the steering wheel, you knew his lack of eye contact was a prioritization of your safety and not a slight.

For a man whose job involved a fair amount of risk, he sure paid very close attention to the speed limit.

You again rested your gaze against the tree-line as you answered, watching the gray trunks and bare branches blur as the car drove past.

“They’re safe. They’re just staying with a friend I trust. I was scared they wouldn’t be allowed where we were going,” you answered him, running your hands down your sweatpants, letting the cotton texture ground you, “I did think you were taking me to a motel…” you drifted off, feeling a little silly for the assumption in hindsight.

“It is heartening to hear that they are good hands. I know the distance between you is painful, but it will keep them protected. I trust your judgment about this friend of yours, and our assignment’s connections will be none the wiser,” he rumbled, reaching over to stroke your hand with his. The touch was brief, almost hesitant, but the solace his words and his touch brought threaded through your body like the warmth of the sun after endless nights of December cold.

Your head turned towards him, astounded at his easy understanding of your feelings. His attentive demeanor suddenly made you very shy. Were you really so easy for him to read? Perhaps he was paying closer attention to you than his road-fixed eyes disclosed.

You rested your head against the window, hoping the proximity to the chilly glass would keep your face cool. Currently, your boss acted like it was his full-time job to keep you flustered. Yet another attractive trait of his for you to obsess over.

You adjusted your gaze, casting another brief glance at him. Just a taste, nothing that he would suspect, or even notice if you were subtle.

You feared if you looked at him for too long, he would be able to see the blatant want you had shining in your eyes. His powerful form behind the steering wheel was captivating, but the last thing you wanted was to cause the Jaguar to wreck, wasting thousands of hours of cleaning. Sensibly, and painfully, you stamped down your desperation to give him road head, and instead set your gaze outside the window on the treeline.

The tall, uneven rows of emerald conifers and dormant oaks were larger than those by your home. How far away was his place from town? The snow capped trees only thinned when displaced by the occasional house. With the sun still hovering just above the horizon, most of the curtains were closed against the light of the early morning, so you were content to stare at any of the homes you both drove by.

The further you both drove, the larger the houses became. Through the window, you scrutinized the ornate homes that grew more bloated as the drive continued. The hodge podge of different design elements was tasteless even to a layman like you. The tacky opulence revealed the owners desperate desire to look wealthy, rather than have their homes to appear cohesive in any way.

You cast a glance at The Dealer, and you desperately hope that he had the sense to reside in a home that wasn’t this gaudy. You hoped his own home, whatever it looked like, was more subdued than these. You’d still love him if it wasn’t, but God, at what cost?

The sound of white gravel crunching underneath the Jaguar’s wheels alerted you to look forward. In your adjudication of the homes you passed, you must have missed when the road turned from asphalt to loose rock. You didn’t realize the Jaguar had off-road capabilities.

He twists and turns the vehicle down the winding path. You eventually have to lift your head off the window because the ride was considerably more jarring to your head than it once was.

The houses have started to thin. No more do they interrupt the tree line, leaving the massive aspens and pines to climb skyward without modern boundaries. Hardier birds that choose to ride out the cold rather than fly south can be heard singing, bringing forth the sun.

You appreciate the peaceful drive for what it is, a chance to gaze at nature you wouldn’t normally have access to within the confines of the city, and an excuse to sit near him, sneaking glances at your boss ever so often. You notice that his shoulders have eased since you had been off the main road.

After a handful of minutes, not enough to keep count, you both come upon a gate obstructing the gravel roadway. It was something tall, iron, and intricate. The structure was designed to look intimidating to those who were tempted to breach it. It made you anxious just to look at it.

The swirls of wrought iron metal interlocked between two rectangular brick columns, about twenty feet apart, that supported its hinges. On either side of the columns, the fence, consisting of joined black spires, high enough that you would have a miserable time climbing it, ran out from either side of the brick columns and into the tree line. The fence seemed as endless as it was menacing. The fact that it was the only man-made thing out here for miles made it even more so.

“Wait just a moment,” The Dealer advises, and exits the car, heading toward the gate.
Taking his advice, you sit and observe as he reaches in his coat pocket to pull out a key. It is small in his hands, but then again, most things were. You’re sure that the black piece of metal would be a considerable size in your own grip. With the key, he unlocks the gate, swinging the creaky door open so that you both may pass through.

Pocketing the key, he returns to the car to drive you both through. He steps out once again after clearing the gate to lock it again.

You both continue down the road. You’re now paying active attention to any disruptions in the trees. You were content to passively listen the gravel crunch earlier, but now you were on the hunt for a house. You were so close to seeing just where The Dealer chose to spend his time when he wasn’t with you or at his job. What kind of place would he even have? A villainous Victorian? An awe-inspiring A-frame?

You were beside yourself with excitement as you peered out the window. And your patience was rewarded: the road ended in a gravel circle surrounding a frozen fountain in front of a colonial style house.

A house that absolutely didn’t disappoint.

The colonial house was colossal, by your home’s standards. However, it was understated and unpretentious compared to the swollen affronts to architecture you passed on the way here.
If a house could understand it was superior to its nearest structures, even ones miles away, this one did. You took in your fill of the elegant estate, admiring each detail.

The fresh sparkle of snow on the rooftop was only halted by three dormers atop the roof and two chimneys on either side of the house. They unintentionally reveal that it was built prior to the invention of central heating.

The five white windows on the second story, and the four on the first story, were framed in a crisp white, making the black paint of the exterior all the more prominent.

You exit the car, bagphone in hand, as you gently shut the Jaguar’s passenger door. You continue staring at the house.

The front door, a traditional red, divided the symmetrical house in half. The door was framed by two sconces and a roofed overhang supported by white pillars. The sconces were modeled like that of street lamps. Against the chill, they worked almost like a beacon, drawing you into the warm abode. Like they were two lighthouses beckoning your ship into a safe harbor.

The Dealer and yourself made swift work unloading the car. You noticed he took special care, ensuring that your things never once touched the icy ground.

As The Dealer and yourself carried your things inside, the gentle heat of his home was like being embraced by a loved one. You exhaled a huge breath you did not know you were holding. The shimmering light of the ceiling fixture in the foyer, gave this place a warm ambience that made you want to bask in its inviting glow. And so you did.

The wooden floors of his grand foyer gleamed with fine polish, spotless to the point where you could see a lemon scented reflection gazing up at you should you look down. This place had been cleaned recently, and you appreciated the effort that was taken to make such a large home feel welcoming.

The furniture, though sparse, gave the effect of the room being open and easily maneuverable inside of merely empty. There was not a single scratch on the dark wood, or a scuff on the floor, and it made you hesitate to move. You did not want to be the one who ruined the quality of the Dealer’s beautiful things.

You shakily unzipped your coat, and he surprised you by helping you out of it. Charmed, you slid out of the puffy winter garment. You wondered if hosting was a part of his mysterious job, as he was remarkably good at making you feel at home.

He takes off his own coat, hanging it beside yours onto the coat stand. He then takes the liberty of unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows, revealing the skin of his scarred forearms, corded with muscle. You imagine it is so he may remain comfortable in his home, warm as it is, but that does not stop your insatiable mind. If you spoke your thoughts, you would set womens’ rights back thirty years.

You shake your head. You could at least be a courteous guest. You haven’t even been here five minutes!

He ushers you into another room, once your coats are hanging, encouraging you to leave your things in the foyer. You do, leaving even your precious bagphone sitting atop your suitcase. He guides you with a large hand behind you, hovering just over your waist. You’re unsure if he is taking special care not to touch you, or if he’s just being respectful. Either way, you cannot dwell on the thought as you enter what appears to be a sitting room.

Standing in the open doorway, you note that there was not a single piece of clutter anywhere. Absolutely nothing was present that could disrupt the immaculate atmosphere of glamor. There were no cigarettes left out, no forgotten mugs on the coffee table, and not even any candles. There was nothing to show that the room had been lived in. You weren’t sure if you were in his living room, or an advertisement for a furniture catalog.

The furniture, like the pieces in the foyer, was exquisite, though untouched. They were magnificent in a way that showed he had taste as well as wealth. A rare trait.

The armchair’s trim had clawed feet, and the sofa was a deep maroon, inoffensive to the eye and complimentary of the wainscoting panels on the walls. The love seat counterpart to the sofa sat adjacent to coffee table, which matched the armchair in its clawed feet. At the back of the room stood a great fireplace, the mantle empty aside from a framed painting that hung above the wall. It was a river scene with a darling little mallard.

“My dear, you needn’t look so stiff. This is your home too while we navigate these unforeseen circumstances,” he insisted, unintentionally distracting you from your detailed inspection of his living room.

“Oh, of course! I’m…just having trouble processing everything,” you replied, shuffling your feet, casting a glance down at your reflection. She looked nervous.

The divot just above his eyes crinkles as he gives you a worried glance, “Yes, I imagine you have been through a lot, haven’t you? Come, have a seat with me in the formal living room.”

You followed him further into the room. “Does that imply the existence of an informal living room?” you ask, tip-toeing your way to the love seat. Upon sitting, you note that the seat is downy, and you are nearly swallowed into cushions. If it wasn’t a social faux pas, you could almost fall asleep in these chairs.

The Dealer takes his own seat in the armchair, leaning back into the upholstery. An invisible, heavy weight that always seemed to persist down on his shoulders dissolved into nothing. It was as if being in his home, with you present, alleviated all of the burdens he had. A part of you softened seeing him so comfortable.

“There’s a formal living room, where we currently are, a formal dining room, and an informal living room and dining room,” he explained.

“Why build a house with an extra living room and dining room?”

“Extravagantly wealthy people in the late 1700s needed places to entertain guests. Speaking of, would you like anything? Coffee? Or perhaps tea?”

“I’d like to see the informal living room?” you requested, cheekily, just barely hiding your impish grin.

“Like I said, it’s not suitable for company, but if you sneak about while I’m away, I’ll pretend I didn’t see,” his smile, naturally in place, widened ever so slightly at your request. He walked off, presumably to get you a drink.

You take another gander around the room, tempted to explore, but more interested in having a drink with your man. It’s large enough for The Dealer to move about comfortably, and is stocked with library books and a decorative table on the back wall, complete with matching clawed feet. The ceiling stretches high, not as tall as the foyer ceiling, but tall enough that if you sat on The Dealer’s shoulders you could brush your fingertips to the ceiling. Just how big was this place?

“How many rooms are there in this house?” you asked once he’d returned with the drinks. There are four cups on his tray, all a simple, opaque white.

He thinks for a bit, you can see him navigating the house in his mind. He had the drinks on a silver tray, and held it as he counted, “It contains five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a kitchen, a laundry room, and my study, in addition to the foyer, the living rooms and dining rooms. Though, most of the rooms are empty, merely because I do not have a use for them,” he set the tray down on the coffee table, within your reach, “Do you like tea? I have included both tea and coffee, just to be certain I catered to your tastes.”

You smile, enchanted, accepting the tea. You were already jittery, and feared the coffee would wind you up beyond measure. A part of you was tempted to ask him for a margarita, just to see what he would say. Perhaps at dinner you could test his patience.

You gently hold your drink, taking small sips as you admire the furniture, the walls, and that shiny, shiny reflection staring up at you. She looks calmer with that cup in her hands, with that relaxed smile on her face.

You took another sip, and another quick glance around this room with all these expensive items. With so many fine things in his home, there’s really no place to fuck him but the floor, you internally joke with yourself.

After finishing your drinks, he shows you around his home, even to the empty rooms. Most of the bedrooms completely lacked any furniture, though the floor and windows were spotless. You supposed it was clever of him not to clutter his space with unneeded items. It certainly made cleaning the house a more streamlined process.

He also led you to where you will be sleeping for the foreseeable future.

The two of you brought your things up from the foyer to the guest bedroom he had generously set up for you. You could feel your face fall as he tells you that you will be staying separate from his own quarters.

You look around the room you have been brought to.

It’s absolutely lovely. The color scheme was lighter than that of the rest of the house, though nothing as bright as what you typically had in your own home. Gauzy curtains permitted light from the large window to stream throughout the room, lighting the aspen grey armoire and corresponding bed frame. The chaise lounge in front of the bed looked almost as comfy as the bed itself.

“Do you like it?” he asked, titling his head ever-so-slightly forward. It looks like his suit wasn’t the only thing he used to gain your approval.

You beam at him, erasing every minute micro expression that could be construed as unhappy, “It’s beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever slept in a grander room in all my life.”

You delicately place yourself onto the chaise lounge, basking in the pastel sweetness of the new room. The seat is stiff, and the light from the window makes you colder than you once were.

He obviously spared no expense, and was able to cater to your tastes while maintaining the house’s classy atmosphere. Why did you still feel so disappointed? You needed to manage your expectations better. It was obvious he did not want you staying with him in his room.

Based on how far he was from the city, from any neighbors really, he clearly valued his privacy. You would have to respect that. You had been doing it for months now when it came to your job, how was this any different?

He turns to exit the guest bedroom’s threshold, waiting to continue the tour.

Your new room is just down the hall from his own, the very last door. You straighten out your forlorn expression once again before he could notice your disappointment, but you quietly consider the implications of him putting you in the guest bedroom furthest from his own.

…

He’s keeping his distance. You cannot deny it in the face of each shred of new evidence, though your denial is a powerful adversary.

It was now early in the afternoon, and you both had returned to his living room after putting your things away, having conversations you both never would have dared to in public.

It felt incredible, liberating even, to be able to discuss work without code words or deliberately keeping silent on things you couldn’t discuss in the city park or behind the butcher’s shop.

You were able to tell him, in full, everything that occurred with the Finches, and how they suspected your involvement with David McGregor’s disappearance (and unbeknownst to them, his death).

But the proximity he gladly took advantage of in public was mysteriously absent. You couldn’t understand why.

If you rested your hand closer to his, he would retreat. If you sat on one of the larger furniture items, like the love seat, he would take the armchair. It was subtle, as not to alarm you, but oh, how it hurt.

Maybe he only liked the chase, the conquest. And now that he had you, safe, and in his home, maybe the thrill of being romantically involved with you has waned.

You hated how you wilted at the thought.

But if he wanted distance, you would oblige him, however reluctantly. You respected him, after all. You wouldn’t dare encroach on his space without permission. But you should have cherished that hand brush in the car while you had the chance.

Though your physical distance remained a rocky chasm between you both, your emotional intimacy with each other was only bolstered by each other’s presence. You could talk with him for hours. And you did!

The conversation flowed like wine, which you currently sipped on. It was the closest he could manage after you asked for a margarita. You appreciated his accommodation regardless. He drank a vodka martini, complete with a little olive on a toothpick.

Dinner, in his informal dining room, was earlier than when you typically had it, but later than usual, as you both missed lunch. It was a simple fare, though his choices in alcohol were far, far fancier than yours.

“Why choose to furnish the formal living room, but not the formal dining room?” You asked, swirling the liquid in your glass. The waves of red circled the glass.

“I typically eat alone, and that fact is unfortunately emphasized by the abundance of space in the formal dining room,” he tells you. The informal dining room had six chairs, and you sit kitty-corner to him. Two suits of armor guard the door. The liquor cabinet looks to be worth more than your entire home. You can only imagine the excess splendor the formal dining room would have if it were furnished.

“I also eat by myself,” you empathize, “Though, maybe not if you consider Fiddle and Tuxedo begging for scraps to be considered company.”

He chuckles, “Are you an indulgent enough parent to feed them from the table?”

You shyly avert your gaze before admitting that yes, if it was safe, you occasionally gave your babies a snack from your plate.

“Then I would certainly consider them company, and you a good mother,” he toasts to you, a tender look on his face.

You smile, raising your glass in agreement. You take a longer drink than you normally would, hoping it would dull the stinging in your eyes. You miss your kitties, and with the Dealer so distant, your emotional state was a little bit more fractured than you wanted to admit. Your exhaustion certainly didn’t help matters. You drank the tea when you arrived, certainly that should have had enough caffeine to keep you going?

The wind outside howled as you set your glass down, but its chill could not touch you in the warmth of his company. The informal dining room did not have access to one of the large fireplaces, but the room was small enough to keep what heat there was concentrated. You look out the window again, watching the icy droplets accumulate on the window like lace.

“You know, I’ve yet to hide a body in such cold weather. Any advice?” you ask, watching the snowflakes by the million descend from the heavens. You doubted the frosty earth could be penetrated by a shovel, and a fire was out of the question.

He takes a sip of his own drink, and you watch the liquid fall between his teeth, like a freshwater stream falling into the mouth of a Venus Flytrap.

“You may not have to hide any while the snow falls. Business tends to slow in the colder months,” he replies, peaking your interest.

“Ah, how so?” you ask. You noticed both of your plates had a leaf motif around the edges. The intertwining leaves were reminiscent of climbing ivy. Fidelity. Did he choose these particular plates deliberately? Did he know the meaning too?

You hungered to know any detail he would permit you to learn in the absence of his touch. Your desire to be close to him in any way was almost a living thing writhing in your chest.

“Clubbing is not a popular winter sport, and most of our assignments do not want to make a special trip out to my office once the roads become hazardous,” he explains.

“That makes sense, and I guess that gives me more time to get creative about burial methods,” you push your food around your plate with your fork, careful not to scrape the ceramic, “So how do you occupy all of this extra time you have in the winter?”

The tipsier you got, the more questions you asked. You’ve lost track of the tally at this point. The warmth of the alcohol erased any nerves that may have lingered from earlier, and you took full advantage of the lack of inhibition.

“I partake in hunting…when the season allows for it. Duck is a favorite of mine,” he admits.

“Oh?” You hummed, leaning forward. Is this how he felt when you revealed your love of romance novels? You appreciated his willingness to open up to you. His hobby made sense, given the house’s location and his general demeanor.

Away from the artifice of neon lights, cloying clients, and sticky atmosphere of his workplace, you can imagine the refuge he seeks in the veridical serenity of the pastoral. You too enjoyed the peace of his home, hearing the winter birds call from outside the windows and the wind rustling through the trees.

The distance of his house from the rest of the city is an attestant to that. As was his apparent past-time of game hunting.

“It’s always a pleasant feeling to bring back your quarry after so long pursuing it,” his black eyes gleamed. You support your head with one hand listening to him speak.

Judging by the amount of assignments you had with their heads blown to bits, or a gaping hole in their chests, you assumed he worked with guns. Perhaps he had a preference for long ranged ones, like a hunting rifle? You wondered if he used the same gun for his job that he used at work.

You break off in a yawn, feeling the effects of the wine hit, and the tea officially wears off. He sees an opportunity.

“Is hunting a bit too boring for you, dear?” he jests. You don’t recognize his tone from your exhaustion, exacerbated by the alcohol. Your eyes widen.

You immediately cut your yawn off, sounding like a strangled peacock, panicking that you’ve offended him. You shriek an apology along with a fumbled explanation. You found his past-time wonderful, and was delighted he was telling you about it!

He waves his hand at the wrist, dismissing your shrill apology, “I am teasing you, my sweet. I’m aware that you haven’t slept, at the latest, since yesterday evening, and I imagine that the adrenaline of being in a new environment has since worn off,” he remarks.

You nod, blinking excessively.

“I hadn’t even realized I’d been awake for so long,” you murmured. Gracious, your sleep schedule was a mess, perhaps you can repair it while you are his guest. Your tired eyes behold him, as you work one hand at the crease of your eyelid.

You wondered what hours he kept. You both were generally nocturnal creatures, but perhaps he had grown used to operating on little to no sleep. He wore his exhaustion well, like that of his fine suits. You’ll have to familiarize yourself with his schedule in order to maximize your time with him.

You finish your glass, and you rise from your seat, ready to take your plate away.

“Leave it, please. I know you’re tired. You’re my guest here, and I want you taken care of while you call this place ‘home’.”

Touched, you place a hand over your heart, leaving the plate. Your arms strain with the effort you take to keep them still, wanting nothing more than to embrace him close, your head underneath his chin. It would be the perfect ending to the night, but you merely whispered a thank you, and headed to the door.

He stops you in your tracks, “Wait,” he rumbles, you try, and fail, to guard against the false hope that he changed his mind about you staying in the guest bedroom, “We will discuss more about the length of your stay in the morning. I don’t anticipate this contingency lasting long. You’ll be able to see your cats again soon, I swear it.”

You nod, appreciating him keeping Fiddle and Tuxedo in his thoughts, but your heart still sinks anyway. You wonder how long you would be able to last like this.

Everything you’ve ever wanted right is in front of you, and you are unable to have it.

Chapter Text

The door opens with a creak. You always forget to oil the hinges, and when you do remember, the cold sets in too quickly for you to want to do anything about it.

It’s quiet in your home. You’ve just come back from a job, and shared a sweet goodbye with your boss in the parking lot. Your time in his home was a wonderful experience, but it was not meant to last forever.

No matter how much you wish it could.

The cats chitter in the living room, toying with a leaf that caught on your boot on the way in. God forbid they play with the actual cat toys you spent your hard earned money on. Their pupils were blown as wide as the midnight moon, batting the leaf around, having the time of their life.

You turn the corner, ready to put your shoes away. You had an awful habit of leaving them on the floor, and bought a new shoe rack to display and organize them in the hallway. The Dealer’s clean home made you all the more inspired to straighten up your own. You can start with something easy, like your shoes. You head to the hallway, passing the kitchen on your left.

Then, it’s as if your mundane evening denatures, shredding itself by the seams.

There, in your kitchen, stands Carol Finch.

The perfect pincushion curls in her hair twist like adders, and her flat, arsenic white smile holds you hostage by your frozen feet. She is speaking to you, but you cannot register anything she is saying; your blood pounding in your ears. You’re choking on the icy scent of peppermint.

Your mind swiftly runs to the thought of your cats, oblivious in the living room, playing with a leaf.

What happens to them if she gets to you?

“How did you get in my house?” Your voice sounds like shrill TV static. You don’t know how much of what you said she heard, but her face remains that blank, empty smile. Every muscle in your body is tensed to flee.

For a petite little librarian, her demeanor is terrifying. Her eyes are the diseased blue of a suffocated corpse. She meanders around the countertop space like she’s admiring the cheap faux marble. You’re sure your face is bloodless with fright.

Her mouth moves, but you can’t hear her speak. It felt like trying to find something you dropped in a muddy river bank. It’s not until her third word that you can process what she says through the roaring panic.

“I know what you did,” her voice, perfectly enunciated, finally catches up to your frazzled brain. Her head snaps toward yours, it was a quick, jarring motion that unsettled you even further.

You tremble as you brace yourself to run to the living room. Ready to grab your cats. Your heart was a trapped hummingbird within your rib cage.

Without warning, she lunges for you.

You scream.

You wake.

The gradual registration of your surroundings that would typically be done when waking normally was now a butchered rush-job to your delicate mind.

Your shallow breathing quickens when you register that you’re not in your bedroom. It’s way too fancy in here to belong to you, even with your recent influx of disposable income because of your boss.

That sparks a light behind your eyes.

You lurch to a sitting position, a pool of thick, downy comforters gathers on your lap.

You’re not in your home all, you’re in his. You’re staying in his guest bedroom. He invited you here to stay as a guest. Carol cannot reach you here.

You concentrate on feeling the soft cotton of the sheets against your bare legs to ground yourself. When that fails, your eyes blink around the room as you count the pieces of furniture in the dark. The armoire, the closet, the chaise lounge, and the curtains are all checked off a mental list. The house is silent, and the winter silences any wildlife that you would have heard outside the window. The room is well ventilated, and you can’t smell anything.

Your panic hasn’t abated. Not even with the grounding technique you tried.

Seeing little option left, you do what you did last time you bordered onto a spiral; you ran to the only man who could keep you safe.

You leap from under the covers. The wooden floor is a chilly surprise to your bare feet, but you didn’t let it stop you as you darted from your room and out into the wide, unadorned hall. You had very little idea of where you were going, but you knew isolation would only make your panic worse.

The hallway was dark, but the light from the full moon shone through the windows just enough for you to avoid knocking into what sparse furniture there was. You doubted your host would appreciate you breaking his expensive things.

You padded past the top of the stairwell, noticing a light in the distance emanating from down the hallway on the opposite wing of the house. You approach. Under a single door, just cater corner to a double set of entry doors, a sliver of warm light lit the floor of the hallway.

You breathed a sigh of relief. You wouldn’t have to wake him up.

You knocked on the door that emanated the light with the back of your knuckles. The oak was thick enough that it barely allowed sound through it, but you heard a deep, muffled voice utter permission to enter.

Upon opening the door, you realized this wasn’t his bedroom, but his study.

Ah, so this is where he kept his clutter.

The space was brimming with his personality. Already, your breathing slowed to accommodate your curiosity. The walls were a dark taupe, with the curtains drawn over the window. The only light was a traditional green banker’s desk lamp. The color complimented the pastoral paintings and pictures on his walls. The pieces depicted any and every game bird you had ever seen. The largest featured a ring necked pheasant gliding through tall grass.

Where he didn’t have paintings, he had shotguns. Long powerful devices with shiny barrels and polished stocks.

He was also surrounded by tall ornate bookshelves built into the walls. You noticed several encyclopedia sets on the shelves. You were wondering why he didn’t have any in the living room.

Stray books, haphazardly placed, decorated the floor and shelves. It seemed that he hadn’t bothered to put them away yet. Your similarities were becoming more apparent the longer you stayed with him.

The desk itself was large and imposing, much like the man who sat behind it. It was a pedestal model with a wide gap in between the drawer units. It looked to be specially built for him. Two sleek, upholstered chairs sat in front of him, facing the desk.

His study also had a few modern amenities that you noticed weren’t in the majority of the other rooms. Beside an obnoxiously tall stack of papers, the sleek curve of the phone handle on the desk sits, revealing where he took the majority of his calls. You could just picture him with the device against his ear, your voice crooning at him through the line. Did he know you twirled the phone cord around your finger when you spoke to him? Did he do the same?

The man himself looks up from the papers he holds in his hands. Contracts, from the looks of them. You wondered if yours was buried in there, somewhere.

“Dear? What troubles you? I had thought you went off to sleep,” The muscles where his eyebrows would be are raised to his hairline. He sets aside the papers, setting them atop the rest of the pile. He crooks his fingers, encouraging your approach.

You wring your hands, a little embarrassed knowing you ran straight to him at the slightest notion of any distress you felt. Could you have looked more like a pathetic child?

Nonetheless, you walk forward.

You open your mouth to explain yourself, to explain why exactly, you were disturbing him while he was so busy, only to close your mouth again. You shift your weight on your bare feet. Noting that the texture of the floor was different, you looked down to see you now walked on his red Persian rug.

You try to speak again, shakily moving to fall into one of the chairs in front of his desk. They matched the color of the walls. You sank into the fabric.

“I…I’m having nightmares about the Finches,” you say, shaking your head. You touch your first few fingertips to your forehead, “I keep feeling I am unsafe.”

A notch forms in between the space where his eyebrows would be.

“I know it’s irrational!” you bleat, before he can interject, “I know I’m far safer here than I ever would be at home, but they haunt me. I worry Carol finds me and kills me in revenge for her brother. And I know I’m just a guest here in your home, but I wake up scared anyway, and I—“

“Dearest,” he soothes, cutting you off before your anxious rambling can worsen, “you needn’t worry. You’re in a new environment and subconsciously, you’re still unsure of your security. It’s understandable.”

You give him a tired smile, appreciating his compassion. He looks at you attentively, and you continue divulging your fears.

“When I’m awake, this place might as well be an impenetrable fortress, but asleep? A fortress can’t stop my nightmares. And I don’t know what to do,” or rather, you don’t know what he would let you get away with. You want to curl up into this chair, and drift off in his study. With him present, maybe you could sleep better. Or he could keep your mind distracted enough to not want to sleep.

“I understand your circumstances torments you, but I'm at least glad you weren’t displeased with the guest bedroom. When you knocked on my door this late, my first thought of any grievances you may have had with it,” he tells you.

You smile, amused, you could almost imagine him fretting over what color curtains he should buy, and having his heart sink when you burst into his office in the middle of the night.

“If it would make you feel better, that is, safer, you may sleep in the master suite for the remainder of your stay,” he offers. The world goes quiet.

The bafflement must show on your face, “Isn’t that—?”

“Your room?”

“My room?” he says, at the same time you do. Though his voice carried far more certainty than your shaky query.

“Yes. I imagine I’m the most familiar thing in this entire house to you. So, if you wish to transfer to my quarters for the remainder of your stay, I have no objections.”

You blink, stunned. You could not believe what you were hearing. What occurred between dinner and now that changed his mind about your proximity? Now he was willing to let you sleep in his room at his side? What luck!

Whatever his change of heart, you weren’t going to question it. This was a tremendous stroke of fortune, and you were not going to waste it by wondering why it happened.

“I…I think that would be a great idea,” you say, breathless. It’s a trial to keep your voice level, but you think you manage to maintain a believable level of careful consideration. If you had an ounce less self-control, you would have hit the ceiling.

“Truly?” he questions, sounding almost as surprised as you. How could he think you would refuse this? Refuse him?

“Of course! I want the most restful sleep I can get, and where better than in your room?”

You gleefully notice the blossom of pink across his face as you speak, though you do not mention it to him.

“My bedroom is on the door on your right,” he points to it with his fountain pen. You had not realized that the study was adjoined to the bedroom. You rise to leave, but do not see a door.

Your eyebrows hit your hairline when, after a moment passes, he takes pity on you to pull the edge of one of his bookshelves, and it opens on a hinge like that of a door. A secret door!

Inside, was another room entirely, large and lavish. He nods his permission for you to enter.

“Alright, I guess I’ll be on my way,” you beam, almost dancing over to the open bookshelf-door.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, knowingly. You let him get back to work. You knew his job was important to him, and would faithfully wait for him to join you later.

“Goodnight, dear,” he returns, softly. You shut the bookshelf-door from the other side, grinning like you’ve won the lottery.

Turning around, the room certainly looks like it belongs to a lottery winner. It’s just as antique and ornate as any room in the house, but you’re on the hunt for the special things. You peruse the place, paying attention to the touches that show it belongs to him, and not just a room to furnish to fill space.

The Dealer is a rather large fellow, and his bed is built accordingly. The four poster bed features a canopy with curtains that you imagine insulate the bed very well against the cold.

Upon the walls, rifles and shotguns are aplenty, with an additional gun case in the rightmost corner of the room. Alongside the gun case there are two small couches that look like they’ve barely been used. The armoire, tall enough to reach the ceiling, has its left door ajar, revealing the fine suits he wears when he meets you.

The Dealer has an additional desk in his bedroom, and you tip-toe over to view the trinkets he may keep over here, anything to reveal more of his character. You disregard the additional piles of paperwork, and are jubilant at the sight of the little sewn kitty you had gifted him. You almost clap with delight at the knowledge he was kept here, in his bedroom, the most private and personable room in the house.

“I’m happy to see you again,” you whisper to the orange kitty. His little suit is as crisp as the day you put it on him. He’s just as handsome as a knight in shining armor. Perhaps he and the Dealer can guard your dreams while you sleep.

Satisfied with your hunt, you pad back over to the bed. You chose the side furthest from the door. You wanted to make sure the Dealer had his own preferred side when he came in. It was his bedroom, after all.

You tugged back the blankets, wiggling under the sheets. They smelled of that sharp, crisp smell that we wore when he met you at the late hours of the day, standing tall and handsome beside the Jaguar. You can just imagine what it would be like to fall asleep beside him.

Comfortably propped onto several pillows, you stared at the study door. The other entrance, the main one, had two solid doors. They were noted for their extravagance, but your attention was captivated by the secret study door. He would, of course, not be entering from the main doors.

Too excited for sleep, you rest your head against the propped pillows. Now, you would sit and wait for him.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait…

Wait…

Eventually, you feel the warmth of sunlight through the curtains, stirring you to consciousness.

You surge forward, unaware you had slipped into sleep. Your neck twinges in pain from the angle you slept in, and you hiss. Rubbing it with frigid fingers, you look around the room. It is empty, agonizingly so. You clench your teeth and blink excessively. The side of the bed closest to the door is untouched. Not even a wrinkle in the blankets to indicate he was there.

You unwind your hand from the covers and throw them off, flying through the bed’s curtains. Walking toward the window, you yank their curtains back, letting the sun stream in. Sure enough, you had slipped into sleep unexpectedly and morning had come the same as it always did.

It hurt, and you didn’t just mean your neck.

Where was he? If he didn’t sleep in his own room last night, where exactly did he sleep?

Did he truly find you so undesirable that he didn’t want to be in his own room while you were in there? The thought has you twitching. You ball your fists, and storm out of the master suite and into his study.

It’s empty. No sign of your boss, just a slightly smaller stack of white paper.

You prowl out into the hallway, looking left and right for any sign of The Dealer. He’s not upstairs, but the high ceilings mean sound travels far in this mansion. Faint metal clinking reveals to you that he is in the kitchen downstairs. You follow your ears, ready for a direct conversation.

He sees you just as you cross the threshold of his kitchen. He’s carrying two mugs in his hands. They both steam with the hot beverages they contain.

“Good morning, dear. How did you sleep? Are there any more nightmares to report?” He asked, like nothing was amiss, like you didn’t charge down his steps like you were looking for a fight.

Your bare feet are warm against the wood floor, but the rest of you is cold stone, frozen in place.

His question and his tone throw you off balance. He spoke with the same care and respect towards you that he had last night and every conversation prior. It was the slightest bit jarring, but it was nothing compared to his second question.

You didn’t have any nightmares once you slept in the main suite. It was as if the Finches evaporated from your mind the minute you stepped into his quarters.

You didn’t let yourself get distracted, though. You had to confront him about this.

“I slept fine, but more importantly, where were you?”

He arches a brow at you as he walks to the informal dining room, you trail behind him as he answers, “I was in my study, in exactly the same place you saw me before you turned in for the night.”

“Where did you end up sleeping then?” you pushed, hoping he didn’t choose some place unsuitable. You can only imagine how awful the couches in the formal living room would be for his back. You could perhaps survive, but someone of his stature and size would definitely be fighting a losing battle for comfort.

“Oh, I didn’t. I just worked.”

That was somehow worse. Your eyes were wide, and your mouth had tightened into a betrayed, downward arch. You looked like he told you he slept with another woman.

He chuckles, handing you a mug. It’s the same kind of tea he served you yesterday, “It’s something I must do for my occupation, dearest. There is no need for that expression,” he purred.

You blow into your cup, deluding yourself into thinking the heat to your face is from the tea and not how thoughtful he was. He didn’t need to make you a drink, but he did anyway, and he didn’t even sleep last night!

“I wish you would take better care of yourself,” you huff, sitting your mug down along with yourself. The Dealer follows your lead, sitting at the head of the table, holding his own mug, “I never would have agreed to sleep there if I knew you weren’t going to be with me.”

His hand freezes just before his mug could be held at a drinkable angle. He eyes you, the inky black of his empty gaze is somehow deeper, curious. You continue.

“What kind of guest makes their host sleep in a spare bedroom? Or worse, stay in his office doing paperwork?” you lambaste your own naïveté, wishing you would have paid more attention to his words last night. You don’t think he ever intended on you both sleeping in the same room.

He coughs, “Dear, it would be impolite to make you sleep in the same room as me.”

You look at him, eyes narrowed, “You couldn’t make me do anything.”

Which was the truth. Your actions were your own. Sure, he was bigger and stronger than you, and had more wealth than—you crossed your legs, changing your train of thought. Regardless of his power, you were an autonomous human being, complex and containing multitudes. Additionally, he valued your judgment and sought your approval. You knew your own power over him. You also genuinely doubted he would force you into a situation if you voiced your discomfort.

He looks at you, silent agreement and approval behind his eyes. He continues.

“I was happy to give you my room. You obviously found it more comfortable, as you did not have any nightmares. Who am I to deny you the right to sleep there if it serves you better?” he countered, spiking your blood pressure.

“Because you need to sleep as well? I’m not going to make your life any harder; you’re already letting me stay here rent-free. It is the least I could do,” you note the tension rise, and your voice tightens.

He sighs, taking a swig of his drink. He sets his mug on the table, making sure that the ceramic cup made no more than a gentle thud as it rested on the table. The steam coiled up from the black liquid, but he appeared unbothered by the heat.

“Dearest, you’ve been through something traumatic, and the risks to your safety are legitimate. I have no issues with sacrificing sleep so that you may feel safer. It’s something I do frequently to catch up on work, anyway,” he admits in an attempt to calm you.

It has the opposite effect.

“You can’t keep pushing yourself without sleep by doing paperwork! It’s unsustainable!” you exclaim, rising to your feet.

Your mouth thins in an embarrassed line. You quickly sit back down. Fortunately, the Dealer pays your dramatics little mind as he patiently waits for you to finish your thought process.

“I wanted to stay in your room because I thought you were going to be there with me. You are what I equate with safety. You are what I need to rest well.”

His face is comparable to that of a strawberry. Dammit. He was too cute for his own good. If you were in a better mood, you would giggle at him.

He hesitates, inhaling, looking askance as he contemplates something. A minute passes as his eyes flit. At last, he speaks.

“Are you certain this is what you want?”

“Yes. Like you said, you're the most familiar thing in this house to me. I’d feel so much better if you stayed with me,” you assure him, looking up at him earnestly. His smile, despite its jagged composition, was so sweet. You couldn’t help but mirror it.

“Then it is agreed,” he raises his mug in a cheer. You stretch over the table to clink your own against his. The liquid inside was pleasantly warm as you drank it down, letting the heat infuse in your entire body.

You debated asking him if you should sign one of his contracts for this, but immediately dismissed the thought. He had done an entire night’s worth of work, now was the time to breathe easy.

…

The rest of the day is as mundane as they come.

He gives you a tour of the grounds once he bundles you in your winter coat. He shows you the best spots to find game, even specifying what months would be the most ideal to find grouse, turkey, pheasant, and, his favorite, ducks.

You daydreamed about accompanying him on a hunt one day. Of seeing him in his element as he pursued his choice of game.

In your enthusiasm to learn more about his beloved hobby, you ask a flurry of questions, which he all answers with equal eagerness. It’s not until you are both walking back that you realize your self-allotted tally of questions is more than past your typical limit, but seeing how joyful it was just to share in an open conversation with him, you opt to just discard your own rules for questions.

Now inside, you both thawed in front of the smoking room’s fireplace. The Dealer gave a sultry inhale of his cigarette and let the smoke lift toward the ceiling. The dark wood paneling on the walls was similar to that of his study. You imagined that the color prevented the smoke stains from the immediate notice of any guests.

But what caught your immediate notice was the tendrils of smoke that swirled about his face, drawing your eye. It was difficult not to stare, so you quickly avert your gaze to the fireplace, watching the flames flicker between your splayed fingers as you warmed your hands.

While you let the heat spread through your chilly appendages, you missed the way he longingly stared at you. The lively orange light of the fire danced across your face and colorful sweater. A soft smile worked across your features, content to relax after a stroll in the snow.

You looked like you belonged in this house. You looked like you belonged with him.

He took another drag of his cigarette, letting the nicotine work its magic. His fingers no longer twitched with the desire to run his knuckles down your face, or cup one of your frigid hands between his own, blowing across the tips to warm them.

No, this particular vice of his was a distraction, a way to occupy his hands and appease his mind from the very thing that beguiled him.

But it couldn’t last forever. Eventually the cigarettes burnt out, and he was forced to confront the want that threatened to consume him, but ultimately could not indulge in. To do so would make him the lowest of men, a contemptible opportunist, and exploiter.

His lip curled as he threw the cigarette stub into the flames. You were none the wiser about this internal conflict, and merrily followed him to the formal living room once he had extinguished the fire.

He played the role of generous host, and loved your attention and company, never more than a handful of steps away from you. But he wondered if you knew how your close proximity tormented him: so close, but unable to hold. Like tendrils of smoke from a cigarette.

He wondered how long the two of you could play this game before he shattered.

…

After lunch, you were all but counting the hours.

You hoped he didn’t notice you constantly checking the grandfather clock in the formal living room, but you wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him. To just be as close as he would let you.

Your best opportunity for that was this evening, when you both went to bed. Together.

In the meantime, you both sat quietly in the living room. The silence was peaceful rather than awkward, and you were both comfortable knowing each other was nearby.

On the sofa, you had one of the books you packed open across your lap. The Dealer, in his armchair, was scribbling something in a bound notebook.

Earlier he brought out a crystal liquor decanter with two matching glasses. You politely declined, but he was nursing on his second round. His pen had yet to stop.

You both spent the majority of the evening that way. Occasionally, you caught yourself staring at his hands. The long tapered fingers, calloused from years of gun expertise, delicately holding the pen as he swirled the ink across the page. The large dorsal side of his hand, veined and powerful. The trimmed edges of his nails, the bulky strength of his knuckles, and the lined divots in his palm all constricted your focus to what it might be like to experience his touch again. The yearning was almost choking you.

You forced yourself to shake off your entitlement. If he never wanted to touch you again, then you would swallow that bitter, bitter pill, and be grateful for what he was willing to give you.

It wasn’t until the grandfather clock chimed for six o’ clock, that you realized how long you both had spent the evening in the companionable quiet.

If you brushed up against his coat sleeve in the doorway on your way to dinner, then it was an accident. You, of course, flinch and apologize, and follow him to the dining room. Were you really so starved for his affection? Pathetic.

Dinner was, again, a simple fare with your own drinks of choice. You had an overly expensive glass of wine, and he decided to wash down his liquor with more liquor.

You began to wonder just what went through his head for him to need to imbibe himself so, but then again, you imagine it would take a truly impressive amount of alcohol to get a man of his stature intoxicated. You let him indulge, pouring yourself another glass. Your indulgence of choice would come this evening.

…

The darker the sky grew, the shyer he became. For someone so menacing, he really knew how to tug at your heartstrings. His withdrawn nature only became more conspicuous as you both retired for the evening.

Now, both dressed in pajamas, you noted his tastes in pajamas mirrored that of his day clothes. The distinguished silk button up and matching striped pants are cuffed at the wrist and ankle, respectively. The deep blue dye is too vivid to be found on the rack, so you knew it was probably a car payment’s worth of currency to have something like that on his person. Regardless of the price, he looked adorable in his bedclothes.

It was almost difficult to reconcile this timid person in silk with the suave, smoking figure that you knew killed men at his leisure. Nonetheless, it was fun discovering another facet of the man you loved. It was like tilting a gemstone in your hand to see how it would glimmer.

“Don’t you look handsome this evening,” you tell him, as this is the first time you had seen him in anything but his suits. He truly cannot look bad in anything.

He thanks you for the compliment, his voice was hushed like he wasn’t expecting your attention. His eyes keep flitting to you, but they cannot meet yours.

“Won’t you be cold?” He asks, after a moment. You blink, and then realize he means your own pajamas.

In your frenzy to pack your things, you had thrown in more summer pajamas than winter ones. Thus, you wore a long camisole top with ribbon trim and cotton shorts. The outer edges of the fabric had soft little lace frills. One would think you had engineered this situation to entice him, but no, you were just rushing to pack.

“I don’t think I’ll be cold tonight. I think I’ll be comfy,” you respond, smiling. He still looks unnerved, like you might catch a chill right in front of him, “Maybe we can close the curtains too, so it’ll be warmer?”

“Yes, quite. I’d rather us both stay warm tonight,” he agrees, almost breathless as he answers.

He takes the side of the bed closest to the door, and you take the other side, the same place you slept last night. He turns out the lamp on the bedside table. You curl into the sheets, fluffing the pillow with your hands, pulling the covers up to your waist.

The Dealer draws the bed curtains, bathing you both in blue darkness.

“Goodnight,” you whisper. You can even hear your happiness in a single word.

“Goodnight,” he rumbled back.

You sleep with your back facing him. A promise that you will not encroach on his space while he sleeps. You cannot tell if he does the same. Either way, you can feel the warmth of his presence, closer than it has been for the entirety of two days, and your heart threatens to leap out of your chest.

You close your eyes and calm your breathing. Letting your lungs expand and release slowly, you lie still, waiting for sleep to claim you.

Your excitement doesn’t ebb, not even with the complete silence of the Dealer behind you, and sleep doesn’t come. The lack of excitement today may have prevented a swift arrival, but you hold out for its approach, keeping your breath steady and body still.

In…and out.

In…and out.

In…and out.

It could have been an hour later, it could have been three hours later, but sometime between getting under the blankets and now, you feel something brush your arm.

You remain still, keeping your breath steady, thinking it was nothing more than a draft when it comes again. A gentle feeling of something caressing down your arm. It lingers, the touch is no mere breeze. You would have assumed the edges of the curtains were brushing over you had he not spoken.

“Before I met you, I considered myself a disciplined individual. My work doesn’t allow for any leniency,” he says, his voice a deep whisper. He continues, and you feel like you're intruding on his soliloquy. Were you dreaming? Was this real?

“Oh, but you bring out every soft thing in me I try to suppress. How dare you bewitch me like this,” the very tips of his calloused fingertips run ever so delicately back up your arm, as if he couldn’t help himself. It was as if his desperation to touch you warred with his desire to ensure your restful slumber.

You remain still. The caress of his calloused hands and the warmth of his skin, were the only indicators that you were not dreaming. You feigned sleep. Like a fawn hiding in the dewy grass, you remained completely still, listening as he confessed his inner thoughts.

“Vulnerability is an art you’ve perfected, and you’re completely oblivious to it,” his hand just barely brushes your shoulder before pivoting back down your bare arm, “Completely oblivious to what you do to me…” he murmurs, low and gentle. His breath just barely tickles your ear.

After his agonizing distance over the span of two days, his words, this barely-there brush against your skin, you cannot help the throb at the apex of your thighs. You would die by the stranglehold of your arousal if you didn’t say something.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” you murmur, tilting your body to slide onto your back, facing him.

At the sound of your voice, he immediately snatches his hand back, mortified into silence. You mourn the touch. His devastating retreat almost made you wish you didn’t say anything. Your charismatic boss is rendered speechless by your sly question. Amused and a little miffed, you wait for him to speak, keeping your expression open and patient.

When he does find it in himself to speak, his deep voice trembles, “It…It was not my intention to seduce you,” he falters, whispering.

“Oh, but you succeeded. Even without trying! And here I thought I was in the presence of a gentleman,” you tease, sliding closer to him.

That rattles him. He abruptly pulls away from you, the distress in his eyes genuine enough to give you pause in your approach.

He says your name, your given name, quiet as the night. Sorrow colors the word. You had worn the title “dear” for so long in his presence, that trying something else on felt like wearing a too-small garment.

He sighs, looking away like it pains him, and you prepare for whatever comes out his mouth to hurt you like a falling star hitting the water of the open sea.

“You are in a very vulnerable situation,” he begins, weighing his words, “To state the obvious, you are a guest in my house, and there is no way for you to leave unless I return you to your vehicle at the church. You are also my employee. I am the one who pays your salary, and you are currently under threat because of the work you to do for me,” he meets your gaze, the worry in his eyes all the more apparent when he faces you, “You are completely at my mercy, and I am terrified of overstepping your boundaries, of taking any advantage of the power I have over you,” he confessed, breathless in his horror.

You didn’t know how to tell him that the power he had over you was a key player in what turned you into the sluttiest version of yourself around him.

You kept quiet. It was obvious this was tearing him up from the inside, and it explained why he was suddenly so physically distant with you.

But he was selling himself short, demonstrating an unjust ruthlessness to his own character. He didn’t have to indulge in your domestic fantasy of being his partner and living in his home. He didn’t have to keep you separated from the Finches. Hell, he didn’t even have to hire you out from your cleaning job at the club. He did it because he is a good person.

He’s changed your entire life for the better, and he actively goes out of his way for your benefit, if that wasn’t love, what was? You decided to challenge his ideas.

“Am I supposed to feel threatened because you’re keeping me safe?” you questioned, rising to fully face him. You now sit in front of him, your weight resting on your knees and forelegs, “Am I meant to feel ungrateful?”

“Dearest,” he refrained from moving, his frustration building. He kept his hands tethered to the sheets. It felt more like a display of trust than anything he had ever done, “I didn’t want you to feel indebted to me because of the precautions I’m taking to keep you unharmed. This includes from me. I do not expect anything from you,” his deep black eyes looked so sullen, like he was begging for forgiveness for unobserved transgression.

A transgression he hadn’t even committed.

You remain still, absorbed by his every word. You had no idea he was this preoccupied by this arbitrary power imbalance you two shared.

You wished he understood this from your viewpoint.

You didn’t want to fuck him because you were grateful. You were grateful, of course, but it didn’t inspire any kind of lust within you. You want to fuck him because he was kind, magnetic, and oh, so strikingly handsome. His broad build and tall stature consumed more of your thoughts than you should have allowed. A single glance from him had the capability of melting you onto his polished floor.

You adored and desired him, even if he felt the need to panic over arbitrary things. And hey, you couldn’t blame him; it was a shared trait.

“If you don’t want me to touch you, then I will keep my distance, however far you command. If you ever begin to fear that I may take advantage of our partnership, then I encourage you to take one of my shotguns on the wall and even the playing field,” he implored.

You gasp, aghast at the very thought. Though, you don’t have the chance to voice how ill you felt at the notion hurting him.

“But if you have given this enough thought,” he pauses, his black, soul-baring eyes locked with yours, “and it is something you genuinely want,” he straightens his back, a gradual process that emphasizes his size, his power, over you, “then I won’t hesitate to indulge myself in what I’ve wanted since that bonfire.”

And that was all the signal you needed to throw yourself at him.

It was a relief to know that you weren’t the only one tormented with lust for the past eternity. How could he torture you, never mind himself, with this excessive chivalry?

His hands feel electric as they run up your body. The delicate slide of his fingertips up your arm was but an appetizer to the full-course of satisfaction you felt at the breadth of his palms against you. The rough skin of his callouses create a delicious contrast in feeling, you can only imagine how soft your skin is to him.

He uses your lower thighs as an anchor to pull you towards him halfway, and you use the momentum to yank yourself against him. Every inch of your body that could get pressed up against him, did.

“You will tell me if I do something untoward?” he asks.

You nod in response, luxuriating in his touch after so long going without.

He was so plush underneath the sharp cut of his suits. He’d be an ideal pillow when riding him into the mattress. It behooved you to remember that his intoxicating softness deceived a solid strength, and you couldn’t help the gasp you let out as he buried his face in your neck.

The pin-prick points of his teeth just brush the tender flesh, and you arch into the feeling. You wanted to wake up tomorrow covered in teeth marks. You tell him as such, using your arms to wrap over his shoulders and around his back, tugging him closer.

It’s only when his tongue slides out to suck against the delicate skin of your throat that your hips jerk unconsciously. The sensation against your pussy is heavenly, and you quickly start grinding on his thigh, squeezing the limb tight against you with your own legs. As a reward for your ambition (impatience), he bites down into your neck, slathering his lengthy tongue over the open invitation of your neck and shoulder.

When he loosens his hold on you, you’re sure he’s left the desired marks and a substantial bruise. Your body trembles in excitement as his hands continue to wander.

You’re too in love with him to pace yourself, and from the way he splits the seams of your pajama shorts to get them off you, he feels the same.

The seams of his silk pajamas are reinforced, and you are unable to tear the buttons off his top. You quickly settle for trying to unbutton them from the top, only to be halted by his fingertips touching the elastic band of your underwear.

You give a sharp inhale, looking at him. He’s already locked his gaze, he waits for your approval. You give it freely, widening your legs and encouraging him to access what he kept from himself.

You grab the trim of his silk collar, gasping in surprised arousal as he plays with you. The first two digits smoothly glide up your labia. He’s transfixed by your open expression as his other hand breaches under your top to curl around your hip.

You knew this was going to be a rough ride, just based on the desperation brimming under your skin, but you were already ready for it.

He, however, was more gentle than what you expected for a man who deliberately deprived himself of your touch. Perhaps he wanted some foreplay to stretch the time, and you, out. You certainly weren’t complaining. Not when his hands were so big. You relaxed the clawed grip you had on his collar, nestling closer to him.

He removes his hand to carefully angle your hip. You follow his direction, desperate for him to touch you again. Gently, he turns you around so your back is flush against his torso. Even through your clothes, you can feel the heat emanating off of him, and you shudder, leaning your head against his shoulder.

He rewards your obedience with his touch brushing back over your slippery opening. He gently presses into your throbbing center, sliding into you without any resistance. He was right to move you, this angle felt incredible.

You squirm, closing your eyes and dropping your jaw at the feeling of each knuckle entering in. There really was no comparison to the feeling of his touch, the tender exploration of the most sensitive part of you.

“Do my fingers feel good, my love?” he knew the answers to his questions well, as you whimpered your approval at the stretch of his massive digits. He buries his face into your neck, though his teeth do not make a reappearance. Just the reminder of their presence is enough to have you cry out.

“Oh, fuck—yes, oh!” You bit your lip as he angled his middle and ring fingers perfectly, hitting a deep and fast rhythm. You cried out when he hits that spot within you that makes you see stars. You didn’t think your orgasm would approach this quickly, and you grab him by the wrist as a warning. Your fingers can’t even encircle it at the halfway mark, and that realization does not help your climax’s rapid advance.

He took your needy grasping in the complete opposite direction, as an encouragement, and used the hand on your hip to rub your clit in circular strokes. The other hand quickly inserts another finger into you, and you keen in delight.

Your orgasm rocketed forward, taking you with it as you threw your head back. It was overpoweringly erotic as he held you in place while simultaneously stimulating your clit and making you ride his fingers. You burned through your ecstatic height, bathing in the rapture of your orgasm. Shaking, you let the coasting of your easy descent bring the waves of afterglow. You feel it spread through every nerve in your body.

You inhale and exhale in slow succession, overwhelmed at his quick work and immediate incline in pleasure. He slowly brought you down, a gradual decrease in motion until he came to stop, pulling his fingers out of you completely.

You squeeze around nothing, feeling that absence deeply. You exhale as he turns you around to face him. You can only imagine what you look like to him. You know your face is hot and your pupils are blown to hell.

He evidently likes what he sees as that grin is all more sharp. His eyes are alight with hunger, and he wastes little time in unbuttoning the waist of his silk pajama pants. Reaching inside, he pulls out what can only be described as a veiny Burmese python. He runs his hand down it, stroking the offensively big appendage.

You’re sure your eyes were the size of dinner plates. No wonder he wanted the foreplay. How the fuck were you going to get that thing to fit?

You look up at your lover, chest heaving. If he was what was attached, then you would gladly endure the challenge that this colossus of a cock would present.

The behemoth between his legs stands at full attention, beckoning for your touch. You oblige, removing his hand before running your own from the beading head, smearing the drops of pre-cum down his cock in an eye-catching shimmer. He gives a sharp gasp, and you eye his expression, monitoring his pleasure intensely.

You release him, ready to ride. Rising to your knees, you are abruptly halted by a large hand on your back. He stops you from turning around, assuming a similar angle of the one where he fingered you. He reaches up to tenderly cup your jaw and cheek.

“I want to see your face as we do this, dear. I need to see you take your pleasure.”

Thoroughly convinced, you remain facing him.

You hover, maneuvering your hips. You stroke his cock as you gently slide it against your clit, coating it in your own arousal before you carefully nestle the head to your opening. You bite your lip as you let him enter you.

The stretch is overwhelming, and you can feel the pin-pricks of pain at your entrance bring a watery sheen over your eyes.

“Oh, dearest. I know it’s hard. It’s so hard taking my cock, but you look angelic doing it,” he compliments, snaking a massive arm around your waist to help you.

You sink further down onto him, carefully and deliberately slow. Tearing would do you little good, and you wanted this to be pleasurable for both of you.

Methodically, his cock is swallowed by your sopping pussy inch by inch. When you reach the hilt, you wriggle at the feeling of being so full. You feel a significant amount of pride for yourself being able to take such a cock. The Dealer looks like he’s being held together by web-thin stitches. In an act of mercy, you begin a slow ride, testing the waters, testing the angle, and testing how good it feels.

You hit that sweet spot inside you completely by accident. Stars shine behind your eyes as you hiss air through your teeth.

You bare down on him, viciously taking your pleasure.

You may be significantly smaller than him, but here? Oh, the power was yours. You’re using this overwhelmingly powerful being like he’s built just for your pleasure. He groans low in his throat as you draw figure-eights with your hips as you slide up and down. And up and down.

“Does that feel good? Yeah?” you moan, hugging his arm where it’s wound around your waist.

There’s something deliciously slutty about riding a man with your pajama top still on. The ripple of the soft cotton falling between your legs, hiding the obsessive swivel of your hips as his cock split your wet center down the middle. Though you could not see the action, the wet squelch of your rhythmic thrusts told you everything you needed to know as you bounced up and down.

You lean back, arching as your right arm clutches his shoulder, scrunching the fabric of his halfway undone shirt in your fist.

“How could you think I wouldn’t want this?” you pant, giving frantic chase to the pleasure only he could provide, “I—fuck—fuck!—would fantasize about fucking you in the Jaguar all the time.”

His response to that was flipping your position, so that you now lay supine on his luxurious four poster bed. His cock falls out, and a small part of your riots at the loss. The surprise at which he had thrown you down was almost enough to make you dizzy, though the plush bedding prevented any harm. Even if it did, the thought of stopping was not one you were willing to entertain.

Maybe another night you would explore each other's bodies like couples in your novels do, careful and deferential and syrupy-sweet, but for now, he looked ready to devour every piece that you were willing to give him. And who were you to deny his wants?

Your legs spread as wide as you could get them around his generous bulk. His shadow fell over you like a gentle caress as he leaned forward, bracketing you with his massive arms.

He wasted little time in sliding his cock back into its rightful place, and he set the pace to an aggressive intensity. It was more than brutal, but you’re so incredibly wet, that the onslaught of his cock, hitting just where it needed to at this angle, felt perfect.

You miss his eyes flitting up to yours, making sure that you remained consensual of the pace and change of position.

You’re so dazed by your pleasure, you don’t register your arousal dripping down to coat the insides of your thighs, through your crevices and down onto the blankets. Your slippery pussy welcomed the fervent thrusting, and you couldn’t help the depraved noise you let out.

“You can’t just tell me these things. I endeavor so goddamned hard to conduct myself in your presence every-single-time I see you,” he punctuates the words “every, single, and time” with an especially hard thrust for each word. You try not to interrupt him, but a high moan escapes your lips anyway.

“It’s all I can do not to pin you to the hood of my car, and take my pleasure for all of those impudent worms to see and know they can’t have you,” he rumbles, hands curled around your hips in a death grip. He drives into you, relentlessly, with all the force of a raging thunderstorm.

“Oh! P-please…” You can feel your jaw fall open without thought, shaping your lips in an agape circle. From your mouth floods burst of high, enraptured ‘augh!augh!augh!’s that sound each time he slams into your pelvis.

“But they don’t get to touch you. No, they don’t have you in their bed. I do. I do,” he speaks like a man possessed, like everything he’s ever wanted has been dangled in front of him, forbidden for him to have. But now? Now, it was all but draped across his lap, and he was reveling in it.

“And to think, all this time, you wanted me to fuck you,” he growls, hovering his face close to yours. It’s not meant to intimidate, no, you’re aware of how gone he is for you. It’s meant to maintain the close proximity. His eyes are so, so soft, and you want to take.

Unable to resist the temptation of his face so close to yours, you messily kiss him. Sliding your tongue behind his teeth to tangle with his. His surprise is apparent, but he delights in rising to your presented challenge. His tongue might as well be a force of nature with the way it bats yours around. You can feel the saliva pooling between your entangled tongues as you wrap your arms around him. Sex might as well be an accessory to the act of keeping him close.

The kiss is only broken by your need to breathe. You gasp for more air in between moans as you are helplessly rocked by the force of his body.

“Oh, dearest,” he stutters through a low groan, “If only you knew what you looked like under me. You’re too perfect to be anywhere else but my bed. How could I have questioned if you yearned for this, for me?”

If you had any coherency left, you probably would’ve responded with something eloquent, like ‘Yes, I have always wanted you’ or ‘I’m also really enjoying having sex with you, but I’m also emotionally attached to you so it’s even better,” but you’re sure he got the message through the dramatic arch of your spine or the rapid moaning that gradually rose in octave the longer he fucked you.

Your orgasm snuck up on you, and all at once you jerk, tilting your hips up into that throbbing cock. You opted for a verbal warning this time.

“O-oh! I’m going to—fuck! Augh!” you cry, trying to match his rhythm, but he pins your hips down, and commands you to accommodate him.

“Yes, my love, come for me. Let me feel you,” his breaths hitches as you clamp down on him, attempting to milk his own release out of him, but he remains unyielding, letting you fall back into ecstasy.

You moan jaggedly as you release, trembling as you cling onto his shoulders with one of your arms. He runs a gentle hand down the side of your face, and you overlap your hand with his, tilting your head into his palm.

He gives you the benefit of slowing while you recover from your orgasm. A courtesy you weren’t expecting as he has yet to come.

You bask in the feeling of the flash of white heat suffusing through your bones, thinking he’s slowly bringing you down like he did after he fingered you. You sigh, only to inhale sharply as he speeds up again. Slowly, he started to slam the head of his cock back into you. Back to that original pace that had you shaking underneath him. You gasp in shock, your limbs all but coiling in overstimulated pleasure.

“Oh, my dearest. Did you think we were done?” he whispers sensually. He hesitates after asking, looking at you, checking in for you to wave the green flag.

You do so enthusiastically, making eye-contact with him. You nod, bracing yourself against his shoulders, this time with both arms, as you let him drive into you, squeaking as he chases his own orgasm. You wriggle as he used your body for his own gratification. It’s like you were nothing more than his toy to be used at his disposal. The thought lights something behind your eyes.

He tenderly holds you close, bestowing a delicate kiss, minding his teeth, against your forehead. It’s an erotic dichotomy against the way he treats you below the waist. Your legs strain to accommodate his torso as you are jerked with each slam of his pelvis against yours.

The soft noises you made with each thirst was buried under the wet squelch of him diving into you. Your previous orgasms smoothed the way, creating a soaking, pliable channel for him to pound into as much as he wanted. Each sudden, smooth drive in of his thick cock accompanied a slick drag out, and on the dance went. The hot pulse between your legs thrummed like an instrument, and oh, was he an unparalleled virtuoso.

“My dearest, my darling, my love, you tempt me beyond measure,” he rumbled into your ear, “If I were lesser man, I might accuse you of being sent by some divine hand to enthrall me,” he growls, holding you close.

You whimper, gripping his clothing in lieu of clawing at him, feeling your climax give chase again. His voice conditioning your body to wind itself up and up and up in pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck! Like that!”

“Even now I hesitate to believe I stumbled upon you by accident,” he whispers, barely audible to your pleasure-soaked ears.

You didn’t have long until you ruined these blankets. Oh hell, they’re probably already ruined by the living fountain you had become while he wrung out as many orgasms as he could get from you.

“Is my darling girl close again? Just give in, dearest. Just give your body what it wants,” he sweetens his suggestion by snaking one hand up your thigh and over your clit. With the utmost care, like he wasn’t treating your pussy like a battering ram, he stroked over the swollen nerves repeatedly. Thanks to the sensitivity difference due to your prior climaxes, your climb to the precipice of your orgasm was gradual, like a stairwell to the heavens. A stairwell you were currently running up.

You grab at his wrist. This time, it was an encouragement. While his thrusts were still rough, it was no longer the desperate bombardment it was earlier. That reckless jealousy that boiled under his skin had cooled into a more mellow movement.

You gathered he was close to his own release, based on the slightest tremble present in his body.

You decide to hasten it. After all, you were his guest. It’s the least you could do for such an obliging host. You grin at your little inside joke. What better way to show your gratitude? Your third orgasm was less of a need and more of a complementary treat that you could partake in along-side him. Thus, you were coherent enough to tease him.

You leaned up, propping yourself up on your elbows as you whispered praise into his ear, stroking your fingertips down his neck, and under his rumpled pajama shirt.

“You feel so good inside my pussy,” you gasp, “Oh, it was like you were put on this Earth to fuck me. No one could compare after this, Y-yes, right there, augh!”

“Dearest…” he warns, guttural. Rocking harder into you, he forgoes that lagging tempo, chasing an end. Your elbows slip, and you fall onto your back, delighted, ready for him to squeeze another overstimulated climax out of you.

“Fuck! C-come inside me, I need you, I love you, oh! Please cum inside me, yes, ooh!” You beg, tilting your hips.

You writhe under him, uncaring if his teeth graze you as he buries his face into your neck. Every nerve in your body was set alight, every muscle wound tight as you rode out your violent orgasm.

Something hot streams out of you when you reach your peak yet again, locking your body in that steep arc as you expel your own ejaculate fluid. The intensity just bordered on pain, but never quite crossing the threshold.

White hot pleasure, better than anything you envisioned in your fantasies, blanketed your eyesight. It was as if your entire brain was cradled by soft clouds, preventing any thought except that of overwhelming, all-consuming bliss.

He buried himself inside you one final time with a groan, coating your insides in a white stream. It feels like sin itself. It feels heavenly.

He pulls his cock out of you, a clean maneuver done slowly so as to not overwhelm you. A hand strokes the length to dispose of the excess fluid smeared from head to hilt.

You flattened against the blankets, completely spent, feeling the hot spill of cum pour out of you. Your sure globs of it drip onto the comforter in a sticky puddle. A part of you thinks it’s erotic, the other is a bit repelled by just how much there is.

The mattress shifts as he rises from the bed. You peer after him curiously, watching his broad back as he moves. He quickly absconds from the room, citing he will return quickly. Sated, both physically and mentally, you throw an exhausted arm over your eyes. He can do whatever he pleases if he lets you rest, despite how messy you are.

You hear him return, identifying his heavy footsteps.

You’re surprised to feel a soothing sensation on the sorest part of your body. You hum your tired approval and remove your arm to view exactly what he’s doing that feels so good. Not pleasurable per say, but good.

He’s retrieved a warm towel and is currently cleaning you. He makes quick work of cleaning you, and throwing the ruined comforter off the bed and onto the floor to be laundered later. A replacement is retrieved, but truth be told, you would have been perfectly content to use him as a blanket the entire night.

“Goodnight, dearest,” he whispers, bringing the new blankets up over you both. You snuggle closer to him, tucking your arms between his chest and yours. He brings his arm up and around to hold you close, tucking his head against you in a way that ensures you won’t cut yourself on his teeth.

“Goodnight,” you whisper back, besotted.

You are soon carried off swiftly and silently into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Once The Dealer and yourself had had that…discussion…regarding your power imbalance, he could not keep his hands off you. You had opened that metaphorical door for him, and it’s like he’d broken it off its hinges. He was insatiable.

Gone was that anxious, distant individual who viewed touching you akin to looking directly into the sun. Now, you contend with a contact-obsessed, domestic hedonist that thrives in your presence. This truly was the height of luxury.

The snow-soft mornings you spent curled in each other’s arms, and in the star soaked evenings you christened each furnished room in the house.

One particularly memorable day had him pinning you to the dining room table.

You were on your second glass of wine, completely finished with your meal, and were just making conversation. It was only when you started provoking him with compliments, tipsily flattering his appearance and demeanor that he broke, unable to contain himself. You knew just how much you needed to chip away at that glass thin barrier to get him to jump you. You had riled him up enough to toss the dishware to the side, uncaring if they shattered. He then mounted you on the table, much to the voyeuristic pleasure of the suits of armor.

One, of many, recently accumulating erotic moments in your life with him.

The atmosphere of the house felt warmer the longer you spent time together, like each moment was tinder to a building fire. There were times he left to go to his job, but they were sporadic and few, and even then he strongly preferred keeping you nearby. In his absence, he let you peruse some of his own books he kept in his study. You were flattered by his trust in you and voraciously devoured each text gratefully, making sure the gingerly touch each page, never creasing or cracking the spine or bending the paper.

When you weren’t occupied by your hobbies, sharing better conversations, or overindulging in physical pleasure, you just drank in the content atmosphere that could be felt with him by your side.

The days were picturesque and the nights were heavenly, but it wasn’t meant to last.

It was a bittersweet day when you got the call.

You were curled up in the formal living room, reading a borrowed book while the Dealer was in his study. While he took the opportunity to catch up on work, you took the opportunity to catch up on a few chapters. You knew yourself well enough that if he were present, the only words you would be taking in were the possessive filth he growled in your ear as he railed you over the back of the couch.

You thumb the page, feeling the smooth texture of the paper as you start the next chapter.

Your bag phone rings.

You jerk, startled. The shrill warble has you setting your book down, rinsing every thought that entered your head with each chime. The sound was so jarring that it took you a full minute to place it.

When you realize where the noise was coming from, you dash over to undo the Velcro of the black bag, haphazardly thrown on a spare decorative table. You pull out the phone, and hold the sleek device up to your ear. You wring your hands in the folds on your sweater, waiting for an answer.

Who could be calling you? Surely it wasn’t the Dealer. His study was only a quick jog up the staircase. Why would he need to call you when you were in the same house?

“Hello?” you question down the line, hesitant and quick.

“Hey, girl!” a distinctly feminine voice calls cheerily through the receiver. Definitely not The Dealer. You recognize your friend easily. The very one keeping watch over your cats. Your anxiety alleviates.

“Hello again! How have you been, and how are my cats?” you effused, excited to hear an update.

You hadn’t been separated from them for this long since you snatched them up from the park. The strain was definitely getting to you, even with the delicious distraction that kept you in his house.

“…,” the lack of a response is poignant.

The prolonged silence from the other end is highlighted by the static background noise. Your smile drops as you listen to the blank echo from the other line. You remember why exactly you’re separated from them and the black tar of fear coats your insides as your mind clamors to surmise the worst possible scenario.

When she does finally, speak, her voice is strained, “Listen girl, I hate to have to tell you this…”

You grip the phone handle with white knuckles, waiting to hear what she would finish with. What had happened?

She sighs, like the words are a heavy weight on her chest, “My landlord found out that I’d been watching a friend’s pets, and he lost his shit. Apparently there was a form I needed to fill out? He threatened my deposit if I don’t get them out by Monday.”

Oh! Oh, thank god.

“…so they’re fine?” you question through the phone, just to verify her answer.

“Yeah, they’re doing okay, maybe suffering from some cabin fever, but I can’t keep them here anymore. When are you going to be back from visiting your family?”

You squinted for a moment, confused, forgetting what lie you told her to get her to watch your cats. Upon realization, you quickly assured her.

“Oh, soon. It’ll be soon. My family is doing…better,” you lie, unconvincingly.

“Great! What day could you come and pick them up?” she pressed, believing you, against all odds.

You bit your lip, unsure. When would the Dealer be able to drop you back off at the church? Your car was there, and you would need it to get the kitties back.

“I’ll have to get back to you about that. I can’t just up and leave, but I will definitely get them back before Monday,” you reassure her, now clutching your phone with both hands as you glance behind you.

“So, can I just meet you back at the motel? We can exchange them then, keep me updated,” she speaks into the phone.

“Absolutely,” you confirm through the line, “Give them each a kiss between their ears for me. Goodbye!” you chirp disingenuously into the line, hanging the phone up. Well, shrinking the antenna and shoving the phone back into its bag.

You palm your forehead, delicately raising your hand as you ponder how exactly you were going to request this.

You head toward the stairs, checking your balance using the railing as you climb up to the open hallway. You knew this perfect bubble of happiness within these walls couldn’t last forever, but you didn’t imagine it ending this soon. You’d barely had ten days.

You knocked before entering. The gentle rapt of your knuckles against sturdy oak was answered by a low confirmation to come inside.

You peer within. He prefers to work in darkness, so the light from the banker’s lamp sets a night-soft atmosphere despite it being mid-day. He folds into the shadows like a cinematic villain from the days of the silver screen.

“Craving some entertainment, my dear?” he says, eyes flitting up from his unfolded paper to rake over you.

You tilt your head, you honestly doubted you inspired much lust wearing an overly large Garfield sweatshirt, but you weren’t going to question him. “Not particularly. Are you?” You settle into one of the chairs in front of him. You imagine his mind wanted for something more stimulating than the piles of mundane paperwork he had to shuffle through.

“Well, when something as delectable as you waltzes in, it’s difficult to remain focused,” he purrs, keeping his eyes locked on you.

You chuckle, ducking your head shyly, not all together unaffected by his flirting, “Don’t tempt me. I’m still sore from the morning.”

The papers in his grasp crinkle at that. His mouth tightens in apology, narrow teeth closing in on each other, “Was I too rough?” he asks, his empty eyes meet yours for reassurance.

Bizarrely, no. He just barely brushes under your limits, but never pushes past what you can handle. Even if he did, you’re not one to keep quiet about your opinions. Especially when it came to him.

But fucking pinned on the staircase was enough to kill anyone’s back. You’re surprised he was completely fine, but then again, it was just another confirmation that he was made of stronger stuff than you. You didn’t regret anything, but the pain did make your muscles twitch occasionally.

“Nothing beyond what I wanted, but we better take it easy for the time being,” you reflect, crossing your legs. You bite your lip, nervous, as you continue, “I got a phone call today.”

He sets the sheets of contracts down to look at you directly, an unusual disquiet present on his menacing face. At once, you feel you have phrased your previous statement in the most ominous way possible.

“It was from my friend watching my cats. They’re fine, but her landlord won’t let her keep them past Sunday,” you explain, folding your arms while you lean forward in the plush chair.

He listened patiently, his expression melting into something softer once you assured him.

“I’ll need you to take me back to the church so I can go get them. Would that be safe?”

He relaxes, and answers in that deep rumble, “A sufficient amount of time has passed to avoid suspicion from your assignment. The three of you should be safe from any threat relating to McGregor.”

“So then I can return to my place?” you question. You kept your tone deliberately neutral. In your secret heart, you were conflicted on what you wanted his answer to be.

He hesitates before speaking, a minute, then two, as if suffering from an unseen internal struggle, “Yes, if you would like. We can leave for the church whenever you please.”

You didn’t want to leave. Not really. But you couldn’t stay here and keep your cats. It would be unfair to them. They made their apprehension of your boss well known, and his immaculate home would undoubtedly be altered by your darlings running rampant. You can attest. If you had a nickel for every piece of cat hair you had on your clothes and furniture, you would be a millionaire.

The phone call was your sign you needed to leave. With no way to assess your own safety, the Dealer would never kick you out of his home. No, his sense of honor and decorum was too iron-cast for something so deleterious to you. Yet, you never wanted him to extend himself beyond what he wanted. Becoming an unwanted guest, a burden to his house, was the last thing on your agenda.

Your time here was fun, one of the most wonderful experiences of your life, even, but stretching a rubber band beyond its limits only ends up stinging your hands.

It was best you left.

“I think Sunday would be best,” you confirm.

“Then I will deliver you to the church on Sunday,” he says, cordially. You were familiar enough with his voice to notice a somber edge to his vowels. You blink, dismissing the notion. As a host, he was no doubt at least a little bit tired of catering to your whims as his guest.

You were imagining things.

There was no clock present in his study, but from the cavernous growl erupting from within your torso, you could guess that it was close to dinner time. You wince.

He chuckled at your stricken expression, delighting in your embarrassment. He shuffles the papers again, stacking them against the desk before he rises. He straightens his jacket as he looks at you, suave as ever.

“How about we sojourn downstairs for something to eat?”

…

Dinner was silent, and not in a pleasant way.

It was as if your announcement regarding the phone call changed the entire atmosphere of the evening. The two of you, while not the loudest of duos, enjoyed your dinner conservations. They flowed freely like the generous amounts of alcohol he kept. And when you weren’t talking, you were squeezing his cum out of his cock like it was your one purpose in life.

But now it felt like a veil of awkward unrest had been draped over you both.Your eyes flit, catching glances of him. There’s no sound in the room except the scraping of your fork against the ceramic plates. The high ceilings only added to the unsettling quiet as they reverberated every unintentional noise either of you made.

You cough and it echoes around the room and through the entire house!

The minutes ticked on, slowly the contents of your plate began to disappear as you both ate in silence. A part of you wishes you had opted for liquor.

Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore. You had to give an explanation for the abrupt request you made in his study.

“I don’t want to go, but I can’t stay here forever,” you blurt out, ducking your chin so that you don't make eye contact with him.

“I know, my dear,” he says, soft, like he’s assuring you he never expected that of you.

“The cats don’t like you,” you ramble. You can’t stop talking, can’t stop trying to explain yourself. You’re not even doing that good of a job. It’s coming out disjointed and clumsy, like you’re insulting him. It makes your anxiety spike further.

“I’m unfortunately aware of that too, my dear,” you can’t see him, but you know there is a furrow in brows as he tries to parse out what you're trying to tell him.

“I’m sorry-“ you bleat, cutting yourself short.

“Dearest,” he interrupts you before you can spiral, a knowing expression on his face. He’s been here before with you, “You don’t need to explain your reasoning to me. I’ve adored your time here more than words can express, but it is up to you to decide what you want to do. I will not keep you prisoner here against your will.”

His understanding never fails to rock your world. Your hand flies up to rest against your chest, touched by his consideration. How did you ever land such a gentleman?

Oh right, you bury bodies for him. And your charisma, along with your outlandish wardrobe, ensnared his soul.

The rest of dinner was still quiet, but satisfyingly so.

…

When you were dressed at the hour you both went to sleep, the remnants of your gloom refused to be shaken off. Even when you curled into the blankets did your sadness forcefully jerk the reins from your higher mind’s grasp.

It wasn’t until you began to weep that you realized how much sadness still clung to your bones. You could have wilted at the humiliation.

The Dealer was the first one to even notice. A large, calloused hand gently brushed the tear strokes away, surprising you. Not because of his tenderness, but because you were crying at all. You laid a smaller hand to the back of his, keeping it against your face.

His concern was apparent as the rivulets showed no sign of stopping, even when you used the heel of your hand to brush away the drops gathering on your waterline.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really know why I’m crying.”

“I won’t conjure any reasons, my dear, but know that you’re safe here,” he murmurs. He meant in his arms, the powerful limbs capable of such violence that now clutched you close, gently thumbing away any despair that escaped down your damp face. But you read deeper into his words. You were safe in this house, this grand estate that hid you from the world.

And now you had to leave.

A part of you mourned going. A larger part of you mourned the easy access that you would lose to him.

“I don’t really want to leave. And I know how selfish I am for thinking that,” you whisper into his chest. Gripping the satin of his shirt, you ached to merge behind his rib cage so that you couldn’t be separated.

“If it is selfish to want to keep your person here, then I may be the most selfish man in the world,” he countered, comforting you.

“You will always be welcome here,” he continued, whispering into your ear. The long, white edges of his teeth barely brush your earlobe, but you find yourself uncaring if his jagged mouth nicks you. It can be a token you can carry as a reminder of him.

He didn’t bite you, disappointingly, but uttered sweet reassurances, which were almost as good, “If anything makes you change your mind, regardless of what your darling little cats think of me, then just say the word.”

In just the span of a handful of days, how changed was his life because of your presence? You can understand the reverse, you might have bumped up an income bracket because of him, but did you truly bring him the same amount of joy that he brought you?

You dared to imagine a future in this house, where your cats knocked the more durable nicknacks from his desk and you had memorized each book in his study. In your mind, this house wasn’t a safety retreat; it was your home.

He continued to embrace you through the night until you drifted off, dreaming of such a world.

…

Sunday came with the speed that only calamitous events you dread can attain. Time was an unstoppable march, and you could no more change its course than you could change the gentle falling of frozen flakes from the December sky.

It was as if you were preparing to return to the real world from inside a perfect snow globe.

Nevertheless, you packed your mismatched belongings and helped carry them to the Jaguar. The Dealer, of course, carried your heavier things without exerting even a fraction of his strength.

If you shed a few more tears on the way back to the church, then the Dealer was courteous enough to not mention them, but he could not help the reach of his hand across the aisle to tenderly hold your own.

The houses you passed were still equally as hideous on the way back.

…

Your arrival to the Methodist’s parking lot is met with dry eyes and a confident posture. There were good things to come, and you know the reunion with your beloved four-legged angels will be one for the ages.

You kissed the Dealer goodbye, perhaps more intensely than the religious organization would approve of. Yet, you didn’t hear him complain as he let you go, opting to let you roll your things toward where you parked.

It was your idea to park an inconspicuous distance away, though the Dealer fretted about how much you had to haul across the lot to your car.

You shrugged him off, good-naturedly and assured him in a hushed tone that your core was strongly developed from all the heavy lifting your job required. You blew him a kiss as you strutted to your car, hiding your wincing as your muscles strained to haul all of your shit.

Fortunately, the parking lot is mostly empty. It was still early before the church crowd arrived for Sunday's sermon, so if there were any early birds, they are all parked close to the front.

Except one.

There’s a car in front of your own. It’s the only one for several spaces.

The Buick Estate parked across from you has wood paneling. You wrinkle your nose in distaste. How tacky. An attempt to look distinguished while actually making the car just look brittle.

You wrinkle your nose as you walk past it.

You waste no time throwing your things into your trunk. Suitcase and backpack are stashed without much fanfare, and you reach up to close and lock the trunk without another thought.

You slid into the driver's seat of your own car, tossing the bagphone to the passenger seat. You start the vehicle, fiddling with the radio for a fun station to listen to. You needed a mood booster to prepare to greet your babies.

A shadow falls over you, coating your skin in a cold shade. You turn to look out the window at a slim, pale figure in a cashmere sweater who stood too close to your vehicle.

It takes you less than a second to place him, but once you do, your whole body freezes, and your knuckles squeeze until they are bone white against your steering wheel.

There, leaning over your driver’s side window is Nathan Finch. The bespectacled spouse of Carol Finch, librarian and chronic phantom of your nightmares.

Just where the fuck did he come from?

He’s not moving. Neither are you.

You swivel your head, praying that the Jaguar is still in the parking lot, but no. The Dealer, once he had seen you enter your car safely, had driven off, assured that you would be fine. At any other meeting, you would be, but now the vipers had shaken off their complacency, and had come to feed.

He’s still not fucking moving.

In a show of great disrespect, he rolls his eyes and makes the motion for you to roll down your window.

You crack it just enough to fit a single finger nail.

His already thin mouth thins further. It’s an irritating crack in an already unpleasantly handsome face. A veneer he hides behind.

He speaks your name as a greeting. Your full government name. His tone is cordial, and it drips from his lips like poison. A cold sheen of sweat can be felt forming on your forehead, though you don’t move.

Just how did he figure out your fucking name?

You hide your fright the best way you can: playing dumb. You give him an empty smile, though the half-lid of your eyes felt like they could disintegrate him if you willed it hard enough.

“Nathan Finch, right?” you return, saccharine sweet.

“Yeah, we met a few days ago. I was with my wife,” he responds. Yes, Nathan. I was there. I don’t remember giving you my name. Just how did you discover it, you pathetic excuse of a man?

“I didn’t take you for the religious type,” he says, tilting his head toward the church. The Sunday crowd had yet to fully arrive in the parking lot, though a few pastel-clad folks walked toward the chapel doors, twittering like birds. Unaware of the serpent that caught you in his coils.

You ignore his jab, “Is there any reason you’re talking to me?”

He shrugs, it’s a practiced gesture, “Just wanted to know if you’d seen my brother-in-law. I know you’ve been out of town, but I’m here if you have any info,” he slyly emphasizes the important part of that sentence. They knew you were gone, confirming they were keeping tabs on you. Just how long have they been lurking just outside your periphery?

You wanted to sink your teeth into his neck and shake your head like a hunting dog does to their quarry. Swing his corpse until his spine snaps. Fuck your man as his body burns. Dance upon the ashes.

“I haven’t heard anything. Did your posters not help?” you remark, looking up at him. It was a truly unflattering angle, but there was no angle you could view him from that would improve your opinion of such a snake.

“It’s just a matter of time. I imagine my wife and I’s hard work will pay off eventually,” he remarks, snidely. It’s subtle, but you pick up on the undertones. “Hard work.” That cashmere sweater speaks of unmarred hands and a sizeable wallet. This man has never known hard work in his life.

And you sincerely doubted any effort of his would amount to anything. David McGregor wasn’t exactly going to spring back to life after what you did to him.

“I’m going to head home. Enjoy your sermon, Nathan Finch,” you smile, cheeks aching. Then just for good measure, you take a page out of his own subtly snide book, “May God help you in this.”

“You’re not going inside-?”

You put the car into reverse, not even waiting for him to back away from your window before you peel out of the parking spot.

Frightened, and a little disoriented, you look back in the rear-view mirror. There, Nathan stands unmoving, watching as your car speeds away.

Chapter Text

The coming year was not merciful to your humble abode.

Though you're sure Tuxedo and Fiddle strongly preferred being here versus anywhere else, judging by their nonstop purr-fest they’ve had for the past several days, tangling around your angles with their heads pushed against your shins. You, however, had a bit of a higher standard when it came to staying warm.

It was cold in the house. Alarmingly so.

While the three of you had been away, the radiator had broken. It was a very rude ‘welcome back.’ But other than the heat, nothing seemed to be amiss. The place was as untouched as you left it.

You had been making do by wearing an excessive amount of layers, keeping the fireplace stoked, and keeping the curtains closed against the frigid temperatures. Your efforts helped, but you could only have the fireplace going for so long before the house smelled like smoke, and the heat didn’t travel well to rooms further inward, like your bedroom and bathroom, both of which were built with wood and linoleum floors, respectively. It left little chance of good insulation.

You caved and went to purchase a solution by the third day. The inconvenience was too great, plus the cats were starting to smother you in an effort to stay warm. One would think that you had returned from war from the way they fawned over you. You missed them too, but your clothes were more cat hair than fabric fiber.

So you ventured over to the supermarket, bundled in your coat and a knitted scarf wound around your head. The roads had fortunately been salted, and were relatively clear of traffic. The snow had yet to descend, but the chilled bite in the air threatened a flurry if you didn’t hustle.

The clinical white tile and blinding fluorescents made the store feel almost as cold as the brisk winds outside. A few employees were scattered about the aisles, and even fewer customers wandered between them.

Nevertheless, you located a temporary fix quickly: a portable electric heater and an electric blanket. Both were perfect, an ideal solution until you called a repairman to fix your home radiator.

On your way to the check out, you passed the deli. You paused pushing your cart to notice that the supermarket was having a sale on salmon. The large sign hanging from the ceiling in red writing told you as such. As did the excessive exclamation points. You bite your lip as you consider purchasing all of it.

You’d been overdue for a visit to the city park, and you’re sure the feral cats who made it their home noticed your absence, and missed it severely. Who else will take up the mantle of their Friday evening caterer if not you?

And in this cold weather?

Without another thought, you started throwing slabs of salmon into your cart, watching each plastic container climb into a tower of fileted fish.

There, you thought, brushing your chilled hands. That should make for a sufficient apology dinner.

The cashier was too exhausted to question your bizarre purchase of one electric blanket, one portable heater, and fifteen pounds worth of salmon, which you were silently thankful for.

You quickly fled the scene, putting your car in reverse, and heading straight to the park.

…

It’s quiet. Not even the wind dares to blow to disturb this fine feast.

You crouched in the dried earth, gingerly tossing torn pieces of seafood to a chowder of noisy kitties. You hoped Tuxedo and Fiddle wouldn’t be jealous when you got back. Though the smell of fish on your hands and clothes would be difficult to hide.

Winter was harsh on all life, but especially on these guys. You flinch at the sight of gaunt little faces and tabby stripes overlapping ripcages. Skipping a week for your safety retreat with your boss definitely didn’t do any favors regarding their nutritional health. Perhaps you should increase your visits to two times a week. Just until the frost thaws.

Quickly the chorus of little meows and yowls quieted to the silent smacks of teeth sinking into a seafood treat. You wondered if they had a preference. Did they prefer chicken, seafood, or your special assignment surprise? Or did it vary from cat to cat? Perhaps you can set up a little taste test for them someday. You chuckle at the thought of these perceptive little judges deliberating over flavor profiles and textures of meat.

While you crouched over the frozen ground, tearing and tossing little pieces of succulent meat to the eager cats, you feel a presence nearby. The weight of a stare is distinct in an empty park in the middle of winter.

You look up sharply. Your hands still tear a piece of salmon from the rest of its body, tossing it to a nearby Ragdoll. There, in the distance. Someone was headed your way. They were jogging.

In this weather? You tugged your scarf off your nose as you squinted at this reckless stranger.

Puffs of white escaped his mouth as the slim figure bounced up and down down the path in a garishly designed sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. A tracksuit? Ah, so it was a hobby. He wasn’t here for you.

He jogs closer, close enough that you can identify the brand of his running shoes. Your eyebrows raise. You would be able to buy a living room full of radiators for a pair of those.

His hair flops as he runs, bouncing like brittle wires of copper. Funnily enough, you felt like you’d seen that color before. Somewhere recently.

Your frigid fingers freeze as you place the jogging stranger. That scrawny, bitch-boy bureaucrat.

Nathan Finch.

You almost didn’t recognize him without his bulky bifocal lenses. Just what was he doing here?

You eyed him more suspiciously. He certainly didn’t have a runners build, and unless one was a dedicated athlete, one didn’t go out into this cold unless they had to. Jogging in melted snow? What did he want to do, break an ankle?

You compress your lips, silently willing it to happen. Please, it would be so funny.

You opened another package of salmon and distributed the pieces generously among the waiting cats, scrutinizing Nathan all the while.

He nears the covered bridge and you notice the bastard has the audacity to smile at you as he grows closer. Smile!

Even from this distance, a stone’s throw, his teeth are an unsettling shade of white. Like that of the afternoon snow. Each flat, rounded tooth gleamed like a perfect snowflake. Did he recognize you under this scarf and thick coat? If he did, why would he smile?

You tug the scarf back up to your face, wary. Your fingers smell of raw salmon, but you’d rather deal with the smell than have him interact with you in any capacity.

Notably, Nathan’s already pale visage whitens further as he notices you tossing pieces of meat to dozens of hungry cats. You’re glad to have pulled up your scarf as you cannot hide the bark of laughter when he runs faster, past the turning path that leads further into the park. He definitely recognized you. Scarf or not.

What, did he somehow mistake salmon, fish meat, for human? His brother-in-law perhaps? What an idiot.

You’ll have to tell the Dealer about this one the next time he calls for an assignment. Once every fuzzy head is buried into the pink guts of a fresh fish, you clean up. You carefully gathered the leftover plastic containers that remained and tossed them into the nearby trash can.

Upon walking back to your car, you thought you saw Nathan’s tacky tracksuit flit out of the comer of your eye. Startled, you turn to confront him, the beginnings of a shout on your lips, only to find that it’s a loose conservation ribbon, dancing around the tree it was tied to.

Irritated with yourself, you duck into your car, starting the ignition. You needed to get the hell out of here. And away from him.

Your darling Dealer was definitely going to be hearing about this little encounter!

Chapter Text

“And! And he was wearing the UGLIEST sweatsuit! It clashed with that god-awful head of hair. Completely tacky and garish!”

You had been bitching down the telephone line at the Dealer for the past ten minutes, regaling him on the events that transpired that afternoon. You’re sure your voice would be ringing in his ears well after the call had ended. You’d shouted enough to hear its shrill echo back to you in an irritated shriek.

“A ghastly sight to be sure, my dear. But did he speak to you this time? What was discussed?” He pressed, pausing every few sentences. You imagine he had a lit cigarette in one hand, and his phone in the other. His vice of choice must be a relaxing distraction while you actively raise both of your blood pressures.

You, cigarette-less, paced across the kitchen tile in socked feet, walking as far as the coiled cord would let you. It was your own method to quell the alert thrum in your veins and to douse your simmering annoyance.

“No, but he did look very frightened by the fileted salmon I bought for the park cats. Not gonna lie, if I wasn’t so focused on feeding them, I would have chased him with it.”

You hear him chuckle under his breath, amused at the imagery. You smile, stopping in your tracks to appreciate the sound of that low laughter. A balm to your aggravated nerves.

“I imagine that was a better interaction than the one at the church. To think that cur had the audacity to intimidate you like that,” he huffs, audibly fuming. Then he goes quiet, you can almost hear the weariness of this whole debacle wearing down on him. He then sighs, muffled, like he had a tired hand over his face, “I again apologize I did not stay long enough to stop him from daring to encroach on your space.”

Your heart softens at the guilt interlacing his apology. How could he have known something would happen at dawn in a church parking lot? He waited until you had entered your vehicle, and then left. It was what you both had become accustomed to. Besides, you ended up being fine. You rushed to reassure him, pulling up one of your dining room chairs to sit down.

“Ah, I lived. Don’t dwell too much on what could have happened. I think he’s too much of a coward to actually try anything other than hover and intimidate,” you remark, leaning backward in the wooden chair.

Perhaps it was the soft evening light glittering through your window blinds. Perhaps it was the deep, soothing voice in your ear whispering apologies and thoughtful solace through the line, but either way, you can hardly recall the blood-chilling anxiety you felt in the park earlier today.

“Besides, I’ve been gone for several days. If he wanted to make a move, he would have done it by now, while I was away. When the blame couldn’t be placed on him, you know? Like sabotaging my car or causing property damage.”

He contemplates your logic, the crackle of his exhale sounds through the speaker. You can almost detect the smoke if you close your eyes and concentrate. The rich embers of the dried tobacco smoke is not a smell you thought you would especially miss, but you caught the mournful feeling in your chest when you smelled your clothes after the laundry, and the smell of his home, of him, was gone.

“It is still a cause for concern. You’ll forgive me if I cannot bear this harassment of your person. You do not deserve any of this,” he murmurs down the line.

Your heart falters in its consistent pattern. Even at this distance, connected only by a mechanism of wires, his words touch you like something physical seeking to ignite you from the inside.

“It’s annoying, yes, but I’m a big girl. I can handle some bitchy creep and his wife’s pathetic little smear campaign,” you said. A small, unspoken part of yourself wondered just how much you were relying on your annoyance to cover the deep-seated fear that these vipers inflicted.

“They shouldn’t be around you at all, not after your stay with me. But I suppose it’s not exactly a crime to annoy others in your community,” he acquiesced, just barely, “If anything escalates, let me know immediately, dearest,” he stressed.

You smile crookedly. Leave it to him to emphasize his desired role as your adored protector. A role which you gladly appointed him.

“Don’t I always?” you flirted, coiling the phone cord around your raised index finger.

You glance at the clock hanging on the wall, flinching at the angle of the metal hands.

Ugh.

Your sleep schedule really has gone to hell. You were almost completely nocturnal a few months ago, but now you were straining to keep awake for most of the day to run errands, and then again in the night in case The Dealer called you for an assignment.

You accidentally yawn into the receiver. You cover your mouth with your hand, but the wide-mouthed intake of breath was loud enough to reach his ears.

“Tired, are we?” He asks, playfully. You can hear the knowing grin in his voice. “I hope you’re taking care of yourself while you're away from me.”

You cut-off your yawn, closing your mouth hard enough to hear your teeth click shut, “Y-yeah! Of course. Obviously! It’s just been an eventful day, you know?” you splutter, embarrassed.

He hums, knowing precisely how bad of a liar you were. You compress your lips in a frustrated wince.

“Give your cats my regards, dearest. I’ll speak to you soon.”

You sigh, regretting showing how tired you were. You could listen to his voice for the rest of the night if he would let you. Oh, if you only had the courage to ask him to head up to his study and start reading all of those encyclopedias starting from the first volume.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, trying and failing to blink away the exhaustion. You desperately wanted to tell him you loved him, but he forbade any awareness of your attachment to be heard over the phone lines.

It was the same reason he disliked mentioning too much about work over the phone: someone listening in could hear and conjure trouble for you both. Reasonable, but your heart still beats a melancholy rhythm in your chest at the denial.

“Goodnight, my dear,” he answered softly, just before ending the call. You thought you could just hear him hesitating on the other end of the line. Perhaps he too wishes he could say more than his principles would allow him.

Your head dangles as you rise to hang the phone back on its hook on the wall. Exhausted, you stumble to your room, falling onto the bed beside the already sleeping cats. You had completely forgotten to turn the kitchen light off before you wandered off to dreamland.

…

The next day (you would be overly generous to yourself if you referred to the time of your awakening as ‘morning’), you elected to gather your mail from the box outside. The winter wind whistles uncomfortably past your uncovered ears, and you tuck in your limbs as you walk the familiar path to access all the people and companies trying to correspond with you via the postal service.

The mailbox was almost bursting at its corners full of paper. The sight almost makes you want to double back.

You hadn’t checked it since before you left for The Dealer’s house, so you could only imagine the manner of envelopes and sales ads that would spew forth should you open it. Humorously, you imagine being swept away in a river of paper, surfing the sheets like an ocean wave.

You do open the mailbox anyway, pulling out trees and trees of junk letters and magazine ads, envelopes and flyers. You thumb through them accordingly, scanning for anything important. Anything interesting. Anything…off-putting.

Under the howling of the wind, you pick up on a familiar sound as you scrutinize the origins of clothing catalog. One that sends an icy shock of dread right down to the marrow of your bones.

There are footsteps behind you.

Slow, but picking up speed. Like they're pushing into a run. Like they see an opportunity to jump.

You hear the rhythmic taptaptap! of expensive trainers on concrete as they dart for you while your back is turned. Just waiting for you to be distracted enough to be grabbed!

You whirl around to confront the threat, heart in your mouth, a name ready to be shouted on the edge of your lips…only to see nothing.

Just empty the space of your street. Cold and barren of life, sans you.

But you can still hear it. That tapping. You look up, ever so slightly, eyes following the sound.

An errant tree branch had climbed up to the side of a neighboring building. The very tip, bare of any leaves, taps the shutters of an adjacent window. Its frequency increases as the winds pick up.

You crinkle the sales catalog in your irritated grip. Wrinkling the glossy paper beyond anything identifiable. You're tempted to throw the rest of your mail to the ground and storm back to your front door. But you don’t.

You carry the rest in, ignoring any more suspicious sounds.

You miss a clicking shutter, the kind belonging to an expensive Polaroid instant camera, going off as you stomped back down the path.

…

Like a particularly determined cottontail, you remained burrowed in your home for as long as your dwindling resources would allow. Night after night, you remained inside, playing away with your darling cats and reading some of the magazines that were sandwiched in between the sales ads you brought in the other day. And, of course, neglecting your sleep schedule.

But when all you had left in the fridge was condiments, and you had emptied your supply of laundry detergent, you had to face the music. You couldn’t hide in here forever, no matter how distasteful the weather, or how threatening the Finches acted.

So, you prepared to journey into the unwelcoming, January night.

You sprinkled a generous amount of cat food into each bowl, nothing from the fridge, but store-bought pellets that would last them for a while. You double checked that they still had fresh water. They did, and it was an ideal temperature for a playtime break.

Toys? Well, they were both enchanted by the stacks upon stacks of mail you brought in. Fiddle loved to pounce on the flat sheets of paper to see how far he could slide across the floor, while Tuxedo took great joy in batting the crumpled balls of paper around. You imagined that would cement their focus instead of the basket full of toys you purchased for them.

Either way, they would stay entertained while you gathered the essentials.

You didn’t think you would be out for very long, but if the roads took a turn for the worst, you wanted them prepared for a long evening without you.

You bundled up yet again, debating on if you should wear your scarf. Nathan knew what you looked like with it on, so you abandoned the idea in favor of a winter hat. The knitted cap fit snugly over your ears and head, and would definitely dissuade any nosy redheads from recognizing you and thus, prying into your business.

Donning on a pair of matching orange gloves and thickly soled snow boots, you ventured out the door.

It was far less crowded than the last time you were here, and it appears the store has learned their lesson. There was no giant sign advertising a sale in the deli. The risk of someone like you rifling through their entire inventory was just too high. Fortunately for the supermarket, you weren’t due for another catering for a few more days.

You gathered a few staples of your own diet and selected your preferred brand of laundry detergent, placing each item into the plastic basket on your arm. You even treat yourself to a new romance novel in their book selection, since the library was currently a no-go.

Only when the basket is almost too heavy to lift do you check out and head back to the parking lot.

The sun had long since set since before you ventured into the store, but now the night sky appeared almost ominous as you hastened across the stretch of asphalt, wet from melted snow. The cold air is thin and coagulates in your throat, making you cough. It’s miserable and unsettling to be outside. It also didn’t help that there wasn’t anyone visible, just a few cars all scattered far from each other.

Your eyes adjust against the dark quickly, but the leftover fluorescence of the store still leaves a few details unknown, but you almost don’t need your eyes to realize a deeply unsettling fact.

There’s someone else here.

A long stretch of a shadow barely brushes the edge of your boot from where you proceed to your car. Though warped, you recognize a human silhouette.

Your insides buckle with fear as you look up to see the broad outline of a male figure against the sputtering glow of the streetlamp, just on the edge of the parking lot.

He wears sturdy winter gear, concealing his build. You cannot tell if he is Nathan. But whether or not he is Nathan is a moot point as you are well aware the Finches are wealthy enough to hire someone to cause you harm.

You have your keys at the ready in your trembling hands, the silver, jagged end juts out from the opening on the other end of your gloved fist, like a small knife. Your thumb overlaps the top of the black plastic that encases the key. A small weapon, but a weapon nonetheless. It does little to steady you.

Through the many layers of your clothes, you feel a chill jump start your adrenaline. You need to flee. It’s an instinct that won’t be denied.

Your car is in sight, you can get there in seconds if you run. But your boots are large and heavy, built to insulate against the cold, not to escape a vengeful neighbor or a hitman. You also have about thirty pounds of groceries in one hand, and both would slow you down.

Fuck it, your life was too important to risk.

You break into a clumsy sprint, muscles straining as you haul your load of groceries in one hand to the car. The bag slams painfully into your leg with every stretched step. You dart across the painted asphalt, keenly aware of the dead weight on your feet and in your hand.

You reach your car, scratching the paint job with your key as you clumsily try to unlock the driver's door. Your death grip prevents you from dropping your keys, but your hands still tremble despite the warmth of your gloves. Frantic, you steal glances at the solid figure standing ominously just in front of the street lamp. Did he move closer!? Fuck!

With the click of the locking mechanism coming undone, you strong-arm the door open, throwing the bag of groceries hard into the passenger seat. Scrambling to close and lock the door, your vision shakes as you hear the door click. You quickly start the engine, shallow breaths forming clouds in front of you. The car rumbles to life as you half-slump in the seat, forgoing the seatbelt as you shove the gear shift into reverse and peel out of your parking spot.

Tentatively, you correct your posture, daring to peak in his direction. As you creep closer to the foreboding silhouette of the mysterious man, you realize something as the angle of the light changes.

He’s not a man at all. No, not even vaguely.

Using the snow the employees had shoveled off the parking lot, someone had built a snowman on the edge of the parking lot.

You’re aghast in humiliation. You had just scurried across the parking lot like a frightened hen, panicked beyond measure, over a snowman!

His black goal grin beamed wide and black as you passed by him on your way to the parking lot’s exit. Your face burns hot in embarrassment.

You miss the Buick Estate sitting in darkness, its lone passenger just out of sight of your car.

…

You remained in your home for the next foreseeable future, shutting the blinds, closing the curtains, and leaving the lights off for as long as you could. If your paranoia was this extreme, then you needed a way to calm the fuck down. A way to calm down that didn’t involve sleeping, that is. You could not be that vulnerable right now.

So, you made a deliberate effort to create a calming environment in your home.

You feel most at ease when the moon is high and the world is bathed in a midnight blue, so you wait in the silence of the night, sipping a favorite drink and stroking a purring cat or two as you willed your body to embrace a peaceful mindset.

But your attempts at calming your paranoia through sheer force of will became a moot point by the next night.

You had just fed the cats, and were indulging in a little candlelight reading. The atmosphere was perfect for the little romance novel you picked out for yourself.

A maid for a grand estate is made a baroness for the sake of a marriage of convenience to the male love interest who disliked social interaction, but something about her beguiles him beyond reason. Very gripping stuff.

But not gripping enough for you to ignore the jiggle of the door handle. The fast clicks of the lock prevented any entrance from those who would try to invade your quiet space, but the noise still rattled you. It was past midnight, why would someone be testing your door? The radiator repairman said that he was booked until the end of the month, so it couldn’t possibly be him. Surely he would knock? Surely anyone would knock?

The cats, not yet settled for the night, were as cheerful as bees in a spring meadow. Your discarded mail lay in sheets on the floor, and they took great joy in bouncing and sliding them all over the room. You were glad someone was getting some use out of those tacky sales ads. Even though your living room was a mess, it was soothing to the soul to see them play.

The room falls silent again, and you brush off the noise as another auditory mistake you made. First the tree branch footsteps, now this? Maybe you should get checked out.

Not twenty minutes go by before you hear it again. That sound of grinding metal as your doorknob is tried. You lean over the side of the couch, trying to see the glint of the metal twisting. The sound stops before it could enter your vision.

Suspicious, you continue reading, but you remain on edge, flitting your eyes up every few minutes as you wait.

And wait.

Hours pass, you don’t hear the noise again. Gradually, you relax, even getting up to make yourself another hot drink. Cocoa with extra marshmallows is the perfect pairing with your book. You could even add sprinkles!

You’re still waiting for your drink to warm to the perfect temperature when, at four minutes past three o’ clock, the door handle attempts to spin again, pushed by an outside force, but the firm lock remains unyielding.

Your head whips toward the door. You are too far away from it to see the handle clearly, and you widen your stance as you frantically cease heating your drink, craning your neck to check to try and see the entrance while making sure you don’t have a household mishap.

By the time you’ve turned off the heat, and set your drink aside, the clicking has stopped. The doorknob remains unmoved. Frustrated, you kick a stray stack of paper. The papers fall from the air, floating gently onto the furniture and floor.

The cats proceed to lose their minds with glee.

You squint at the door. An idea forming just behind your eyes. It hadn’t been too long since the doorknob had been messed with. Just a scant few minutes. Did you dare peek outside the entrance of your home?

You gather your courage, take a deep breath, and you unlock the door. The hinges squeak as you open it.

You peer around the door in both directions, keeping the rest of your body within the threshold of your house in case a quick get-away is needed. Fortunately for you, there is nothing outside. Nothing but a fresh blanket of powder-white snow.

You look in the opposite direction. Not a single soul can be found. Was there even anybody out here at all? Or was your mind your ultimate saboteur, buckling under the weight of the constant stress and lack of sleep you forced it to endure?

You curl your lip, frustrated at yourself. You duck your head, gripping the steady threshold of the doorway, ashamed, why does your mind do this to you?

Wait.

Your vision focused. You blinked a few times as you registered the sight atop your doormat.

There are prints in the snow. Several of them. Like someone was pacing impatiently outside your door.

In each footstep there was an elaborate pattern indented onto the fresh white. The shoes were new, there was no trace of dirt in the snow. Such a design on the bottom of shoes indicates an expensive pair of trainers. Your heart sinks in your chest and the fright bleeds into your bones with a speed only panic can produce. Now, who do you know that has that kind of money and taste in shoes?

No, you needed to calm down. Plenty of people wore expensive running shoes. Maybe some neighborhood kids were just playing a prank past their bedtime.

You looked closer at the prints, noticing a color discrepancy. The prints are clean, but there is a tendril of color, thin as a wire, between a left and right pair. You lean down, peering intently.

There, lying starkly against the white snow is one strand of red hair, exactly the texture of one Nathan Finch. You jerk back into the house, slamming the door.

With your fears all but confirmed, you flee inside. Your foot catches on a stray magazine on the floor and you fall to the floor. You cry out, more shocked than in pain, but the fall only exacerbates your already fried nerves.

Nevertheless, the loud thud startled the playing cats into scurrying under the couch. You mimic the same behavior by running further into the house, desperate for a hiding place of your own. You fly down the hallway, doubling back for your bagphone at the last minute before you continue around the corridor, as far away from your front door as you can manage. You duck through the doorway of your bathroom and crawl into the empty tub where you pull the shower curtain closed. The echo of your shallow breathing bounces off the tile.

They were following you. They were stalking you. They’re hunting you. They found you!

You clutch the bagphone close to your chest as you openly weep in fright, biting your lip to prevent from sobbing. A part of you felt vindicated that all of this paranoia wasn’t a product of your own persecuted delusions, but your own instincts trying to warn you of a threat you couldn’t see.

But the rest of you?

The rest of you was so scared that all you could do was tuck all your limbs into a ball around the bagphone and shiver as you came to terms with what you had just recently experienced.

It took a solid ten minutes and many falling teardrops for you to calm down enough to attempt to make a call. A call to the only person that mattered. The only one who could help you. Your fingers shook trying to pry the velcro opening from the rest of the carrier.

You pull the bagphone out, gripping the device in trembling hands as you pull the silver antenna up to its tallest height. You dial his number, clutching the phone to your ear with white knuckles.

The phone rings twice before you hear the tell-tale click of the other phone answering your call.

“State your business,” that rich, deep voice echoes into your ears, more curt than you were expecting. You hesitated, startled at his tone, is this how he answers his associates when they call him?

“I-It’s me…,” you quickly reassure him of yourself. Though your own voice, sad as it was, does a sufficient job of your identification.

That exasperation you had during your last phone call with him, discussing the same subject no less, was a tattered veneer that couldn’t no longer hide the blatant fear that the Finches evoked within you.

You take a deep, shaking breath to speak further, but immediately fall silent. The hot sting of tears behind your eyes surprised you. Your emotional well-being is on shakier ground that you originally suspected.

“Dearest? Are you alright?” he inquires in a much softer voice, one you were more experienced with. His concerned trepidation bleeds into the metallic filter over the line, “Speak to me, please.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m…” your voice, brittle with emotion, shatters as you try to speak. You thought you had it together, that you had pulled yourself together enough to speak to him coherently, but the familiarity of his voice and the confirmation of his presence through the phone brings forth another wave of tears. You bit your lip, but it couldn’t conceal the sob that erupted from your chest against your will.

You hear a sympathetic sigh from the other end of the phone.

“Let it out, dearest. I know you’re upset,” he encourages. And his understanding unleashes something vulnerable inside you that you had kept buried inside for too long. A metal lock exposed to the damp air will eventually rust and break until it can no longer function. You cry into the receiver.

“I thought I was going crazy. There were phantom f-footsteps, shadows in the corners of my eyes, I-I was hearing things, seeing things that weren’t there. But tonight I discovered something,” you don’t elaborate on what you found, knowing full well to keep the line safe, but you tell him as much as you can without revealing specifics, “I’m not crazy. I’m…being followed, but my exhaustion had me questioning my reality. They know where I live, they’ve been to my home. What if they—?!” you gasp, voice thin from lack of air.

It’s only when your breathing reaches a shallowness that is only indicated by the dangerous rapidity with which you intake air does he interrupt you.

“Take deep breaths for me, my love,” he implores, slicing into your rambling before you have a chance to hyperventilate. You inhale sharply through your nose before exhaling in a steady stream of air through your mouth. The bathroom’s air is cool and smells of your lemon cleaner. The bathtub is cool and echoes your shaky voice.

“You are not crazy,” he continues, “These perpetrators are sly and their deceit is well hidden, but we both know you’re too clever to be outwitted by these spiteful degenerates. I am proud that you were able to overcome their treachery.”

Though your face is puffy and wet, you feel a stirring of pride in your chest. It was deeply comforting to know that he thought highly of your intelligence, especially since the paranoia lurking over your shoulder had you feeling delusional and doltish. He truly was exceptional at lifting your spirits.

You stretch out your legs in the empty tub, switching the phone to your other hand as you continue to talk.

“I just…” you start, then think better of it. You pause as you contemplate your next words.

“Continue, dearest, it’s alright,” he reassures. You shake off your apprehension, cradling the phone.

“I just want to know why I’m caught up in this. Why won’t h-they let this go? Why take such drastic measures against me?”

Now it is his turn to go quiet.

“…,” a minute passes in silence.

“Hello?” you ask into the line, fearing he’s hung up on you. You tuck the phone closer to your ear, he hasn’t. If you strain, you could hear him pensively inhale as he surprises you with his next words.

“We need to convene.”

You blink. You know he can’t see you through the phone, but that doesn't stop you from feeling embarrassed as your mouth opens and closes like a freshly caught fish.

“Oh, um…am I due for another assignment?” you didn’t know how to tell him that you were in no state, emotional or mental, to dispose of a body for him.

Fortunately, he could read your voice well enough to know not to ask.

“No. There is something I need to give you. It pertains to our mutual problem.”

Ah, some more information would be delivered, most likely. Additionally, he was right. It was a mutual problem. The executioner's axe didn’t just hang over your head. His…profession was in trouble if, by some miracle, the Finches found out anything about you.

“I don’t think I’m in any state to drive,” you confess, slumping further into the bathtub. Your hands still trembled, though your mind felt sufficiently settled.

“Then I will retrieve you,” he offered. You couldn’t contain your sigh of relief even if you tried.

Chapter Text

It wouldn’t be the first time you internally derided the Jaguar for its size, but it would be the first time you felt it was too big.

Were it not for the colossal divide of the central console, you would have climbed into the Dealer’s lap and stayed there for the entirety of the drive. After the harrowing days you had experienced, you would take both arms to loop over his broad shoulders and around his neck.

Why would he need to see the road when he could gaze upon you? Sure, the tears stains had yet to dry from your puffy face, but your beauty was no less apparent. Besides, how better to comfort you than keeping you as close as possible?

Unfortunately the console did exist, as did the gear shift, and both were an impenetrable plateau that you could not climb. The familiar weight of his eyes on you would have to be postponed in favor of your safety while on the road.

You settled for holding his hand. A tender embrace on a much smaller scale, but no less intimate. The touch of his powerful fingers overlapping yours was one you missed like air in your lungs, and one you were grateful to have again. A fair compromise.

Truth be told, you weren’t even focused on where the Jaguar carried you both, so distracted by his formidable presence, by the secure grip with which he held your hand, like you would dissipate into smoke should he let you go, by the bewitching notes of wood and tobacco on his coat that once clung to your own, that by the time you arrived at your destination, it was jarring enough to rattle your composure once the vehicle came to a stop.

You emerge from the car as if from a cocooned daydream, and peruse the area. Your breaths come in small clouds as your boots crunch under the gravel. The abrupt chill quickly has you trembling as you duck your hands into your pockets.

This place was unfamiliar, though it shared the typical qualities the Dealer liked in meeting locations: isolated, quiet, and inconspicuous. More importantly, the timing was perfect. The sun had just started to crest over the horizon, painting the area in pastel pink and yellow hues.

The looming building was tall and dilapidated, almost appearing abandoned. But despite the weathering and dirt, the exterior is suspiciously ornate with white corbels supporting the superfluous edge work on the roof and windows. You suspected that during its prime, this building’s exterior was designed to attract people inside. The white framed windows and vibrant red brick gave it a turn-of-the-century impression, but nature had long since reclaimed a vast part of the towering structure. Large vines of climbing ivy coating the walls and spread delicate leaves onto the neglected walls. Bushels of wildflowers in every color dotted the grass where a path to the entrance once resided.

Why were you brought to this place?

A sturdy arm snakes around you to pull you into the Dealer’s side. You melt into his embrace, sliding your own arm around his back, the long black coat he donned for the cold was soft and thick against your hand. You lean your head against him as he walks you both up the concrete steps and into the wide front doors. The hinges shrieked from disuse as the Dealer pried the door open.

He unwinds his arm from your back to bow playfully as he holds the door open for you. You giggle at his antics, and duck your head shyly as you walk through the door. Ever the chivalrous type.

You proceed into what appeared to be a hotel lobby.

The interior is worse off than what the mild disrepair of the outside would suggest, but it is not completely without merit. The floor of the entrance is covered in a thick layer of dust with the seats, reception desk, and end tables all covered in white sheets, but there are no holes to trip your way down into. The ceiling is enforced with strong wood beams, but you can still see yawning cracks in the peeling white paint. Still, it was warmer here than outside, and one could ignore the faint smell of growing dampness where the rooftop snow had melted down through the windows.

“What is this place?” you inquire, recognizing the building was a hotel, but curious as to what its purpose served for the two of you. You weren’t trespassing, were you?

“This place once belonged to a….business associate of mine. It’s been a while since I‘ve been here, but I thought it would be the perfect place for our rendezvous,” he answered, unbuttoning his coat to drape over one arm, though he made no move to let go of it. You deposited your own coat atop a random sheet-coated end table.

“What, you own this hotel?” you remark, laughing half-way into your sentence.

You wander a few steps away from him, gandering at the grand entryway, the cream, once white, moldings on the ceiling trim, and the dangling chain in the ceiling where a massive crystal chandelier once hung. This place must have been spectacular in its heyday.

It’s only when he shoots a sly grin at you, that you do a double-take at him.

“Wait, you own this abandoned hotel? How?” you ask, following him as he continues to walk to a small descending staircase, near the front, to what looked like a seated area.

“That’s partially why I brought you here,” he said, strolling over to one of the covered pieces of furniture. He pulls the white sheet off with a flourish to reveal a red chaise lounge. After ensuring there is no dust on the seat, he invites you to sit down, offering an arm for you to take.

You pad over, grateful at the offering, though you are still unsure as to where he is going with this. The lounge is as comfortable as decades old furniture can be, but you are grateful it doesn’t creak as you sit.

“It’s time I illuminated you on what I do as a career,” he said, a direct finality in the deep timbre of his voice. You blinked, glad that he encouraged you to sit down for this. This was information he wanted to share with you?

He’d never revealed much information to you about his work, nor about the guests that attended his games, but your own work burning, burying, and breaking down bodies for him gave you some insight as to what he orchestrated behind closed doors. You anxiously waited to hear, in detail, what exactly he did on the third floor of that club you used to clean.

“This place was an offering for one of the many clients that stumble their way to my game room. For when they’ve dug a hole so deep for themselves, they cannot climb out,” he uttered, derision dripping from his voice. He, unlike you, chose to remain standing, pacing a few feet away to stare pensively out of a window, one that cracked in web thin splinters.

You wait, enthralled, your hands curled around in each as they sit on your lap. He continues.

“When the debts of previous bets climb to uncontrollable heights, gamblers will find themselves at my table in an attempt to earn it all back. That is how an old money scion arrived at my door, but he didn’t have the funds to back up his gambling spree, so he signed a contract betting his inheritance: his family’s hotel. And now the entire place belongs to me,” he makes a grand gesture with his arm, demonstrating the wide space before you, though his apathy rings clear. Your lover had no use for this place, it was just another insipid trophy from a gambler that couldn’t quit while he was ahead. It makes you wonder just how many people bet their most prized possessions to him in an effort to flee the consequences of their own actions.

No wonder he was so wealthy.

“The former hotel beneficiary was smart enough to walk away then, owning nothing but the clothes on his back and the heart in his chest, but David McGregor failed to consider just what he was signing away with his name on the dotted line,” he growled, as if lost in a memory of the very setting in which he described.

Your ears perked as you recognized the deceased relative of those dreadful Finches. The man whose own destiny was cut short by his own hand. The man you reduced to ashes in your fireplace.

“By the time he had arrived at my roulette table, he had accrued over $200,000 in gambling debts,” he rumbled, glancing at you.

Your reaction doesn’t disappoint. Your eyes widened, the cool air of the decayed hotel settling around you. You cannot fathom such an absurd amount of money, let alone losing it all in a stupid bet. You smother the instinct to mathematically tally how long it would take you to earn that much, let alone what you could buy with it.

“He thought if he played my games,” he paused to place a hand against his chest in emphasis, “it could get him out of the hole he’d dug himself into. But the stakes were too high…and he made the wrong call,” he reminisced, darkly.

Back in your garage on that mundane Tuesday, when you played some ear-worm pop hits on the radio as you cut this man’s body down. That gaping hole where his head once was, fractured by a bullet at close range. The stain of the crimson gore dripping down that hideous polo.

So if his clients didn’t realize they were in too deep to get out, they ended up dead. By their own hand, or by the Dealer finishing the job himself.

You blink as you recount just how many bodies you had disposed of while in his service. How many people bet their life before they realized they couldn’t get out of the contract they signed?

You expect a well of sympathy to bubble inside you, to experience that same haunted feeling that wells within when you look at the stray cats in the park during the dead of winter. That helpless misery that arises when encountering troubles you didn’t cause, but are limited in how much you could help.

But it doesn’t come.

Your darlings were at the mercy of other people, unable to help themselves, deserted by callous humans or born to their circumstances by feral mothers.

These reprobates had built their own hells from the ground up. Brick by brick. They had ample opportunity to put the brick in their hand down before it became a cement-lined pit with no exit.

“So that’s what all those papers on your desk were for. And also why you stayed in your office so much,” you tell him, reflecting on all that paperwork he did. Murdering people required a lot more clerical work than you previously thought.

“Correct, much to your chagrin,” he confirmed, giving you an indulgent smile that shifts the points of his menacing teeth. You smile back, his grin infectious. He was right, but you couldn’t be that unhappy about it. The excessive time he devoted to his work was the catalyst of you two becoming closer.

And then you had to leave his house, only to meet the very people you had hidden from lurking just outside your periphery. Your smile melts from your face.

“But I still don’t understand,” you confess, “why are the Finches so desperately after me? Their brother did this to himself?”

He considers your words, then slowly approaches where you sit. You slide closer to the red arm of the chaise lounge to make room for his generous size, but immediately move back once he is no longer standing. You line your smaller leg and side against his so the seam of his gray trousers kisses the sides of your own cotton sweatpants. You listen as he addresses you directly.

“If a high standing family like the Finches is found out to have such deep cracks in their foundation, like a well-to-do sibling spending the family’s vast fortune on gambling, it may…cause some contingencies within their community. It’s not unreasonable to assume they would lose their standing. Their façade is under threat, and they know that you are aware of how David McGregor disappeared, as well as all of his dirty gambling secrets, thus the present target on your back,” he elaborates, running a calloused thumb over the top of your hand as you grapple with this new information.

Your brows furrow. So all this time, the Finches and their fantastic wealth was all an illusion? They saw you had the ability to rock their good-standing, Christian, pedestal and decided to persecute you for it? You had to laugh. You had to laugh so you wouldn’t cry.

If they had just left you alone, you wouldn’t have even dreamed of doing anything to them, but no. You are the only one (in their eyes) who knows what happened to their fucking failure of a brother, so if they got rid of you, you couldn’t tell anyone, and the entire problem would go away. You palm your forehead in frustration, squeezing your temples with your thumb and middle finger.

“Hence why I’m giving you this,” he added, gingerly reaching into the pocket of the thick black coat he had draped across his lap.

You look up, eyebrows raised. You weren’t expecting a gift, of all things. Then again, if the Dealer had a knack for anything, it was showering you with useful presents. You squeeze the hand he has entangled with yours, appreciative of his efforts.

What emerges from his coat is a small box, around the size of a thick novel. Across the top is a swirling ribbon design, delicate and symmetrical. There’s also a golden clasp on the front, which he utilizes to open and display the contents. You lean closer to peer inside.

You cannot help the drop of your jaw as you beheld his gift.

Pillowed by blue velvet, a small pistol glints up at you.

The gun is pristine. There are no smudge marks from grasping fingerprints, so it was not from his collection, indicating this was a new purchase, specifically for you. The weapon’s sharp angles gleam in the morning light filtering in through the broken windows.

Truly, no one can rival your man when it comes to his gifts, however surprising they may be. You gently accept the box that contains the gun, staring intently at it. It is difficult to imagine such a deadly instrument wielded in your hands, but any gift from him is one you will cherish.

“Do you like it?” he asks. There is a hopeful note in his baritone voice that you had not heard in sometime. A strong arm wraps around your waist, and you welcome the loving embrace.

“I’ve never owned a gun before,” you murmur, looking down at the small pistol. You knew, from both his gun collection and his now from his newly disclosed career, that he was quite skilled with a firearm. You, quite the novice, were more than a little nervous at the thought of using one yourself, “Though I am thankful for the gift!” you express, pulling the box closer to your chest.

He hums, squeezing your side.

“Though I am a betting man, dearest, your safety is not something I am willing to gamble on. If a threat arises,” he pauses, and encourages your eyes to look up with a gentle touch to raise your chin. You follow willingly, and are startled to see such an intensity in the black of his empty eyes, “you will use it.”

Oh.

Was he that scared of something happening to you?

You reflect on your time spent together. Those chilly walks in the untouched snow at his home, charting the ground under the cover of the evergreens and pointing out where the game hid and when was the best time to hunt them was. The quiet evenings in his formal living room as the two of you silently read the old, borrowed tomes, smelling of the delicate earthy fragrance that old books always seem to possess, but your companionship was still saturated in an understanding tenderness through the quiet. The meetings beside the Jaguar when you had first started your job, as he began to learn more about you and how enchanted he was by your loud personality and bell-like laughter. Even the first time you met, with him shrouded in darkness and mystery, and you having the audacity to mouth him off, despite your impoverished circumstances.

You contemplated what it would be like for him to lose you, not just as an employee, but someone he halved his heart with. You conclude that yes, he was terrified.

You wondered just how foreign the feeling was to a being as powerful as he.

Your apprehension towards the gun must show on your face, and he quickly comforts you. Your head tilts into his chest, blanketed by the expensive white button up he wore, void of wrinkles.

“I can teach you if you have reservations, dearest,” he offered, good-naturedly.

In your mind’s eye, you witness the unending pile of contracts that towered over his desk like a white obelisk. When he didn’t stay in his room with you during the week you lounged in his home, he was in his study chipping away at the marble tower that only seemed to grow the more he chiseled away at the signed contracts of dead gamblers. With that much paperwork, he certainly did not have time to teach you about using a gun.

Truth be told, you were curious as to how he even had the time to meet with you this morning. The guilt erodes the joy that had blossomed in your chest at his close proximity. You worry your lip between your teeth as you contemplate your next words.

“I think I’ll be alright, I know you have better things to do than humor me with this,” his brow furrows in concern at your remark, but you keep talking to prevent him from interrupting to reassure you. His time was infinitely more important than yours. Wasn’t that the entire reason you had your job, so that he could save time? At that realization, your eyes widen and you quickly spout, “I’m also ready to get back to work anytime you need me to!”

Your voice echoes off the walls of the hotel lobby, and you cringe at the unnecessary volume.

“Besides,” you continue, just above a whisper, “they have gun-safety classes I can take, or a manual I can buy. I don’t want to embarrass an expert like you,” you flatter, tilting your head just so.

He doesn’t buy it, judging by the suspicious quirk in brow, but there’s no denying that puff in his chest, like that of a prized rooster.

“It really is no trouble for me, dearest, but if you would rather learn on your own, then I have every faith in you, clever girl,” he returns. You feel your face heat up despite the winter chill present, and curse yourself. There was no way you would be able to out-charm the Dealer, and you felt just a little bit silly for trying.

You startle at the feeling of cool knuckles against the side of your burning face. His eyes capture yours like a blackhole, so intense was his stare that your gaze followed his own, like your world was being pulled out its gravitational orbit.

“You are so much more than any of those charlatans. Whatever is said or done, remember how precious you are,” he gently touches the side of the velvet-lined box, directly over where your hand lay, “and remember that I love you.”

You melt, feeling all the colors of the pastel sky paint you yellow and pink and love-struck. Surely not even the sun feels this bright and beloved.

“I love you too,” you whisper, letting him pull you in closer for a heartfelt kiss. It’s like everything but him falls away, and you are windswept into a current of affection. Nothing matters but the adoration that threads through your sinew, your tendons, and every single one of your billions of nerves that light up like fireworks.

It’s even colder outside once you leave.

Giving one last goodbye to the decrepit hotel, you both ducked into the Jaguar, turning the heat up as high as it could go. The mechanical whoosh of artificial heat was almost enough to send you to sleep. You didn’t once close your eyes the entirety of the previous night, but the gift in your lap prevented any notion of slumbering.

As you make the journey back to your home, you couldn’t help your hyper-awareness of the weapon you carried in its deceptively pretty exterior. The weight inside felt heavier than the earth itself on the drive back.

Chapter Text

You’re more unnerved by the pistol than you should be.

It was an inanimate object, for goodness sakes! There was no need to cower from the dainty little box that housed the thing. But for your own peace of mind, you placed the box on top of the fridge, where the cats had no interest in going, and you couldn’t knock it off and fire the thing by accident.

A day passed with you thinking of little else but the gun.

As of right now, you had no clue how to operate it. Other than the glamorized depictions in glorified westerns and dramatic film noirs, the basics were lost on you. As of right now, your plan was to dress up as a debonair detective or a mysterious cowboy and hope for the best.

Nothing in the local newspaper advertised any gun safety classes or lessons. The lack of community resources in this place was staggering. Nevermind the fact that you never took a local class before.

Miffed at the lack of available options, you conclude the only viable way to safely learn about guns, without wasting the Dealer’s time, was to consult the library.

Just the thought has your irritation growing like bacteria in a moist agar plate. Squinting, you peak through your heavy set curtains and through the closed white blinds. The low hanging clouds are dark like a new bruise. An impending snowfall entails for any who dawdle today.

The library was closed tomorrow, and its hours were shortened the day afterward.

You rolled your eyes toward the ceiling, and huffed an inconvenienced breath; it looked like you were running errands today.

A quick glance at the mercury in the thermostat divined your wardrobe for this unexpected outing. At least three layers. You were going to bundle yourself up like a cocooned caterpillar.

Cats had food. Cats had water. Cats had toys (paper). You mentally check off each necessity to leave the cats alone. Your gaze flicked, once again, to the box on top of the fridge, out of their reach and out of their interest.

You debated on taking it with you, but your hands clench at the thought of that thing sliding around in the seat next to you, of it, heaven forbid, flying across the seat if you hit an icy patch.

Your mouth compresses, and you decide to leave it as it was.

Fiddle stretched languidly across the hard slab on the floor directly in front of the fireplace. Why he favored the cold stone over the plush chairs or couch cushions, you were unable to guess. Tuxedo, having knocked off all the nicknacks on your coffee table, was now attempting to knock a wooden coaster off of an end table next to the armchair.

They would be safe, and entertained, while you were gone.

You donned an extra sweater, and a second pair of socks in addition to your coat, beanie, scarf, and gloves.

You would typically start your car prior to doing your mental checklist of items the cats needed, but you genuinely feared one of the Finches running off with your car. Not that they needed your car, if that Buick was anything to go by, but you’re sure they would leap at any chance to frighten you by stealing or damaging your things.

So, with your gloves protecting you from the chill of the steering wheel, you venture out with the interior of your car still chilly, but slowly thawing with the heat cranked to the highest level.

The drive is routine and the little snowflakes that dance in the air seem to usher you to your destination quicker than expected.

The library door chimes as you enter. It’s warm, comfy even, but there’s a saccharine, artificial winter-scent that strengthens the further you step inside.

The librarian at the front desk is not Carol. An invisible weight lifts from your shoulders. No, it’s a younger girl. Her brunette hair is teased to the heavens, and she smacks a piece of gum between a tongue and the ridged roof of a pink mouth. She maintains a pleasant, neutral expression as you approach.

Over her shoulder, you spot the very bitch you were hoping to avoid. Your pulse quickens and your mouth tightens in startled grimace. You should have known by that peppermint perfume that threatens to choke you. Judging by the way she quickly moves to needlessly sort through the files in front of her, she has seen you, and apparently recognizes you through your winter gear.

Like husband, like wife.

Your gaze flickers back to the younger girl, and you flash her a beatific grin, pulling down your scarf, “Hi! I’m looking for the section on gun safety and self defense?”

You’ve long since memorized the Dewey decimal system, but you recognized an opportunity to initiate a power play.

Carol’s eavesdropping is painfully unsubtle, and you can just make out the arch of her perfectly plucked brows. Her eyes are wide as you can see them waver as she passes through your words.

“Of course! That’ll be on the aisle to your right,” the young girl leans forward to point the way. You follow the path of her painted fingernail, giving her a genuine thank you as you look over your shoulder.

Carol’s face is a gratifying white.

You wander through the aisle, running your fingers across the spines, inhaling the smell of old books and scanning for titles that pertain to your situation.

Your local library had less of a selection than what you were hoping for.

You take a moment to imagine an alternative, hauling your car to the state library, three counties away, and paying for the tolls and gasoline along the way.

You decide to be content with the three, viable books you were able to get your hands on.

Two were barely thicker than a pamphlet, but the third had merit. You check all three out at the front desk, flashing your library card like it was a status symbol at a VIP club. You made sure to hold them in such a way that Carol would easily be able to view their covers and conclude just what exactly you now had in your possession.

The younger girl gave you a cheerful goodbye, waving obliviously to you as you returned a sly wink in her direction. She blinked, tilting her head at the gesture, but Carol’s left eye twitched.

One your drive back to your home, your hands trembled as they gripped the wheel.

…

The pamphlets masquerading as books weren’t totally useless.

Upon arrival at your place, you quickly unwrapped the copious amounts of layers from your body. The cats were little to no help as they cheered at your return. You’d think you were returning from war every time you entered your own home.

With your coat, gloves, scarf, and hat removed, you quickly chopped up some leftover pieces of cooked, unseasoned chicken into their bowls. Both Tuxedo and Fiddle sang an out of tune chorus conveying their hunger during the preparation stage. Chicken was always a favorite, and you swore they could sniff it out like those hounds who look for cocaine at airports.

The chicken was an effective distraction while you looked over your newly acquired library finds, and soon the kitchen was silent as your darlings buried their heads in their bowls. You sat at the dining table, skimming the small black text on how to be a responsible gun owner.

You felt a bit guilty for judging the shit out of the first two books, skinny as the spines were, but they both contained decent information sufficiently minimized in a layman’s vocabulary.

The first thing you internally cataloged was to keep the gun in a safe location and under a lock to prevent house-hold accidents. You were the only one that lived here, but you were treating these pamphlets like the gospel. Your other alternative was calling the Dealer, and he hangs his guns on the wall like trophies. You weren’t quite ready for that intense level of interior decorating.

So, you took the pistol out of its pastel casing and meandered to your bedroom, carrying it like one would a dead bird. You placed the gun in your nightstand, locking the drawer tight. The drawer key was then set atop the flat surface of the nightstand, just beside your alarm clock.

You were now, officially, a responsible gun owner.

The second book strongly encouraged storing the gun unloaded, but the Dealer has already loaded the chamber full prior to giving you the gun. Emptying it felt disrespectful to his intentions. Additionally, you didn’t want to waste time fumbling for bullets in the event you needed to defend yourself.

You ventured back into the dining room, picking up the final book you had yet to read.

It was the girthiest of the three books, and went into detail about maintenance, eye and ear protection, and using the correct ammunition.

With a blank notebook and a yellow pencil in your grip, you began taking notes, summarizing paragraphs and noting particularly interesting ideas that you found as you went.

You had maybe gotten through half a chapter when your neat script delved into an incomprehensible scrawl. Your lip twitched in irritation. That tremor in your hands was starting again. Though you were safe in your home, safer than ever with the gun now residing with you, your body still behaved as it was under a direct, viewable threat.

You couldn’t understand why your body betrayed you in such a way. You were fine! The shallow inhalations in your breath and the clamminess of your palms led you to placing your pencil down and leaving to recuperate in your room. Your brow furrowed as you tried and failed to understand what was happening to you.

You paced down the hall, ignoring the feeling of the narrow walls closing in on you. What the fuck was wrong?

Was this a latent response to seeing Carol at the library? Carol?

Out of the two Finches, she was the most dangerous to you. She was the one with a more vested interest in seeing you erased. You were a skittering spider across their marble floor. Small, insignificant even, but frightening enough that they could still squish you under the expensive heel of their designer trainers if so motivated. And they were very much motivated; their reputation hung in the balance.

But just seeing her shouldn’t have been enough to make you feel this way. Then why did you shake? Why were you so alert in the comfort of your home? What could your body possibly know that you didn’t?

By the time you curled into a ball atop your duvet, your eyes were misty and you were nauseated as you waited for the low-simmer of terror to abate.

You debated bothering The Dealer with your problems, yet again. With the time crunch he had going on? You could manage this by yourself. He gifted you the gun for this very reason. You were a capable young lady, clever and brave by his own standard.

That did not stop the tears from falling.

You had to try. You were not some pitiful child that needed constant reassurances. He had a job he needed to do, one that was very dangerous and time consuming. It was unreasonable to ask him to guard you while this was going on. He trusted you to take care of yourself, and you would do so.

You would try to get through this on your own. You would try for him.

Chapter Text

The Dealer didn’t give you long to debate on asking for help.

By the time you had made your decision, he ended up calling you.

Prior to his call, you had decided to play with your little darlings. It was as good a distraction from sorrow as any.

There was nothing that made them more competitive and excitable than a piece of string. Fiddle had just managed to snag a long piece from Tuxedo before you teasingly pulled it across the floor again. You giggle as you hover the end of it just above his nose. Their eyes were the size of quarters, and just when Tuxedo managed to pounce ahead toward her twine prey, your kitchen phone trilled for attention. The metallic chiming sounded once, twice, before you ended up dropping the string and darting through the threshold to pick up the ringing handle.

“Hello?” you ask down the line, a hopeful note rising at the end of the last syllable.

Your favorite voice answers.

“Is my favorite employee in residence?” sounds the low, teasing voice of your boss. Even the tinny, metallic filter of the telephone cannot hide the mischief in his voice.

You huff, lips quirked, the stress and panic of the meltdown occurring in the previous hours of the evening still weigh on your shoulders, but you saw an opportunity to play pretend. Just for a little while. You go along with his little game, goodness knows he could lift your mood better than anyone.

“Dunno, can you give me a description?” you muse, using your shoulder and cheek to cradle the phone.

A raspy meow sounds from the living room. Tuxedo must have batted Fiddle in an attempt to restart the game.

“Let’s see…,” The Dealer starts, pausing to hum conspiratorially, “her laughter is like windchimes, her eyes sparkle like falling stars, and her smile could charm the Devil.”

Was the man trying to kill you? Your face heats, blood rising to your face. You didn’t expect such blatant flirtation to spill from his mouth. He had already won your favor, there was no need to continue the chase. Perhaps he just enjoyed flustering you? You wouldn’t put it past him.

“Well, it charmed you, didn’t it?” you reply, returning the ball to his court.

He laughs, the gravelly sound echoes through his grinning teeth and into the phone receiver.

“Oh, it did indeed,” he concedes, delighted, “Speaking of charms, how is the gift I purchased for you? Have you had any opportunity to practice?”

Your tranquil smile fell from your face as you considered his words. You had not even begun to practice with that gun. Truth be told, you didn’t even understand how to hold it. You thought you made good headway just by reading on how to store it correctly.

Though, you ran into the very reason you even had the gun earlier today.

He needed to know what happened at the library, and if you dared to avoid the topic, he was sure to suspect something. You weren’t exactly the most convincing of liars.

Especially to someone as perceptive as he.

You close your eyes as you confess with all the resigned guilt of a devout Catholic.

“T-they know. About the gift, I mean,” you scratch the side of your head as you tell him, looking apprehensively over your shoulder. In the background, the cats shuffle across the floor.

A muffled silence followed, you hear the distant crinkle of sheets of paper. Looks like they gave up on the string.

“Good?” he answered, nonchalantly, “I should think that works in our favor.”

Your nerves settle as you’re reassured he’s not upset by your statement. Your lips then purse as you consider his logic.

If you have a weapon on your person, and they know about it, it may deter future aggression. However, your mind considers a vastly different possibility; it may also encourage the Finches to finish the job. A house spider may escape danger or notice by merely being harmless, but one could not afford to ignore a black widow.

Time will tell what the Finches decide to do.

You blink as you remember an important detail you forgot to mention. You rush to correct yourself.

“Well, she knows, but I doubt she would’ve kept it a secret from her other, wretched, half,” you correct, careful as always to not mention any names.

“Just a moment, she?” he rumbled, confusion lacing his syllables, “When did you encounter her? I’d imagine he would have encountered you first.”

Nathan Finch was dogged in his attempts to follow you around, and you suppose it must have alarmed Carol to see you instead. Her husband must not have given her a heads up on your whereabouts today. Perhaps their grip on you was loosening the more bombastic you acted.

“The loathsome snake will just have to hear about it secondhand. I went to the library today,” the curl of your lip is present as you snarl your answer, eyes askance as you recall your prior panic attack.

“Ah,” he said, understanding Carol’s workplace, “Either way, your gift is a credit to your reputation. I would certainly hesitate to cross you,” he continues, successfully distracting you from that oozing tar pit of hate that bubbles to the surface every time you think of the Finches.

“Ha! Yeah right. I’ve seen your collection. What power could I possibly wield against you?”

He sighed, almost as if he were reminiscing, contemplating such a concept. You could picture him leaning back in his office chair, that sultry grin written across the lower half of his menacing face.

“More than I dare admit, dearest. Even if I weren’t myself, I’m sure you’d be a fearsome sight to any that beheld you.”

You wished you could believe him. Right now, you felt as feeble as a kitten, gun owner or no.

“Did you call me up just to flatter me?”

“As much as I wish for that to be the case, no, I’m calling about a new assignment,” you hear the flap of a paper being turned over from the other line. A contract, likely, already signed. Already fulfilled.

Your eyebrows raise, and you blink rapidly, stunned. You had been wanting to go back to work, and had said as much at the abandoned hotel, but the thought of returning so soon? Your heart stutters.

“Do you feel safe enough to attend to it?” he asked, whispering into the receiver, the worry dripping from the thin crevices between his needle-like teeth.

In truth? No.

Seeing Carol today was enough for your mind to break, hollowing into itself like the Finches were banging their fists on your door. She didn’t even speak to you, she barely even looked at you, and yet your blood froze and your muscles ached out of fear of a threat that was nowhere near.

But you absolutely could not leave him to deal with a body, in addition to the tower of paperwork he had. You were…happy to return to your job, if only to help him out, Finches be damned.

“Um, yeah, o-of course I can take the assignment. When and where?”

A stained moment of silence stretches between the two of you.

“The club. As soon as you are able,” he replied. The words are clipped, sharp, like he was suspicious of your honesty and ability to return. You bite your lip, knowing you would be interrogated upon arrival.

He must already be there, finishing off the bones of another empty-pocketed sinner. His study at home was absolutely crowded with contracts, you shudder to think what the office at his actual workplace looked like.

You don’t have to try hard to imagine a dead man leaking all of his disgusting fluids in the Jaguar’s luxurious interior. Almost, but not quite, as horrifying as clerical work.

“I’ll be there, quick as whip!” you reassure him, the faintest of tremors rising to the roof of your mouth. You clicked your teeth shut to make sure he didn’t hear it.

“See you soon, dear,” he answered, ending the call.

Rapid and droning, the dialtone cued you to hang up the phone and ready yourself and the house for your departure.

The cats had all of their necessities to stay occupied for a few hours. Their opinion of kibble was the same opinion you had of oatmeal: nourishing, but nowhere near your favorite. You sprinkle a handful into their bowls anyway, just as a snack option. It was rarely used, but you didn’t have any leftover salmon, chicken, or dead men readily available.

You wash your hands in the kitchen sink, removing the crumbs from your fingertips with lemon scented soap. You yawn as you plan for tonight, drying your hands.

The Finches had your address, likeness, and vehicle documented; you would need to be sporadic in your endeavor to avoid detection. You make a note to yourself to take a different route to the club as you walk to your coat rack.

After the highest point of the sun had hit, the temperature had fortunately thawed for the evening. The gray overcast that trickled down little snowflakes had been chased away by the early afternoon. To imply it was now warm would be an exaggeration, but it was nothing a sturdy coat couldn’t keep sentry against.

The evening was not so unforgiving as to wear your hat and gloves. You would fare perfectly fine without them, but a scarf was a must. Hiding your face was beginning to look like a habit. You choose a knitted green one for the occasion, grabbing it off its hook beside the door.

You wind the soft material around your neck, admiring the texture, and catching the eyes of two displeased kitties waiting in the hallway.

Fiddle rasped his disapproval at you leaving for the second time today. Tuxedo kept silent, but her rounded eyes still followed your every move with a dewy, confused expression.

You approach, scarf half-on, to ask for their forgiveness. Your knees pop as you crouch onto the floorboards in front of them.

“I know, little loves. I have to run more errands. Maybe I’ll bring a treat back for us?” you soothe as you run your left hand under an orange chin, your right runs three fingertips between two black ears. Their eyes slowly close as they lean into your gentle touch. An amendable compromise to you leaving.

In a bizarre reverse scenario you had never considered, it was you now bringing dead things to your abode to please your cats. Hopefully, this assignment would be worth butchering, then you could bring them a dead gambler to gnaw on.

You rise to your booted feet, blowing them each a kiss as you duck out of your front door.

The hinge squeaks a rusty goodbye as you leave your place.

…

By the time you met him, in the typical fashion, the sun had just halved itself on the horizon, sinking to its temporary demise.

Upon realizing that it had been over twenty-four hours since you last slept, you compensated with overly cautious driving, just to prepare for your impaired reaction time.

If you hit a few curbs on your way to the club, no you didn’t.

Upon arrival in the parking lot, you parked a few spaces away from the Jaguar, completely crooked.

You peak out your driver door. You only hope your coat hides how shallow your breathing was. The club had yet to open for the night, and would remain firmly closed for several more hours.

But the parking lot was still full of scattered, mostly empty cars, and your traitorous mind conjured spies and informants for the Finches. Anyone could be keeping tabs on you. You spot two teenagers dealing. Your eyes dart to the other end of the lot to the young woman reapplying her vivid red lipstick. They then hover especially closely over two gentlemen looking under the hood of an older car. Or at least appear to be looking at it. Your head snaps back to them every so often as you tread across the asphalt to your boss’s car.

The Dealer wore that long black coat he wore at the hotel. The thick material made him look even more broad than he already was, and you remember the quality of it as he held you close in the desolate lobby.

No one on planet Earth would dare fuck with you in his presence. You wished it was enough to erase your worries.

Your eyes flicker to his. You hoped he couldn’t see tremor in your soul, the paranoia that bled through every glance around the parking lot.

“I wouldn’t have objected if you declined to come tonight,” he soothes, and you feel those fathomless eyes rake you up and down, scrutinizing any detail for any hesitation. Anything in your tight lipped smile, your gait, your meticulously maintained eye contact that would give you away.

Let’s hope you were good enough at bluffing to trick the master.

“What, and leave you hanging? Your ‘dearest’ is more reliable than that,” you joke, good-naturedly teasing him about your favorite title. Your voice is even, perfectly executed. You give yourself a mental pat on the back. “Now, let’s get started.”

The quicker you finish up, the less time you have to clue him into just how stressed this made you.

Key in hand, he unlocks the trunk of the Jaguar, casually throwing the black hatch open.

A bloated, duffel bag is quickly transferred between the two of you. The weight of it is negligible as he accepts your offering to place it into your own vehicle’s trunk. You struggled to believe there was an adult man under the zipper as you shoulder the bag.

“Not very heavy, is he? Or rather, ‘was’ he,” you said.

“He was certainly a ‘lightweight’ at the table today.”

You hum amusedly, too on edge to truly indulge in a genuine laugh, “Good one.”

You then blink as you take in his statement.

“You can drink at the roulette table?” you ask, throwing the bag inside, dusting your hands. They’re shaking. You shove them into your pocket to avoid detection.

“Depending on the night, I do far more than drink,” he answers, not missing the tremors you were abysmal at hiding, “This fellow was severely dehydrated and now possesses a rather large cavity in his chest.”

“I’d rather just delude myself into thinking I’m strong enough to pick up an adult man,” you muse, smiling, as you close your trunk door. A resounding thunk echoes through the lot as the metal meets the lock, you peer over your shoulder again, “And I should think both of you would want to be as sober as possible at the table. Wouldn’t you be at a disadvantage otherwise?”

If you can distract him with this, maybe he won’t pry into how on edge you were. The way your eyes cut across the scattered cars too frequently to be natural.

“Inebriation raises the stakes, and it also eases the comfort level of the guests,” he answers as you sneak another glance behind you, disguising the act as brushing some non-existent snow off your shoulders.

He doesn’t fall for it. His brow muscles lower over his eyes. Disbelief lines their rims.

“My dear, are you sure you’re up to this?” he asks, maintaining a patient air and a low voice. Your irritation spikes anyway.

Your mouth twitches as you stare him down.

“I’m fine! T-There’s nothing to worry about, I prom—“

An explosive boom goes off within the parking lot.

It’s sudden. Loud.

A gunshot.

A gasp escapes your mouth, and you’re engulfed in blind terror as the world’s axis tilts. Your hindbrain lurches as you jolt into the unexpecting arms of a surprised Dealer. You cling to his front like a frightened kitten, clawing for any semblance of safety. He wraps his arms around you, an unconscious impulse.

Holy fuck, you were right to be paranoid! Someone just let a gun off!

The cold air hack-sawing into your lungs in shallow squeezes. Getting your breathing under control is tantamount to scaling a mountain.

The broad chest of the Dealer against your ear allows your listening to his own breathing. You use it, him, as a guide to settle yourself, counting the seconds, calming your heart rate. The air and panic leaves your mouth in opaque puffs.

The cold air is no less painful.

But it’s nowhere near as painful as the realization that the sound you heard wasn’t a shot at all, but the backfire of the engine of the old car across the parking lot.

You shake as you step out of the Dealer’s embrace, though the feeling of powerful hands running down your upper arms stops you from stepping away completely. You tilt your head to look up at him.

The scrutiny of his black eyes sharpen like a blade’s edge. Judgement. Disappointment.

You definitely weren’t able to bluff your way out of this. Your hand’s been revealed.

“I knew I should have waited longer,” he shakes his head, breaking his hold on you, turning away. Your heart folds. A small spark, a flicker of anguish.

“You’re far too frightened, and it’s already dangerous enough as it is,” he continues.

“Hey!” you snap, brows lowered into a betrayed scowl, “I couldn’t leave you to do this job on your own. You have enough to do as it is!” you shout, fingers splayed as you gesture.

He pivots, turning to face you directly, nearly leaning over you as he speaks. His shadow falls over you like a heavy blanket.

“Your head’s been on a swivel since you arrived, your eyes are bloodshot, and you’re shaking. When was the last time you even slept? It would be selfish of me to demand you return to your job under your current circumstances,” he insists, reminding you that you were far less subtle than you thought.

“It’s nothing I can’t—!”

“Did you not scold me for the exact same reason when you stayed at my home?” he interrupts, making certain to keep his voice level and volume steady.

You remember sitting at his dining table in the early morning, both of you drinking from steaming mugs as you told him off for staying in his study the entire night, awake, while you slept in his bed. You had felt so selfish that he pushed himself to work needlessly, while you took advantage of the convenience he offered.

The similarities were, unfortunately, starting to reveal themselves. You grind your molars, looking askance as you now stand in his shoes.

“This is different,” you rebuke, much quieter, feeling the tell-tale sign you were losing this argument.

“How so? Even if you felt confident enough to use the gun, I doubt you even have it with you,” he gruffly points out.

You startle as you realize you left it in your nightstand drawer, safely locked away. Yet again, you prove him right.

And he was right. Being this powerless about your own circumstances, this fear, this lack of control over your own life was turning you into a charred husk. The draining of your agency, your autonomy, had left you sleepless, paranoid, and dried out.

And when and there’s nothing left of your once flourishing ecosystem? It’s easy to ignite dry brush.

This fever pitch realization kindles your anger, a crescendo building to a devastating blaze, toppling trees and lighting dead grass. It surges through your scorched insides, incinerating the nests of irritating, invasive birds.

It charrs your bones, crackling through your neglected nerves, and renders any inhibition you had to ash.

After escaping sleep for hours, your mental faculties, the tenuous grasp on your rationality, your despair, snaps like a frayed rope.

And at once, you spill everything.

“Fine. Fine! I don’t know how to use that thing, I’m too scared to even touch it. And I can’t even ask you to teach me because it would be selfish. You’re already drowning in paperwork, and the dead don’t bury themselves. So I have to go back to work. And that blond bitch and her idiot husband keep me from sleeping. So every time I turn around, I feel like one of them is going to be there waiting to squish me with their stupid trainer shoes! I’m terrified!”

It comes forth from your mouth like fire from the crevices of lava rock. You don’t even realize you are crying until he brings a silent hand up to brush away the burgeoning salt water from under your lash line.

You blink at the feeling of calluses against the soft skin of your cheek. His compassion had you jerking your head back. A lesser man would have risen to your level of volume, of heightened emotion, but he didn’t let you drag him into a petty squabble. You’d long since realized he was incomparable to any man you had ever met, and would ever meet.

You weren’t surprised as he drew you in close to his chest, quiet and understanding, as you collapsed into him with the docility of a spring lamb. It humbled you. He humbled you.

Your sobbing is muffled by the front of his fine coat, further so by the encompassing embrace of his powerful arms around you. The smoldering flame within was gentled to the tamed glow of a torch light. Ameliorated, calmer, but not extinguished.

Like a sculptor shaping clay in their expert hands, he slowly rebuilt your mental state with the safety of his presence. Of his arms. You would live there forever if he’d let you.

“It’s alright, dearest. Cry all you want to,” he murmurs, his voice a gentle thunderclap against the velvet of the emerging night.

You go lax in his arms, exhaling shaky breaths as you darken his charcoal black coat with angry, overwhelmed tears. It felt good to have a release. To be understood and accepted by the man holding you.

At his encouragement, you continue. Divulging your experiences from this morning that exacerbated your tattered emotional health, speaking through wet sobs.

“Just seeing her was enough to send me spiraling today. I just wish I…I could take a break from it all.”

He hums, contemplative, as he runs a large hand up and down your back in gentle strokes. He knew you didn’t mean from your job, no, you would never allow yourself that. It was just the wishful thinking of a distressed girl in the presence of someone she trusted.

Which is why it was so surprising when he, out of nowhere, presents you with a question.

“How quickly can you dispose of the body?” he asks, quietly.

Confused at the change in conversation topic, you sort through your mental register of disposal methods.

Even if the man had a gaping hole in his chest, he was still unusually easy to carry. He had to be slight, more bones than muscle. Based on previous experience, it typically meant he had a lifetime’s worth of stimulants running through his veins, poisoning his meat. The high can’t follow him in death. And he can’t follow you to the kitchen counter.

He wasn’t worth carving into for your cat’s sustenance. No, this guy, once cut into manageable pieces, would be dissolved in a solvent vat.

Getting him off your hands wouldn’t take longer than an hour. Completely dissolving him? Three. But you didn’t exactly need to wait around for the entire time his torso, head, and limbs marinated in its own decay.

“An hour, maybe two. Why?”

“Meet me back here once the club opens.”

Your confusion whittles away at your despair, leaving a finely carved question in its place. What exactly did he have planned? It was anyone’s guess with him. Perhaps he had another abandoned hotel to show off to you.

“I’ll ask that you bundle up for this,” he leans down, his breaths tickling your ear, “Trust me, dearest.”

Blinking away the last of your falling tears, you nodded.

If you knew anything about the Dealer, it was that you could trust him.

“Do I have to bring the gun?”

He chuckles, “Not if you don’t want to.”

…

The hum of the Jaguar’s engine was the only noise in the car.

When you arrived to meet him in the parking lot again, it was packed. The rainbow assortment of parked cars led you to a frantic scramble to find the Jaguar. You needed to get out of here before a herd of club-goers dragged you, unwilling, into the waiting line wrapping around the building.

You found it, only needing to dodge a few scantily clad, 20-somethings that had pre-gamed prior to their arrival, and promptly dove into his passenger seat like a bat out of hell.

If he laughed at your askance hat and wide, startled eyes, you could forgive him. He did help you straighten the hat out, and held your hand to calm you down.

Following his advice, you had donned a matching set of gloves with your beanie. You both now sat cozily in the Jaguar, the heat cranked to a comfortable balmy degree. You almost felt like a rotisserie chicken spinning on a spit.

The only noise in the vehicle was the hum of the vents as they pushed the warm air onto you.

Once you had reached the borders of town, he regretfully removed his hand from your tender hold to grip the steering wheel with more assurance. The road arched and winded through the trees like the back of a serpent. You lifted your head to peer out the window.

The foliage became thicker, and the trees became taller, but no hideous houses flashed in between towering trunks. The air became cooler, and away from the sticky artifice of the town, you felt like you could breathe again.

It almost wouldn’t have mattered where he was taking you, but he drove this route with more familiarity than the route to his own home.

“And just what designs do you have on me this evening?” You inquire, turning to look at him. You cover your mouth as your lips stretch around a yawn.

“You wished to get away for a while, what kind of man would I be if I didn’t provide?” he answered, still maintaining his gaze on the road.

You blink, unaware he took the words spoken during your emotional rampage to heart. A part of you felt a little embarrassed, but you did feel miles better after laying everything out.

He truly was too good to you.

The drive continued far beyond what you expected. The warmth of the car’s heating system and the careful driving of the Dealer lulls you into a dreamless sleep in the passenger seat. If you were awake, you might’ve seen the grateful glances he threw your way.

Unbeknownst to you, the time stretched away.

The car sputtering to a stop is what jerks you awake from your much needed nap. You blearily blink the sleep away, rising from the passenger seat. You peer out the car window, curious of your surroundings.

It appears the Dealer’s driven you both to the shore of a lake. He has parked the Jaguar a fair distance from the shoreline, under the shelter of a staggeringly tall pine tree.

You frown as you consider just where you were. The closest lake from your home was about twenty minutes away, but you knew this couldn’t be it. Even in the dark of the night, you could see the water was too pristine, your boots leave prints in sand, sprinkled with pebbles, rather than large boulders spiking out of the water, and there were no signs anywhere.

As you both exit the vehicle, shivering from the drastic drop in temperature, you continue taking in your surroundings while the Dealer gathers several items from the backseat. You tilt your head back to take in the stars.

The lake is still as it reflects the glow of the stars, the sky unburdened by the artificial yellow light obscuring the atmosphere. If you let your vision go hazy, the horizon line separating the lake from the stars disappears, and you stand at the precipice of entering the cosmos.

It was almost hypnotizing. The stars looked like diamonds scattered across a stretch of black velvet. Some looked like they were dancing, performing a magnificent display just for the front row audience of two.

The crunch of the Dealer’s shoes against the pebbles alerts you to his return. He carries a large roll of striped material clutched in both hands.

It was a blanket.

You look between him, the blanket clutched in his hands, where the water looks like it brushes against the fabric of space, and where the horizon becomes an axis of symmetry to mirror the stars. A conclusion is swiftly formed.

Stargazing?

He was taking you stargazing?

Despite the cold, your face heats at the romantic gesture. You both venture further down toward the water. Distantly, you hear the harmony of crickets in the trees. A tiny symphony for themselves.

It was bizarre, just how picturesque this place was. It was easy to imagine scores of people here in the daylight. Older couples enjoying retirement, young parents chasing after swimsuit-clad toddlers, even the occasional salaryman taking a needed break from their day-jobs.

You stiffen as you realize something.

“Do we have time to be doing this?” You ask, crouching down to clear sharp rocks and pieces of large twigs from the shore. The lakeside looked almost untouched by litter and trash. Not a single piece of plastic or paper crossed your line of vision.

So you weren’t somewhere public, where just anyone had access to this place.

“The lake doesn’t exactly have a closing time, dearest,” he teases, guffawing when you scrunch your face up at him. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be annoyed when his laughter filled you with butterflies.

Close enough to the still edge of the lake to experience it fully, but far enough to remain dry from its chill, he decides where you two will settle. He grips one end of the blanket, unfurling the fabric to lay it flat against the dry sand. He runs his splayed hands across the textured surface of the woven strands, smoothing it out. He gestures for you to take a seat, looking like it would be his life’s honor for you to do so.

“I meant regarding paperwork. Is this cutting into the time you need for work?” you elaborate, taking his invitation, and sitting down on the elaborate pattern.

“My dear, you make too many assumptions regarding my time and how I spend it. It’s not as if I have to report to anyone. I am the ultimate authority in my career. My position will be alright if I spend some much needed time relaxing with you.”

He settles in next to you. He is wide enough that he takes up the majority of the blanket. You use it as a perfect excuse to nestle up against him. You didn’t want sand getting on your clothes, did you?

He was plush, yet sturdy. And you exhale a relieved sigh you didn’t know you were holding. You weren’t this comfortable even in your own bed. Who even needed pillows when he was here?

If your head falls back on his shoulder while you both sit, he welcomes the feeling of you against him. The thousands of stars flicker above you, and you trace imaginary constellations with your eyes.

Your attention is snatched as the Dealer suddenly reaches inside the inner lining of his coat, ruffling around in the soft lining. From a hidden pocket, he reveals a flask. It’s small in his large hands, but otherwise the metal container is a considerable size. He twists the rigid cap, opening it to release the smoky scent of whiskey. You sniff again. Or wait, not just whiskey. What else was in there?

You squint as he takes a drink, watching his throat work as he swallows. The way he looked under the moonlight, he looked like an illustration in a magazine, advertising the flask to you.

Unfortunately for the manufacturers, you’re more interested in what was inside the container. He notices.

“Care for a drink?” he asks, offering the flask to you.

“Are you trying to get me tipsy?” you ask, eyebrow quirked, taking it from his hand. Your fingertips brushed his trimmed nails. The smell is stronger now that you’re holding the bottle, and you waft the warm scent towards you.

“You’re a tough girl, dearest. I know you can handle any indulgences I throw at you,” he rumbles, low and steady like rolling thunder. You can see his breath come in small clouds.

“If you keep talking like that, I’ll just drink it from your mouth,” you quip.

You throw the drink back before he could respond, eyes widening as it races down your throat, setting fire to every taste receptor in your mouth. Oh, fuck.

Definitely whiskey. The toasty, woody bite of it burns as it goes down, but it’s not as brutal to your throat as it would have been. There’s a bittersweet, fresh flavor chasing it, adding a subtle grassy taste.

Green tea.

It softens the harsher notes, and smoothens out any aftertaste. Overall, a surprisingly pleasant combination. Liquid courage and ultimate herbal relaxer.

The clever bastard. It was just what you needed.

You’re just ecstatic you didn’t cough. His taste in alcohol was…more intense than yours.

“Let’s hope you handle your liquor better than your assignment this evening,” he murmurs as you take a swig of your spiked tea.

You pass the flask back and forth for a while, sharing indirect kisses. It gave a sweetness to the cocktail that you wouldn’t have tasted otherwise.

You can feel a buzz in the confines of your consciousness set in as you sit and talk with him. Your laugh is louder, and your inhibitions, looser. If you flirt more audaciously, then who is around to scold you for it?

He is less affected, but you can still see the intoxicated flush just under his eyes as he takes another drink.

He points out obscure constellations, legitimate ones, and you point out the ones you made up. You take special care to trace the individual stars with your fingertips, some of which he’s able to name for you, to form a somewhat coherent shape. He especially liked the balloon flower and the ruffed grouse.

“I dare say you’re the most beautiful astronomer I’ve ever interacted with,” he purrs.

You grin, looking up at him to give a sly retort, only for your eyes to focus behind his head, up into the stratosphere.

There, in the inky velvet of the night, a star races across the curve of the world. Its white light sparkling like an otherworldly firework.

“A shooting star!” you gasp, pointing his attention into the other end of the sky, “Quick, make a wish!” you urge, shaking his sleeve.

He chuckles, squeezing you closer as you close your eyes.

“Why would I wish for anything, when you’re right next to me?” he murmured softly into the crest of your ear. You grin, shoving the flask back into his hand.

Oh, the sap! Goodness knows he could charm anyone with that suave disposition.

Though you pretend not to see him closing his eyes and taking in a soft breath. You won’t disrespect him by prying into what his heart desires.

You approach your wish-making a little differently. Perhaps if you were less tipsy, less joyful about the night and your company, you would wish for vengeance. Like a tree falling on Nathan Finch the next time he goes jogging.

Instead, you go for something innocuous.

“Then how about I wish for something silly, like the weather warming up, just a little?” you make a playful “brrr” sound, and shuffle closer into his torso.

The numbing sensation in your feet and hands was not ebbing, even with the liquor. You take another drink from your flask.

He turns to look at you, a mischievous gleam in his empty, black eyes. It was almost like he was contemplating making an offer you couldn’t refuse.

“What is it?”

“If you like, I can take us somewhere warmer. It’s not too far of a walk from here,” he offers, the ever present grin widening across his face.

“Wait, you’re serious?” your excitement is betrayed by your voice’s leap in octave.

Chapter Text

You’re not tipsy enough to have your walking impaired, but the Dealer still wraps an arm around your shoulders to support you, regardless.

You welcome any and all opportunities to lean into him.

The small footpath leading you both into the trees is trimmed with small stones and sprawling ferns. It’s dark, but the forest is hushed, still. No beast dares encroach on your space. Nothing dares to disturb your night with him by your side.

When you approach a deciduous tree with low hanging limbs, The Dealer lifts them with ease, so that you are both able to walk unobstructed under its casted shadow.

The branches arch and dive together, interlocking like a vast woven net. The pines, though more numerous, stand solitary. The fallen chips of dark emerald bundles create a sharp, sweet smell as your boots crunch them with every step.

You are reminded of the walks taken on the grounds of the Dealer’s estate. The way your breaths come in opaque white puffs, the way he led you on a sure path, and the brushing of your coat against his, leaning into his steadfast strength.

Things have changed so much since those days, but in some ways, things haven’t changed at all. The butterflies still beat inside the blushing pink of your organs, safe from the cold. You still thrive under his attention. His coat still smells of wood and that fine tobacco.

Around you, there are thin orange ribbons tied around several smaller trees. Was he taking you down a hunting trail? Does this area stock game that his place doesn’t? It seemed unlikely, but your ideas of where you were going were starting to narrow the further you walked.

Or perhaps there was a hot spring further into these woods? You didn’t exactly pack a spare change of clothes.

Before you could entertain the idea of skinny dipping in the middle of winter, you see the end of your path, just up ahead.

There, sheltered under the dense cover of the trees, stood a little cabin.

You blink as you eye the wood of its interlocking joints and the masonry of its tall stone chimney. It was too small to be considered a vacation home, but lacked the wear that would be characteristic of a historical cabin.

You both continue walking towards it, your pace slows as you squint, taking in the remote, innocuous structure. The Dealer shrinks his stride to accommodate your caution.

The windows of the cabin were dark, though judging by the neatly kept greenery in the window boxes and elevated garden, someone had to live here. Upon closer inspection, you notice that several plants were medicinal herbs, sturdy enough to withstand the cold of the season. Several plastic bags were placed over some of the vegetation, in an effort to guard the more fragile sprouts from frost.

You both venture onto the porch, stepping up onto the wooden platform, noting the rocking chair and patterned cushion. You knocked the sand and dirt off your boots using a support pillar as you eyed a small ashtray atop an ironwork table. Fine particles of gray cinders sat in the bottom of the glass plate. The smell still lingers. They’re recent.

Just what was this place?

You miss the Dealer sliding in his key into the door, but you certainly don’t miss the tell-tale click of a door unlocking, and swinging open. You whirl to face the opening door, where your beloved pushed the unlocked handle forward. Where did he get a key? Did he own this place?

The Dealer, sensing your apprehension, steps in the cabin first and flicks the light-switch on. The floorboards squeaked as his shoes fell.

You peer inside, around his broad back. The heat immediately caressed your numb cheeks and nose, tempting you in. The cabin was insulated.

And clean.

Under the yellow lights of an antler chandelier, the floor is polished to a shine, and there is no dust on any of the niknaks or mounted wall decor. A taxidermied buck gazes blankly over your head, the narrowed points of his rack numbered a symmetrical ten. Beneath him, an L-shaped couch takes up the majority of the living area. The fireplace in front of it is swept with new kindling placed in a neat stack. A bearskin-rug lies in front, the beast’s massive head still attached.

You gingerly step inside, following the Dealer. The bizarre, tacky items sprinkled across the place intrigues the mind, and dazzles even your colorful tastes.

The cabin is old, but well-loved. Obviously someone has shown great care to this place. You eye a lamp on a nearby coffee table. The wooden base is carved to look like a black bear guarding two cubs. Charming, if not a little gouache.

“Is this…a hunting lodge of yours?” you ask, crouching down to pull off your boots. You lean against the wall for support as your lack of sobriety altered your balance.

“Goodness, no. I would like to think I have better taste than this,” he replied, joining you in removing the now unnecessary layers of his winter coat, “It belongs to a colleague of mine. Though they are currently…out of town on business.”

Ah, another employee perhaps? You place your boots on the shoe-rack. They join a sensible pair of black brogues and leather loafers. The shoe size is too small to fit The Dealer.

“Business of yours?” you inquire, looking up at him.

“Precisely,” he confirmed, offering to take your own coat to hang on a rack themed around fish. An engraving of an open mouthed trout swims across the iron hooks that hold your outerwear.

You absentmindedly hand the Dealer your hat as you wander further into the house, quietly pondering its kitschy decor.

“So you’re just watching their house while they're gone?” you imagine him house-sitting in such a place. The Dealer possessed the same hobbies, but was much more refined in terms of taste. You wonder if that’s how he met this colleague: a shared enjoyment of hunting.

A painting of a spaniel cradling a dead woodcock in its jaws hangs in the kitchen. The frame was crooked. Distantly, you hear the familiar sounds of him preparing and lighting the fireplace, and the tell-tale crackle of flame dancing in the hearth.

He hums an affirmative, the sound echoing in the wall-less living area, “More-so his plants, I was given specific watering instructions and a threat of his job termination should any die while he’s away,” he settles into that wide couch, leaning back into the plush cushions.

“Over some plants?” you question, walking back to him. A doctorate degree hangs in the hallway, just above your head. The golden calligraphy spells out a school on the other side of the country. You’re too tipsy to even glance at it.

“I had the same reaction you did, dearest. But I cannot begrudge the man of his passions,” his voice pulls your attention back to the living room, and you pad over in socked feet to join him.

He doesn’t hesitate to pull you onto the couch, bouncing against the cushions. You laugh as you twist your arms around his neck, holding him close as you prop up your legs.

He stares at you. Those fathomless black eyes gazing softly at the disheveled, unsteady state you knew you had to be in.

He looked at you like he didn’t see the panic-prone, melancholia you presented outwardly, but the tender, innermost secrets of your fanciful heart. The once strong bastions you had, obliterated by the careful, calloused touch of someone who genuinely cared for you.

You tried not to feel self-conscious.

You failed miserably.

“What?” you ask, reaching up to touch your face.

He shakes his head, blinking as he too realized how entranced he had become, “Nothing, dearest. I’m just…admiring you. It’s been too long since I’ve had the privilege of doing so,” he reaches to gingerly trail his pointer finger down the edge of your jaw, effectively causing you to remove your insecure hands.

The heat of your face could rival the heat of the fireplace from such a small touch.

Your eyelids fell as you returned his gaze. How long had it been? How long since it was just the two of you alone, safe, freed from the shackles of coded phone calls and the relentless chill of the burgeoning winter?

Indulging in his touch at the hotel felt different. The chilly, once refined atmosphere felt safe, comfortable even, if one excused the cobwebs, dusty decor, and crumbling interior.

Here, the fire emanates a relaxed, cozy atmosphere in a clean environment. Your limbs are loose from the whiskey and the warmth. Your beloved has his arms around you. He didn’t bring you here to reveal secrets, this was an indulgence.

“Was this place a gift? Did you win this cabin in your games and give it to your colleague?”

His grin stretches as you look at him, spiked like a rose stem, “Not quite. This wasn’t just another forfeited inheritance like the hotel I took you too.”

A drunken idea flickers behind your eyelids. You choke down a laugh as you consider the consequences. It takes you all but fifteen seconds to go through with it. With your impulse control in tatters, you lean up to whisper in his ear.

“And here I thought I was being whisked away to your private sex cabin,” you grin mischievously, fanning a nonchalant hand into the air. Were you sober, you might have bitten your tongue to refrain from saying such a shameless sentence, but that herbal tea whiskey concoction quickly melted away both your shame and inhibition.

You hadn’t, actually, considered such a prospect as him owning his own sex-cabin. The thought never occurred to you. A gentleman like the Dealer seemed above building something so depraved, but the temptation of teasing him about it was too good to pass up.

He considers your comment, his jagged teeth shifting as he playfully replies, “Please, any sex cabin of mine would at least have two floors.”

It seems the alcohol has loosened his tongue as well.

You giggle against his side, using his shoulder to rest your head as he chuckles in tandem. The low vibrations rumble against you. It was like your mind was sipping sparkling water.

He continues, and you feel, more than hear, the sentiments as they reverberate through his chest.

“And some more walls at the very least,” he looks around the room, cataloging each perceived flaw as he continues, “This open-floor plan … feels exposed and drafty. The curtains are also too thin, what if someone looks inside?”

“Some people are into that,” you pipe up.

“Some people are wrong, dearest.”

You grin at the retort, muffling another tipsy giggle.

“Your colleague’s taste can’t be all bad. Why keep him on otherwise?”

He’s silent for a moment, faux-contemplative as he continues scanning the room. His empty eyes settle on the floor before blinking back to you.

“I concur that the bearskin rug in front of the fire-place is a rather nice touch.”

You lift your head from his chest to eye the area rug, watching the orange light float and flicker over the umber fur. You reach out a foot to test the texture, smoothing the strands down. Even through the wool of your socks the fur is luxurious and thick.

You turn back to look at the Dealer, an impish smile written across the lower half of your face. He is immediately skeptical of your expression, quirking the muscle of his left eye where his eyebrow would be. He’s irrististible when he’s suspicious of you.

An image, quick as flash, strikes unbidden in your mind's eye. It’s something out of one of your novels. Your body quickly responds, your depraved thoughts pulling at your nerves.

You quickly cave to the rising tide of passion, building in your chest, “Want to test it out?”

You look to the rug. Then back to him.

Then back to the rug.

Then back to him.

You are not subtle. His still expression remains doubtful.

“In my colleague’s house?” the lilt on the tail end of the sentence announces his disbelief.

“If it wasn’t so cold out, I would have sucked your dick at the lake,” you double down, nonchalantly.

A peach color blooms under the skin of his cheeks, startled at your blunt words. His mouth opens and closes, once, then twice, as his face further infuses with color.

He’s silent for too long for you to feel comfortable. You can see his mind whirring as he overthinks the situation. No doubt contemplating the ethics of fucking in his employee’s house, with you, alone in the woods, as you both are as tipsy as an unsteady canoe.

You interrupt his needless contemplating, “I wasn’t just indulging some lustful curiosity by sleeping with you back at your house. I genuinely care about you. I want you.”

He remains silent, but your words have stopped the cogs that churn in his mind. Let him doubt for a moment that you wanted him, you almost dared him to try. You would smooch him to death if he even hinted at it.

“Is it so hard to believe that? That your touch is the only thing that sates me anymore?” you sigh, reaching for him. He allows the touch of your hand, sinking one into his fine clothing and running along the other the broad width of his shoulders.

He is silent for a moment, “I believe you, dearest. But we’re both under the influence. Are you sure this is a good idea?” he says, voicing what has to be at least a small part of what he is worrying over.

“Oh, this is the best idea I’ve had all week,” you whisper, eyes half-lidded as you lean forward. “And here I was promised a distraction from my worries,” you purse your lips as you scold him, batting your lashes in mock disappointment.

His breath hitches as you maneuver atop him, face close enough to feel his breath. He blinks, uncertain. You press close enough to pillow your breast onto his firmer chest. Fanning your hand back to his shoulders and down his arms again. The powerful muscles underneath your touch trembled.

“Do I need to sign a contract to get you to deliver on that? Or is climbing into your lap enough of an encouragement?” you breathe into his ear.

You consider it a victory when he takes the back of your head in his gigantic hand and pulls you in.

There is no finesse to your kiss, nothing but the coiled instinct of gaining pleasure as you feel him shove his considerably long tongue down your throat. The teeth should alarm you, the sharp edges pressing against the soft skin of your lips, but how could you not embrace every part of him?

A small noise escapes you as you grab at him, tugging at his clothes like if you pulled hard enough, the seams would disintegrate and you could devour him whole.

He seems to think the same of you, though he is much more cautious with your own articles, treating each one as if it were a priceless piece tailored just for you. A hysterical irony considering the tags on his own clothes displayed numbers five and ten times your own.

Fortunately, he lets you keep your socks on.

He kneels on the varnished floors, cushioned by the bear fur. Were it not for his steadying touch, you think your knees would have buckled as he encouraged your own descent onto the floor.

You stretch out on rug, the wide pelt brushes under your skin like a black ocean against your back. The firelight caresses his face as he stares unabashedly. You wonder if the light plays the same way over your skin.

No wonder so many of your novels possessed this cliché; the ambiance is unparalleled.

Or perhaps you’ve been conditioned to be aroused in such a situation. Many a helpless, lovestruck protagonist found a small death atop a comfy rug, her strapping, debonair lover making quick work of relieving her of her silken, historically inaccurate clothes. And really, you were no different than her in any capacity.

This was an experience to be had when the opportunity presented itself.

He hovers above you, a shadow to guard against the fire’s playful touch. The light casted disappears, replaced by an even warmer touch as his calloused fingers trace lingering symbols down your body. His rough skin leaves goosebumps in his wake, your nipples pebbling to peaks as he slips down from your chest, your waist, your naval, and landing just above the cradle of your pelvis.

Hands that have dealt the worst of violence to many a wayward soul reserve their most reverent caresses for you. It’s a heady thought that intoxicated you more than any whiskey could.

He travels further south, where you yearn for him the most. Where the heat of his touch is challenged by the temperature your wet, molten center that begs for his attention.

His fingertips, desperately missed, slip down in between your delicate folds, parting them.

He is gentle, agonizingly slow as he returns to that vice-like passage. The gasp that escapes you at his ministrations is louder than you were expecting. The rush of arousal threatens to drown you.

You grab onto him, squeezing his shoulder as he ventures down and down and down.

He finds you soft, swollen, and soaking as he enters, your slit allowing him easy access into to you. He gingerly inserts a singular finger into your fluttering pussy, and your eyes close at the pressure, the difference in texture, in size, compared to your own hands. That was something you remembered the last time you rolled in the sheets together, but it was another thing entirely to feel it again.

He sinks into you to the knuckle, using his other hand to keep your back pressed flat against the velvet black fur. The gentle reminder of his casual strength causes you to involuntary clench down on him. He chuckles as he slides another digit in.

“You looked too delicious to leave you untouched this evening,” he rumbled, his eyes locked on where you lay, vulnerable and wanting.

Bestowing the gentlest of caresses with the heel of his palm against your clit, he thrusts his wrists in small, rhythmic strokes. You jerk, and the hand that rests just below your left breast, in the divot of your waist tightens. A welcome threat.

“I prayed that you would not tempt me here, but you can’t help your nature, can you?” he continued, picking up the pace.

Drops of arousal fall in rivulets, an unconscious encouragement, as your body seizes at his words, a constrictor’s grip, desperate around the generous digit. Encouraged, he slides another one inside.

You sigh, dreamily, at the welcomed pressure. You unconsciously clench down on him, your slit leaking liquid encouragement onto his palm.

He unleashes a low groan in the back of his throat, like the act of feeling your heat against his hand is enough to get him off too. He curls the two towards himself, undulating in a rhythm that sparks the lights of heaven behind your eyes.

“F-fuck, dearest, you have a talent for seducing me in the most morally questionable situations,” he breathed, lowering his body to speak against your ear.

“Ah! Can you blame me? You’re always so—oh!—sexy when you want me against your better judgment,” you tease, wiggling playfully.

“Against my better judgment?” he quotes you, incredulously, leaning forward until his breath fans the delicate shell of your ear. One of his hands maintains direct contact with your hip, anchoring you to the floor, “Any man would be a fool not to fall to his knees for even the most infinitesimal moment of your attention.”

The flattery never stops with him. Though if he was using words like ‘infinitesimal,’ you were going to have to up your game in the complement department.

“I don’t give my attention to just any man,” you sigh, shakily. God, his fingers were so thick, it felt like they stretched and bore against every tender place within your fluttering core.

His empty eyes flash, approving, “Then let me show how sound your judgement is, dearest.” He rises from his place hovering over your torso, yet still maintaining a singular hand to pin you to the bear fur.

Your channel mournfully squeezes his retreating fingers as they ease out of you. You bite your lip at the whimper that threatens to escape you, knowing what he will deliver to you next is well worth your patience.

The buttons of his pants unclaps with a click, an erotic prelude to a symphony of pleasure. His cock springs free, the head shiny with dripping pre-cum. Your legs, interlaced with his, allows a close proximity to that throbbing organ. The one you’ve tasted, the one that has now forever ruined you for anyone else.

His cock twitches against your thigh, leaving a wet smear in its wake where it brushes against you. The engorged tip is pulsating, and the raised veins curve and bifurcate around his length like raging rivers. You’ve missed that python more than you’d care to tell him.

“Is it as intimidating as the last time you saw it?” he asks, smug, running a gigantic hand up and down the sizable shaft. Your eyes follow the movement hungrily.

You spread your legs wider, further revealing the desperate, weeping hole that yearned for that cock, “Not sure, maybe feeling it will jog my memory,” you reply, guiding your own comparatively smaller hand past his own, and down between your legs.

You spread your drenched lips with your index and middle finger, tracing your slippery labia. A siren call he couldn’t stand to ignore.

He wastes little time in guiding the head against your entrance. Slow, careful, and gratifying on a biblical scale. He slides into you, your passage sopping as you clench down on him. A debauched cry leaves your mouth at the stretch of his cock entering.

It had been a significant time since you had an opportunity to sleep with him, and the exquisite split of his cock into your bereft pussy was intense to a nearly unbearably degree.

You clutch at him, eyes glassy and jaw agape as he mercifully remains still. A part of you wants to beg him to ram into you like your his darling little fuck toy, but the risk of tearing is high, and you endure the adjustment of your fluttering, wet hole strangling him.

He is not altogether unaffected. He chokes out your name, a prayer to playful, equally desperate deity. One all too willing to grant him everything she could.

The vice-like grip of your core throbbed and pulsed. The heat threatened to scald him, but it was a divine decree to bury himself deeper, and deeper. How could either of you have gone so long without this?

“F-fuck, I don’t remember you being this big…” you whisper in agonized arousal, gripping his arm as he reaches his hilt, your hips flush against one another. Every muscle from your neck to your hips was wound tight with tension, thrumming like a plucked string on a bass guitar.

He huffs out a laugh, amused yet sensible enough to look contrite as he refrains from moving for the time being. You close your eyes, turning your head towards the heat of the fireplace. Behind the iron wrought screen, a charred log crackles as you focus on relaxing your pelvic floor, and accommodating his massive dick.

You nearly hit the ceiling as a calloused thumb draws over your clit, your throat wrenches out a startled cry at the pure hit of pleasure that raced through your nerves. He continues his ministrations, no doubt feeling the way your pussy clutched around him, begging him for more.

You stutter out a moan when he steadily drew his hips back, a deliberate display of power, letting you feel every inch of that gigantic, retreating cock. You were at his complete mercy, and the intense, slow penetration of his pulsing length back into you draws obscene squelches with every thrust.

“Do you recall anything now?” he teased, mercilessly. His signature smile stretched across the lower half of his face.

You don’t dignify his taunt with a response. Instead, you clench down on him in retaliation. Your brows furrow upward as he continues, your clit a pulsing target in his crosshairs, caressed with small circles. .

Your back arches into the easy rhythm he’s set. A tender, safe pattern that pulls sweet, high noises from your throat. Ever the giving, careful attendant, he is as careful with you as one would be a ceramic doll. You silently beg for a faster, harder pace.

An anguished, low groan leaves his mouth, but he does not concede. You wish, viciously, you had the strength to pin him to the floor and ride him until he begged you for mercy.

You blink, an idea flashing behind your eyelids.

Then again, you are reminded you didn’t need physical strength for such a feat.

“Wait, wait,” you murmur, gently using your hands to grab at his shoulders. He immediately stops, pulling away from you, his shadow flees, letting the light of the fireplace dance across your skin once more as he leans away from you. The breathing room is unwelcome, but necessary for you to pull this off.

“Are you alright, my dear?” he asks, checking in, completely pulling out of you to sit back onto the rug.

Right where you wanted him.

You school your expression into a believably uncomfortable one. Which, judging by how your pussy clenches hungrily around nothing, desperate for his cock again, is not difficult.

“Yeah, it’s the position. It’s just—” you climb atop him, fast as a cracking whip, using the momentum of his accommodation to slam him to the floor. His large, powerful build could take the impact, and his body meets the rug with a dull thump.

He braces himself with his arms, stunned at your brazen display.

“I can’t ride you from the floor,” you assert, low and seductive. He blinks up at you, dazed as you hover atop him, “What’s the matter? I thought you loved it when I sat in your lap.”

You throw a leg over his hip, straddling him, contorting to stretch over his considerable bulk. You glance downward, making certain of your trajectory. His cock twitches, and you steady it with the hand not batting away the Dealer’s eager assistance. The firelight dances across your skin like a physical touch, painting you in a golden light.

“Imagine how much you’ll love it when I bounce on it.” You grin, vicious.

Then, you throw your hips down with the force of a swinging hammer.

The results are delicious. He releases a strangled sound from the back of his throat, as you ride him with a vengeance.

Up and down and up and down, your body jolts as you meet his hips. The rhythmic sounds of skin slapping against skin plays in tandem with the pops and crackles of the fireplace.

That, and the debauched cries you make every time his cock hits that sweet spot inside you.

Your socked feet don’t allow for much grip on the rug, so your legs are forced to maintain your balance and strength as you power down onto his cock using the dynamic force of your hips and gravity. He gasps when you twist your hips just so, bearing down on him without remorse.

God, you didn’t have control over anything else in your life, but you could wring out every last drop of cum that he’d give you.

His hands grip the fur of the rug with white knuckles, tufts of burnt umber appearing between the ivory of his skin of his fingers.

You peer down, watching enraptured as he disappeared into your channel again and again and again. Tendrils of arousal drip from your stretched labia, thin as silk thread breaking on every forceful drop.

“D-dearest,” he growls, deep as the raging sea. A menacing thunderclap that only served to accelerate your approaching climax. He manages to snag a hand against your waist, and you allow it.

Your little power fantasy only went so far; you still delighted in his touch, and sweetly pressed your own, smaller hand over his as your body shook.

Your legs quiver, a warning. The strain of your burning muscles cannot keep up.

Your release is coming fast, but not fast enough for your legs to maintain this sudden onslaught of exertion. You stop, bracing yourself against his sturdy stomach, heaving an exhausted breath as your legs muscles scream.

He groans, tortured, as you dangle his release in front of him, halting, hovering, just to prolong his misery. Your mouth opens to reassure him that this wasn’t to tease him, but he wouldn't hear of it, interrupting you with a brutal thrust of his own.

His other hand surges to connect with your hip, slamming down into his rising hips. He jerks his pelvis upward to make for an even more brutal impact.

His cock snaps back up into you, and your jaw falls. Your brows knit together as you cry weakly, your poor pussy spasming around his relentless cock. He bludgeons into you, and you cannot tell if he is chasing his own release or punishing you for your usurpation of power.

Either way, your release slams upon you, expedited by this frantic pace you both set. Tension locks your body into a rigid, moaning statue as your pleasure crests, running white-hot circles through every nerve in your body, gasping out a high, whimpering cry as you ride out your exquisite, nearly painful orgasm.

He meets his end in a similar way, using your lower half of your torso to stroke himself off in a jerking, aggressive motion before quickly pulling you off of him. He coats the inflamed, sore skin of your pussy and thighs, already permeated with your own arousal, with white ropes of cum. You don’t know how long you both lie back on the rug, trying to catch your breath.

Eventually, he sits up with a groan, and from the wince on his face, you can tell he is really feeling the stiffness in his limbs and back. The floor sex was incredible, but holy fuck is your body going to be sore in the following days.

He’s attentive in the aftermath. Doting and soft like he always is, always will be. You feel like a melted popsicle, and jokingly suggest he bring him a mop with him when he comes back. He hums, amused, the sound echoing off the wide walls, but he ultimately retrieves nothing but a warm, damp cloth to renew your skin to a clean slate.

If there are microscopic drops of fluid anywhere on the rug, they are not visible. And even if there were, you’re not about to inform his plant-obsessed colleague of your transgressions.

What else did he hire you for, keep you close for, if not for your excellent secret keeping skills?

Chapter Text

Overall, the evening was one for the ages, full of stargazing, passionate fucking, and finishing off the entirety of the Dealer’s flask of whiskey. Whiskey-tea. Whiskeytea.. Whiskitty! You cover your mouth to stifle your shrill merriment. The Dealer is indulgent enough of your antics not to say anything.

But after?

In the denouement of the night, when you’ve both had your fun, you’re drunk and tired enough for your yawns and drooping eyelids to signal closing curtains. You are dutifully still, and not at all wiggly as the Dealer wraps you in your coat and laces your boots upon your feet. You would have done it yourself, but after seeing the wobbling in your joints, his chivalry would not permit him to leave you unattended.

After a final check to the house, and him finding its conditions agreeable, you both began your departure.

He is careful as he gathers his hands to tuck under the joint of your knees and across your middle back. You feel like a priceless treasure held as you both step out into the cold.

You wave a smiling goodbye to the charming little cabin as you are cradled by the Dealer’s loving arms. He is careful not to jostle you as he steps down the staircase and into the dark woods. You chatter in his ear about how strong and hot and sexy you thought he was as he buckled you into the Jaguar.

Though your drunk self was not interested in speaking of adjectives more than two syllables, he was also courteous enough to drive you home. You were confident in your abilities to drive, and even boasted as such, though from the observed lack of intonation to your words, the Dealer strongly disagreed.

Thus, your car remained in the club’s parking lot, and he continued to drive you home, the spark of artificial neon of the signs left a phantom trail of light over your skin as you drove past the building.

Drowsy, and soothed by the steady motion of the car, you fight against the heavy pull of your eyelids.

It’s to no avail, however. You blink, and suddenly he’s putting the Jaguar in park. Disoriented, you lean forward to peer out of the window. Even wildly tipsy, you recognize your surroundings.

He’s brought you to your place.

You blink away the disappointment. This isn’t exactly what your mind conjured when he said he was driving you home. You erase the thought of a large, dark house, stark against the snow with a red front door. You erase the image, but your heart still beats a disappointed rhythm.

He doesn’t carry you to your threshold, but it’s a near thing. You definitely lean more into his side than what was warranted.

He welcomed your proximity with a heavy arm around your shoulders.

As you both approached your front door, you drunkenly conceptualize that this was the first time he had set eyes on your place. Embarrassment lines your face as you look at the dismal state of the exterior. Spring has yet to revitalize your garden, though you’re sure the corpses tangled their roots provided enough rejuvenation until the sun returns. The paint of the door has faded with time, and you couldn’t even remember the last time you cleaned your windows.

If he notices any such details, he pays them no mind, too busy clutching your waist and holding you against his sturdy side. Fishing your keys out, your hands tremble as you force the lock, but the handle gives way as you twist your arm. Inside, you hear the pattering eager paw pads through the wood as the door unlocks.

He turns you to face him, and his gaze is soft. It’s a handsome coupling with the flush to his face. From the alcohol or from your proximity, it’s hard to tell its origin. He straightens your coat, smoothing the material underneath his broad palms, “This is where I take my leave, my love.”

Your head turns, which immediately makes you dizzy again, and your smile drops, “You’re not coming inside?” you ask as you push the door open. The hinge is loud as it squeals open, unoiled. Yet another detail of your household that shames you.

“I promise it’s clean,” you paused, squinting as you try to remember the last time you did such a thing, “Pretty clean.”

He arches the muscles where his own right eyebrow would be, chuckling, “I’m sure it’s lovely inside. But I would rather be invited in once you regained your sobriety.”

You frown, but have long since accepted his overly polite nature. If you roll your eyes, he says nothing, but swore you could feel the vibration of his chest from under his many layers.

“There are some boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed without permission,” he continues, “Or without special reason.”

Were you sober, you might’ve asked about that vague-as-hell add on, but drunk you just shrugs nonchalantly. Him and his gallantry. If he wanted to play the dashing knight, you would let him. Like he wasn’t railing you like a man possessed a handful of hours ago.

You still give him a tender embrace before he leaves, leaning your head against the thick material of his coat,

“Call me in the morning so I can pick you up to retrieve your car,” he whispers, ducking close to your ear. You nod, humming a happy note of agreement, reluctantly pulling away.

He takes his time strolling back to the Jaguar, hands in his pockets.

You step inside your home, and the temperature difference is immediate. You sigh wistfully as you close the door. Fortunately for you, the only ones who heard it were Tuxedo and Fiddle, and they couldn't care less as they mewed and, in the case of Fiddle, rasped, for your attention.

It wasn’t quite early enough to feed them again yet, and a quick, blurry glance at their half-filled food dish confirmed your suspicions; they weren’t hungry, they were demanding answers to your whereabouts.

You slide your arms clumsily out of your coat, letting the thick fabric pool onto the floor. The fabric is accompanied by the thump! of your boots falling as you pull them off as well.

The cats follow your stumbling footsteps to the bedroom. Internally, you concede the Dealer was right about your balance as you support yourself with the wall.

You are followed by near-silent paw pads as the cats join you on the bed.

You don’t even bother putting on pajamas as you fall atop the blankets. The mild spinning in your head immediately starts to abate, and your breathing deepens. Fiddle kneads the blanket where your knees bend, quickly curling into a comfortable ball.

Before succumbing to slumber, you hear the sound of a clink-clink-clink! in fast, rhythmic succession. Something small and metal has hit the floorboards.

You roll your shoulder to look over to where the sound has emanated.

A round-pupiled Tuxedo perches atop your nightstand. From the curl of her sockless paw in front of her, it looks like she has knocked the nightstand’s key to the floor, letting the metal trinket clatter.

Too drunk to care, you immediately pass out.

…

You wake up in the morning with a headache worming it’s way behind your eyes, pulsating in protest with the strands of light stretching in from the window. You pull the covers over your eyes, irritated.

You did not get near enough sleep to be awake this early. A dull throbbing echoes through your mind.

Breathing steadily, you remind yourself this is after the tea had tempered the effects of the whiskey, and this is but a taste of a legit hangover. You shudder to think what shape you would be in had you downed the liquor straight.

A raspy meow echoes from the living room. The cats have heard you stirring.

You duck your head further into the covers.

Suddenly a tandem of lengthy yowls break out from down the hall.

You were now on-call for breakfast.

You heave an inconvenienced sigh.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you groan as you rise to a sitting position. You rub your eyes like a child as you reluctantly pull yourself out of the warmth of the covers and into the cool air.

You sluggishly stumble through the rooms until you reach the kitchen. Both Tuxedo and Fiddle crane their heads up at you with open mouths, a loud kittenish wail erupting from their throats. They act like they’ve been left to starve for months.

Dramatic toddlers, both of them.

You pull a bag of some chopped chicken meat from the fridge, and sprinkle the diced cubes into their bowls. Not as fresh as you typically would have given them, but still cooked through. The tension weaving through your neurons would not allow you to cook fresh meat.

You down a glass of water while they bury their heads in their bowls. You ignore the wet smacks of meat being shredded between two sets of sharp little teeth.

You’re on your third glass, and had just popped a painkiller when your phone started ringing.

You sigh, closing your eyes for a brief reprise.

The shrill urgency in the chimes were like a chisel boring into your synapses. You pickup phone from its hook if only to stop the irritation of the noise. You didn’t know who would be calling you so early, but goddamn, if you didn’t hate them a little bit just for the transgression.

“….’lo?” you mumbled into the receiver. You blink slowly, leaning against the wall for additional support.

“Now, is that any way to greet your savior?” a deep voice, his deep voice answers playfully.

Your back straightens involuntarily. You grip the phone handle with both hands
as you blink in surprise. Your headache is momentarily forgotten.

“What are you doing awake so early?” you breathe into the receiver.

“Checking on my favorite employee, of course. I had thought to call you earlier, but I didn’t want to disturb your rest.”

Ever courteous, ever kind. Your face warms at his generosity. How did you ever get so lucky?

“Thank you for driving me home. I don’t know if I expressed that last night.”

“You expressed quite a lot last night, but a ‘thank you’ was unnecessary, my dear.”

Your face heats further as his words remind you of what all you had said after you started truly imbibing. Gracious, you’d be spending the greater part of the afternoon picking up the pieces of your dignity from the floor.

Even if you had overindulged a bit, the evening was truly a delight. If you had your way, the image of night stars glittering over your head, the feeling of firelight flashing over your skin, and the taste of whisky on your tongue would all be burned into your senses forever.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to forget last night,” you confess.

“The night was acceptable, but it’s the company that dazzled me,” he whispers down the line.

Flatterer. Opportunist.

Distantly, you hear something.

Click. Click. Click.

A quiet tapping, followed by something hard grinding. Something metal. You look up, taking a glance toward the living room. Nothing there.

You shrug it off, listening to the soft baritone of your lover’s voice.

“I’m so jealous. You don’t even sound hungover,” you tell him.

“I have a much higher tolerance, my dear. We’ll have to plan more outings so you can increase yours as well.”

Click. Click. Click.

The noise sounds again.

You close your eyes as you try to place it, lifting the phone away from your ear. It’s cord dangles.

The front door handle is twisting. Is someone out there?

But that’s impossible. You strain to look at the clock on your wall. It’s not even 7 o’clock yet. The only people who would want to see you are currently on the phone with you, or dead asleep.

Unless…?

Distracted as you were, you miss his last statement.

Click. Click. Click.

“Yeah, that sounds….great. Um, are you working this evening?”

“I work every evening,” he answers gruffly, a knowing edge to his voice.

You sigh, “I’m well aware. But are you going to the club?”

“We don’t need to wait for a convenient time for me, dearest. Just give the word and we can go retrieve your car.”

Truly, he was conjured from your wildest fantasies.

“What would I do without you?” you sound breathless as you speak.

Click. Click. Click.

The knob tries against the lock. The grate of the metal mechanism grinding against itself.

Again, and then again.

You shrug it off, sweat beading on your hairline. You cannot see the door from this angle.

Obviously, the noise is something else.

The cats. They’re playing in the living room. You need to stop hallucinating.

“-lright? You’ve been remarkably quiet during this call, dearest.”

Your mind struggles with the balancing act of trying to focus your hearing on two different stimuli at once.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine. My mind is just playing tricks on me,” you ignore the sound of your cats eating their breakfast. In here. In the kitchen, with you.

The lock is clicking.

Click. Click. Click.

“Are you certain?” The worry bleeds into that low whisper. He continues, but you cannot make out the rest of his words.

Your blood coagulates into a cold, rusty syrup as you recognize the sound of your door handle twisting completely, the metal giving way as the correct alignment twists to pull the bolt wedged into the silver strike plate, unlocking the door.

Your mind tries, and fails, to protect you from the realization that someone has just picked your lock. All logic and reason retreat as panic burrows its way in between your synapses.

The hinges creak.

Your head swivels toward the sound, unseen.

Your front door swings open.

Chapter Text

The slow creak of the wooden door falling open rattled you more than if it was slammed against your wall.

You dropped the phone, darting to duck your head just past the threshold of your kitchen, to capture a glimpse of whoever just broke into your place. You prayed it was not who you think it was.

Every animal instinct buried deep screams at you to run, but you wind the tension in your muscles tighter and tighter, cautious; you need to see the threat before you are able to act.

The phone dangles from its coiled cord, and you can hear the indistinct questions of The Dealer climbing in alarm. He speaks your name, desperate, low as a thrumming storm, a thunderclap threatening rain.

Or, well, you think he spoke your name.

Every sensory cell in your mind might have well dissipated to smoke as you try to process what you are looking at.

There, in your front doorway, armed with a verifiable cannon in his white-knuckled grip, was none other than Nathan Finch. His wiry frame almost shakes with the effort to carry the thing, but his grip is steadfast.

Your eyes dismiss the sight of him pocketing a lockpick, too busy noting the etches of rage lining his face, the glint of cold cruelty behind his thick spectacles. His clothes are, as always, tacky.

You dart back into the kitchen, quick as a whip, to grasp at the dangling phone, yanking it up by its coiled cord. Your hands shake as you breathe down the receiver, to answer the frantic baritone questions bursting from your beloved’s throat.

“Dearest! What ha-?!” he begs, begs, you to answer. You oblige, interrupting him.

“Nathan just broke in. If I don’t call back, I love you,” you panic-whisper into the line, shrill with fright. You try not to think that might be the last thing you ever say to him. You don’t count on the rescue of a man who was well removed on the other side of the city, inside that red-doored mansion in the woods.

Your morose mental dialogue is interrupted by the deafening boom of a shot flying past your ear to embed in the wall behind you. Your ears ring, and you instinctively reach up to shield them, dropping the phone yet again. The Dealer shouts your name from the swinging receiver. You can’t stop the wailing scream of terror as Nathan takes aim again, racking the rifle.

A shell clatters the floor.

You dart into the living room, clutching your head. The dull throbbing from your hangover this morning has exacerbated into a knee-buckling ache that pounds behind your eyes.

His next ensuing shot shatters an empty vase. The same one that once housed the custom bouquet the Dealer gave to you. The shards of glass fall to the floor, crunching under his feet as he approaches. His face scrunches as he checks the bottom of his running shoes. Small shards of glass are embedded into the expensive, synthetic plastic.

You're lucky his aim is so shitty. The split second distraction allows you to hide in the living room. You slam a hand over your mouth to quiet your shallow breaths.

“I know you’re in here, you bitch,” he fumed, tentatively peering around the entryway to the living room. The action is at odds with his aggressive words.

You’ve crouched behind the sofa, fuck, fuck! where were the cats?

The living room is empty of any of your darlings, unless they hid under the furniture. You duck, hand to the floor as you take a frenzied glance under the couch. Nothing but dust and a few forgotten cat-toys. You pop up just as quickly, keeping an uneasy eye on the agitated, violent suburbanite that lurked in your home. It made you nauseous listening to him stomp around the very same room your kitties played in. The barrel of his rifle glints silver in the morning light of the window glass.

One wrong move and that thing would color your walls red. The viscera of your pink organs splattered across your furniture, staining the floorboards. A morbid thought of the Dealer throwing your remains on a bonfire flit past your eyes.

Maybe he’d scatter your ashes among the trees behind his home, where his favored gamefowl fly.

“My brother-in-law didn’t deserve to die,” Nathan’s nasally voice bounces off the fireplace, interrupting your morbid thoughts, and frightening you to the very marrow of your bones. He’s getting closer. You adjusted your placement behind the couch accordingly, keeping Nathan as far from you as possible.

Unbidden, the headless corpse of David McGregor flashes behind your eyes. The gaping emptiness above his neck, the crimson gore seeping into the dye of that atrocious polo.

You almost felt remorseful.

Almost.

Your eyes strain as you glance over the top of your sofa.

There, the front door is still open from Nathan’s dramatic entrance.

The pink light of the dawn in your sight. If you were quick, maybe you could escape! You jerk, stilling yourself against the back of the couch with a shaking hand.

And…go where, exactly? Your car was still in the club parking lot. And you couldn’t make it far on foot; you didn’t even have shoes on. Even if you could pull off sneaking out the door undetected, you would not leave Fiddle and Tuxedo at the mercy of this fucking lunatic.

Maybe they went further into the house.

You duck down the hall, out of Nathan Finch’s eyeline. He’s looking suspiciously at the fireplace, even taking a moment to look up into the damn thing. Dumbass.

You sneak down the hall, rolling your eyes. Even the threat of death would not diminish the contempt you had for this man. Your head continues to pulsate in pain with every crouched footstep.

“I know you killed him. He was a good man,” his voice echoes down the hall, bouncing off your walls from where you turned the corner into your bedroom.

The blankets are still mussed, falling halfway off the bed, and the laundry hamper is filled to the brim.

It is untouched by the horror that lurks in the living room.

Nathan’s words register, and you cannot help the scrunch of your eyebrows. If David McGregor was so good, why did he have $200,000 in gambling debts?

You head straight for your nightstand on silent, socked footsteps. The silent creeping from the hallway to your room felt like walking over a thinning, iced-over lake.

You had two options here: shimmy out the window, catless and car-less, or you could fight. Your hands sweat as your eye the drawer of your nightstand, but your brow furrows as you make your decision: you were not leaving your cats to fend for themselves.

You didn’t feel ready to fire the cold, elegant weapon that was locked away in there, but you really didn’t have much time to practice now, did you? You needed to be exact in your aim, if you didn’t play your cards right, you may be joining David McGregor this morning.

You crouch by your bed, scanning the surface of the table situated next to it.

Your heart threatens to sink to your fucking stomach at the sight of empty bedside table. Where was the key? You left the thing to your nightstand drawer here, right fucking here.

Frantically looking around for it, you hear an indistinct Nathan, monologuing like some half-baked, Saturday morning cartoon villain.

“You think you’ve got everybody fooled, but I know. You’re that…demon’s whore,” he spits. Shit. Shit. He sounded closer.

Was he getting closer?

You don’t even give yourself a second to be offended by his words. Your lover was no demon. The delusional reprobate currently hunting you down in your own home was. Him and his bitch wife.

The key was not behind your alarm clock, or lamp. It wasn’t on the floor either. Was it under the bed? Did Tuxedo knock it off?

You mentally screamed. You prayed she was well hidden with Fiddle. You’d be having a strong conversation with her after this.

If you all survived.

You don’t think about it. You nearly dive under the bed to look for that damn key. You needed to fucking hurry.

Nathan wouldn’t be distracted for long. There was only so much he could be distracted by in the hallway, bathroom, and supply closets. The longer you waited, the louder the horns of your funeral march began to play.

There’s nothing under the bed other than dusty storage, cat hair, and—There!

The metallic shine is unmistakable. It’s also very far under your bed. Fuck. You give a silent sigh as you slide an arm under the supporting framework. You strain, wincing as your muscles pull taunt, your fingertips brushing the jagged edges of the key.

No. No!

Come on!

It’s right there, just a little further. You can feel frustrated tears brimming in your eyes.

“You have a lot of nerve for a poor slut who lives at the whims of an abomination to God,” Nathan goads. He is definitely closer, even with the mattress over your head muffling the sound. Your fingers cramp as you pull every muscle fiber in your arm to stretch as far as it can.

Your shoulder, your aching head, your whole body cries out with the pained tension of a creature dancing on the line between life and death. No. No. No!

A cold hand clasps around your ankle like a shackle. You instinctively yelp, ear-piercing and panicked. You are yanked from under your bed with the strength of the devil dragging a sinner to pits of hell.

Terrified, you look upon the face of an irate Nathan Finch.

You don’t give him the chance to monologue again. Every survival instinct thrumming within you roars to the forefront.

With one hand around your ankle, he can’t aim the rifle. And while you are at a clear disadvantage while on the floor, you spy an opportunity.

This is no time to doubt yourself.

Channeling all your strength into your leg, you aim to slam your untethered foot into his crotch, bracing yourself against the floor with your arm. Your teeth are clenched.

You miss, hitting his inner thigh. He hissed, pained, but not to the degree you wanted. You try again, just short. Hitting his thigh, once, twice.

Fuck!

He dodges this time, releasing you to fully grip the gun and step back, too far out of your reach to kick. You frantically try to squirm away, to push yourself to your feet.

He doesn’t allow you a single second as he slams the butt of his rifle into your right ankle.

You unleash a primal shriek, something bone deep at the feeling of the fragile joint shattering under the abrupt, brutal force. Your scream melts into a wail as the pain bleeds up your leg, and you pant as you try to pull yourself away from him, flopping back onto the floor.

There is no reprieve as he attacks your ankle again. Your jerk at the onslaught of agony. Your vision blurs, the colors of your surroundings swimming, like water colors bleeding into each other. The dull brown of your floor, the white of your fluttering curtains, the copper red of Nathan’s hair.

The pain is enough to have you heaving onto your floor, your empty stomach rebelling at the violation, and unable to bear the pain. You struggle to remain conscious as drool slips down your lip, dripping. Your teeth grind as you tense.

Nathan lurks above, and you cannot make out his expression, but the silver of the barrel pointed directly at you is hard to miss.The two empty channels are reminiscent of The Dealer eyes.

Had you known that last night would be the last time you would gaze upon his face, you might have tried harder to commit it to memory.

Nathan lets out a distant, smug chuckle, it swings in and out of your ears.

Your head spins and spins and spins. And now you were going to die.

You don’t know what was worse. Dying, or dying at Nathan’s pathetic hand. God, you hoped your cats escaped out the front door.

“Look at me, I want to see the light leave your eyes,” he snarls, vicious in hatred.

Just to be insubordinate, and not because you are in too much pain to keep them open, you look away, closing your eyelids. You’ll save a seat for this bastard in hell.

The sound of a gunshot crackles through the streets, echoing off your walls.

You are shaken by its clarity. The continued echo.

Even more shocked are you at the shrill ringing in your ears. Your fully intact ears.

The continued pounding in your head. The excruciating pain of your shattered ankle.

Did he fucking miss?

Unbidden, you open your eyes, and give a shaking inhale.

You, by the grace of God, are still alive.

Wait, no.

A shadow falls over your form, protective and comforting.

“In my younger days, I would have repaid your insolence a thousand-fold,” the low rumbling of a gravelly voice, greets your ears like a rainstorm in a thousand-year drought.

Blinking up, you look upon the face of your savior. The man who rescued you from the clutches of poverty, from the mundane emptiness of your daily existence.

The man you credit to bringing you back to life, to bringing you joy, love, fulfillment.

You should have known he would not hesitate to save you from this as well.

You, by the grace of the Dealer, are still alive.

From your blurred vision, he towers over both you and the fallen Nathan Finch, filling the doorframe of your bedroom. In his hands is a hunting rifle, one of his favorites. He holds it with such confidence it might as well be an extension of himself.

The bullet fired from its chamber had sprayed Nathan’s blood across your walls and white comforter. Never has there been such a stark reminder that you were alive.

The bullet wound had blown Nathan’s right hand clean off his arm, knocking his own gun across the floor, out of his reach. And even if it were within his grasp, the hand that would kill you, would now never harm you again.

You blink up at the Dealer, unsure of your own expression. Nathan, on the other hand gapes like he cannot fathom the horror he is witnessing.

The Dealer stares him down, “But I think you’ll find that the years have made me merciful,” he pauses, reveling in the fear and pain that radiates from Nathan Finch as he tries and fails to scramble away, streaking blood everywhere.

There is a black tar of cruelty inking into the timbre of The Dealer’s voice. You had never heard such a tone emerge from his mouth. Distantly, you are aware of why every desperate gambler who approached his table feared him so terribly.

And in truth, The Dealer’s expression is particularly haunting. His crooked teeth stretched outward, like the spikes of a cactus, accommodating the severity of his fury. The lines of rage shift his features, his eyes especially, into a menacing black void.

Even with a pounding headache, blurred vision, and nausea bad enough to send you to your knees, you knew he had never looked more handsome.

He aims his rifle, pointing right at Nathan’s shaking head. A high whimper left Nathan’s throat. Begging for his life, he pleaded with a man, a being who had killed more than his feeble mind could fathom.

The Dealer racks the gun, the sharp click echoed through the room.

“Just once will suffice,” the finality in his phrasing sent a deep disquiet throughout the room, Nathan gave one final shake of his desperate head.

The echo of the rifle blast firing into the head of Nathan Finch might as well have been a symphony composed in your honor.

You consider yourself fortunate to have witnessed it, even if you no longer found the strength to sit up right.

Such is your last thought as you fall unconscious.

Chapter Text

“Would you stop fucking hovering? I’m trying to work here.”

“Need I remind you, doctor, I am the one who funds your work, and if I happen to find it insuffic-!”

“Yeah, yeah, you'll dock the earnings and the years off my life.’ I don’t need another reminder. It’s hard enough I have to work at home for this, on the couch no less!”

“She is too delicate for you to prod at her so aggre…!“

The indistinct bickering over your head fades in and out as you are slowly pulled into the waking world.

The sensations come one at a time.

The smell of cheap tobacco. It is complimented with top notes of the expensive scent of the brand the Dealer usually preferred. It was saturated into the fabric resting against your skin. You also caught whiffs of strong antiseptic and the dryness of clean cotton.

The pillow is cool against the back of your head. You had not been resting here for long, then. Your extremities are also thawing, and your fingertips feel bloodless. Static buzzes under your skin. The room’s stagnant air is warm, but you still tremble.

Your ankle, shattered into pieces, is numbed to a dull throb. You can barely feel anything below your right knee. A soft cushion surrounding the joint followed by…nothing.

Your entire system of nerves has been cushioned by a heavy cloud, muffling the pain and smoothing any brittle splinters of fear and anxiety from waking in an unfamiliar place.

Upon opening your eyes, your blurry eyes reveal to you that you are not in a hospital.

Not even a clinic.

You’re lying horizontal on a couch in an open-concept cabin. The knick-knacks are eclectic, if not outright ostentatious. A large bearskin rug lies in front of a massive fireplace.

Your brows raise, disbelief battling recognition.

“—there she is, safe, sound, and finally conscious!” a reedy timbre sounded joyfully, relief edging the corners of his exhausted vowels. Your head turns, slowly, not quite the whip fast motion you intended, your neurons firing slow. You squint as you glance over the individual seated beside you.

Even seated atop a wheeled stool, you can tell man is tall and lanky, like a twisting willow tree. There is a faint dusting of stubble across his jaw, and his temples are grey. There are prominent purple bags stamped just above where his cheeks stretch from smiling. He wears a long white coat.

And hovering, just behind him, towering above you both, was your Dealer.

You gasp, and immediately try to lunge for him, damn the stranger seated between you both.

Two gloved hands land on your blanketed shoulders and force you back into a lying position, much to your chagrin. Upon further inspection, it is not a blanket resting upon your arms and torso, but the Dealer’s overcoat. The herringbone pattern is a soft, pewter gray. And it’s also in your way. Much like this stranger.

The man’s touch is gentle, but you still curl your lip. You weakly try to raise your arms to push this guy off you. But you can’t even lift your hands up to protest the movement, your movements sluggish, halting.

You blink, lethargically, mouth twisting further into an inconvenienced grimace. And just who did he think he was?

How dare this stranger deny you proximity to your love?

Did he not know the man standing beside him saved your life? Did he not know that you owed him your soul a hundred times over?

Your brows furrow as you divert your gaze away from the wiry, latex-gloved hands to the stranger’s face.

“…th’fuck are you?” is what is yanked out of your mouth before you can process your phrasing into something more eloquent. You hardly recognize the slow, wispy croak of your own voice.

The stranger cackles, a crow's caw.

The Dealer reaches past the stranger to lovingly run the back of his knuckles over your face, disregarding the other man’s amusement. His brows are low, worried, but his touch is sure. Your eyes close as you indulge in the feeling of his warm hand against your face, like the sun thawing the frost of a cold morning.

“Should she sound like that?” The Dealer’s hand retreats, but the feeling of his rough calluses trailing across your cheek still leave tingles as he pulls away.

“Yeah, it’ll be a little bit before she shakes off the dosage I gave her,” he whispers to your Dealer, like you weren’t sitting a foot away from him, scowling like the bitch you were.

The man, unbothered, turns back to you, “And aren’t you just a puff pastry? I’m a doctor on your man’s payroll,” he leans forward, conspiratorially whispering, “And hey, now that you’re awake, maybe a doll like you can get this guy to lay off-“

“Doctor,“ the Dealer interrupts sharply, his lower register cutting through the stranger’s words like a gale rustling tree branches. A large hand comes to grip his shoulder through his white coat, a far cry from the gentle caress he offered you, “I'd be much obliged if you didn’t exacerbate her already fragile mental state. She has experienced far too much for you to tease her.”

The doctor rolled his eyes, unthreatened.

You are almost offended on behalf of your lover. Motherfucker, do you want to try again? With the proper respect this time?

“You’re actually in my home, thank you very much,” the doctor returned, before turning back to face you again, ever so slightly leaning down, “I’m actually only employed under this schmuck for emergencies with clients. Though, typically I man the defibrillators before things get out of hand.”

If you had the functional capacity, you would chuckle smarmily before telling him that, yeah, you were the girl the Dealer went to after things got out of hand. You would also find some clever way to allude to the fact that you, and your collective boss, fucked on this very couch.

“Either way, you’re a unique case. Normally, he just tosses the limp body of a gambler at me and waits for me to send them stumbling back. With you? He all but breaks down my door, screaming at me to fix you, and breathing down my neck the whole time I’m trying! He was like a feral cat on a fishbone. I’ve never seen this guy so worked up—,” the doctor jabbers.

You jerk forward, interrupting him. The sudden movement results in a twinge of pain rushing up from your legs, but you are successfully seated upright as you lunge upward.

Your eyes are wide, quickly blurring as tears gather on your waterline. The sudden realization of something important grips you like the hand of death.

The Dealer, previously glowering at the doctor’s recount of how you got here, immediately jumps to attend you.

“Cats,” your sticky mouth tries to sound while your wide eyes go glassy, “cats!”

Your mind swims as you try to explain that you needed to find them. Find them before something else does.

The doctor squints, trying to settle you while attempting to discern what you are trying to communicate through the haze of pain meds running through you. You don’t register his words as you scramble forward, clawing and straining, and snapping something inside. The pain scalds you as you lurch forward, unable and unwilling to stop, to pause even for a moment.

The Dealer, indulging in his already rampant impatience, knocks the doctor aside. The wheels underneath the doctor’s stool slide him across the floor as the Dealer kneels to face you.

Two warm hands return to gently press you back into the couch. You yield willingly against his controlled strength, though your eyes still swim with panic. Please let them be okay. You whisper the phrase as your head is cushioned by your pillow.

“Your darlings are safe, dearest. They're alright,” he soothes in a low, quiet rumble, running his hands down your arms, “They’re in the Jaguar. I found one hiding behind your broken radiator, and the other trying to make an escape into the shrubbery.”

“You are safe here, with me,” he encourages your hand up to his face, holding your intertwined fingers close against his cheek. You can feel the muscles shift as he smiles, “Nathan Finch is dead, and no one in that wretched family will ever hurt you again,” he encourages your breathing to slow. The deep, ragged inhale into your lungs lowers and raises the coat draped over your torso.

You close your eyes, comforted by the fact that you were safe, but the shaking doesn’t stop. Your breath still hitches as he continues.

“I didn’t have time to retrieve any of their necessities, unfortunately. But I did manage to carry you to the car. Their items can be replaced, you cannot.”

His other hand drifted over your injured ankle. The delicate dance of his fingers that do not quite make contact. Even if he would have brushed against your bandages, the amount of medication the doctor put you on rendered your pain receptors inept.

“I imagine you will endeavor to help me in purchasing new things for them,” he murmurs, “and besides, my home is large. There will be plenty of space for two little mischief-makers to reign over.”

Your shoulders sag as you process his words, heart-rate slowing as you listen to his voice. The relief that your darlings were safe had sapped all of the energy from your bones. With the worry that coiled around your nerves dissipated, you pondered the fantasy that he offered you.

Your cats feared the Dealer like he was sent from the pits of hell.

But you imagined a time when they wouldn’t be. You imagine that grand home of his adorned with little climbing towers, assorted jingling toys on the steps, and cat hair dusting his suits. You imagine curling up in the formal living room, Fiddle asleep in your lap while Tuxedo bats at the laces of The Dealer’s oxfords.

You imagine the same joy you felt staying with him in the early winter. Like you were untouchable. Incandescently happy.

The domestic fantasy is too tantalizing to ignore.

You worry the move would stress them out. You worry that he would stress them out. That the unfamiliarity of their environment and the strain of moving would frighten them.

But considering he did save their lives, they may find the courage to open up to him. Befriend him. Love him, much like you do.

And after the trauma of Nathan invading your home, the once stable safety of your home was now threatened. You don’t even know if you would be able to go back there. To live there, like you did before.

Carol may come looking for you.

No, you knew her. She would come looking for you.

And after the mysterious deaths of David McGregor and Nathan, what would stop her from tracking you down? What could you do?

It felt like a silly question immediately upon its conception. What else was there to do?

And who better to protect you than the one who was well-established at providing for you. The decision had been made, long before you ever encountered the Finches.

With your clumsy, healing heart, you answer.

“I-I think…I woul’ like that. I woul’ like to move in. W’th you,” your last words are little more than a slurred whisper, but the sharp grin of your lover confirms that he’s understood you. He exhaled, a loud gust of breath that betrayed just how much he hoped for your approval.

“Nothing would make me happier, dearest.”

Chapter Text

Hand to mouth. Hand to mouth. Hand to mouth.

In another lifetime, the concept all but consumed your every waking minute. So struck by the chronic weight of poverty wearing you down by the neck, that you had little concept of the idea of “peace” or “disposable income.”

Chipped nails from scrubbing grime off sticky tiles. The tremors in your hands, the stress of missing rent payments. The skipped meals.

Until the day that changed. When a handsome, intimidating stranger offered a deal you couldn’t refuse.

Now? The phrase is more befitting of how fast you can hand out cat treats.

“Okay, Noon and Cocoa…Banana…Lulu…Pompom…who else needs fed?”

“I think Night missed the afternoon round!” one of your employees shouts.

“Okay, got it!” you shout, as a thank you.

Dozens of mewing mouths open toward you, as little padded feet silently wind their way closer to where you stand in the kitchen section of the Sanctuary. Each one acting like they’d never eaten a day in their life.

A lie, of course. Several of them have been eating meals prepared by you since they were just kittens, even though the dinner site has drastically changed. Fortunately, the menu is pretty consistent.

Duck was becoming a fast favorite, though it certainly did not outrank the “pork” you labeled in the fridge.

Your subordinates that worked at the Sanctuary knew not to question where you got these amazing deals on an outrageous amount of fresh meat, and really, if it kept your little angels fed, who were they to question it?

They also never questioned how you managed to afford this remodeled, multi-story, turn-of-the-century structure. The decrepit hotel your beloved inherited was all but unrecognizable from the lavish cat sanctuary you had fashioned it into.

The tall ceiling was reinforced with sturdy, oak beams, and the shattered windows were replaced with tall, clear panels that invited the summer to paint the new wooden floors with sunlight.

The dusty, sheet covered furntiure you replaced with comfy sofas, bean bags, and cat towers. Though most of the cats were lounging directly on the swept floor. If they weren’t trying to climb your floral apron for more treats.

“Maybe we should build a cat tower that looks like you!” a feminine voice shouts. Your good friend, the one who watched Tuxedo and Fiddle while you stayed with the Dealer was the ideal first candidate for your new business. She immediately ditched working for her dad’s motel chain to hang out with cats all day. Not that you could blame her.

“Very funny…please help me before I become a pin cushion.”

She takes the plate of treat from your hands before bounding over to the other end of the kitchen, cooing and calling the cats for their attention.

You gently extract several cats from your apron, through most have fallen off you like autumn leaves from their branches by the time your friend has stepped across the floor.

All but one.

Noodle, a darling girl from the early days at the park, sits with her head pushed into your calf, a quick rumble in her chest. The closed slit where the stitches wove through her eye had healed neatly into a faint scar.

The vet bill was exorbitant. After so long of letting the injured eye fester and rot, there was no choice but to remove the fleshy, sightless ball from her head.

No matter, there were no complications in the procedure, and she was worth every penny. You remind her of your affection with a gentle scratch behind her ear. She gives you her best impression of a truck engine.

A quick glance around the room revealed that Noodle was not the only cat missing a few parts. Oscar was missing a front leg, half of Lolly’s teeth were missing, and Orange Juice’s tail was docked due to frostbite.

And of course your dear Fiddle, was short a full ear.

Life in the park was stressful for your darlings, but it gave you such relief to know that your efforts to rescue them were fulfilled.

The park was empty of strays, and your heart was full of joy.

Nothing is so broken that it doesn’t deserve the effort to be repaired.

A rhythmic chiming from the grandfather clock in the corner sounded five times. You scramble across the room. Five o’clock! Already!

Gracious, you could not be late again. Last time you made it home at 5:45, you were playfully accused of loving the cats more than him.

Your silly retort was that you only loved Fiddle and Tuxedo more than him, a comment which earned you a bout of uproarious laughter.

Regardless, you darted into the employee lounge. Quickly removing your apron and hanging it on your personal hook, you give a quick check of all the things you needed to take home. Satisfied you make your exit from the lounge into the foyer, giving Noodle one more pet goodbye.

You could come and go whenever you pleased, as you did own the place, but you liked to be courteous. Precious as they were, the kitties were overwhelming when the place was understaffed.

You grab your bag phone, throwing the strap over your right shoulder. You leave out the side door, calling out a final goodbye to the remaining staff, receiving a chorus of farewells in return.

You like to think of yourself as a stern, but understandable supervisor. The staff knew to respect your time, and more importantly, not to ask any questions.

Your ankle twinges as the gravel crunches under your foot. Not quite painful, but enough for you to note. You shuffle to your car, sliding into the front seat, hissing in agony as you touch the hot metal of the seatbelt.

You roll the windows down, spinning the dial for the radio, tuning into the station playing the sweetest sugar-pop song. You head home.

The route there is always uneventful. Trailer parks and sparse trees lining the road eventually yield to housing divisions and apartment complexes, you even see your old home passing by. A “for sale” sign hangs in the front yard, yellow with age. You don’t give it a second glance.

You silently wish the best for the realtor attempting to sell that place after what happened.

May he rot in hell.

Last you heard, Carol Finch skipped town after the tragic death and mysterious disappearance of her brother and husband, respectively.

The police had swarmed this town, and her home, like flies on a corpse left to rot. They couldn’t find her guilty of anything, not without evidence, but her reputation in her good, Christian, community plummeted beyond repair.

You never saw her again.

And if her shadow ever crossed your line of sight, you’ll put a bullet into her fucking head.

If the Dealer doesn’t first.

The radio DJ announces the next song, an overproduced pop beat with cliché lyrics. You turn the sound up.

You were proud to report that your aim was no longer abysmal. Shooting practice was going well. You can almost hit the target now. The first time you managed to shoot an empty bottle of Jack Daniels off a fence post, you screamed like you won the lottery.

You deeply appreciated your lover’s patience in this matter, though heaven knows how much mileage he gets out of coming to your rescue.

It felt necessary to learn how to shoot after…what happened. Your nightmares were still haunted by Nathan Finch’s footsteps chasing you, even years after the man’s death.

Still, as inexperienced as you were, both you, and the Dealer, felt safer with a pistol in your hand.

And anyway, it’s another excuse to take you out on hunting expeditions that he loves so much. What better way to learn than to watch the master at work?

The mansion is silent as you put the car in park, right next to the Jaguar, and your walk to the crimson front door is only accented by you fumbling with your keys.

Fiddle and Tuxedo are first to greet you upon opening the door, followed closely by your Dealer.

While he wraps his arms around your torso, your cats wind themselves around your legs.

You both chatter about your day as you remove your work shoes in favor of a sturdy pair of boots.

“Did you get past the gate alright this time, dearest?” he asks as the cats do their best to bowl you over, despite them both weighing five pounds each, “I know it’s been giving you trouble.”

“Yeah,” you lie. You wrestled with that iron bitch for at least a full twelve minutes. Maybe tomorrow you would leave the car and just climb the thing.

You both make your way to the back of the house, the Dealer just a few steps behind you. The rear entrance, next to the dining room, was much more understated. The dining room holds a vase of an intricate bouquet, each flower lovingly selected. You all but memorized each one.

“What are we looking for today? Same as yesterday?”

“Yes, keep your eyes open,” he responds, choosing a shotgun from his collection to grip in both hands. You chose to merely observe for this outing.

It was rare that you two hunted in the summer, but this particular game was suggested by you. A way to test his skill. A way for you to find catharsis.

You check that the cat bowls are full before you both exit the house. Old habits die hard.

The door is shut and locked.

“Are you alright?” the Dealer asks, as you both journey into the woods, you are a stone’s throw from the house when he speaks. His steps are silent, yours are a near thing.

You blink at his response. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

The air smells of honeysuckle and summer grass. A cicada sings a hundred steps away.

He glances down at your ankle, and at your fumbling gate. His spiked mouth is tightened into a concerned grimace.

“Should I call the doctor to have another look?”

“No, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt, and I was able to get through work okay,” you reassure him.

Your ankle wasn’t the same since Nathan slammed the butt of his rifle into the joint, but you would be damned if you gave up your favorite hobby with your favorite person.

“I just don’t want you straining yourself, dear, maybe we should reschedule our walk-“

“No!” you interject, shriller than you intended. “No, it’ll be okay. If it makes you feel better, I can call him later myself.”

The low furrow of his brow unravels, ever so slightly, “That would make me feel better,” he pauses for a few paces before continuing, “Let me know if you need me to carry you.”

“My ankle is not that fragile,” you fuss, carefully stepping over a tree root. If you tripped, he would definitely be scooping you up.

“Maybe I want an excuse to hold you close,” he purrs, walking closer to you. Your face is warm.

The summer sun burns brighter, and sweat beads at your neck. You were fortunate that you could blame the temperature for how flustered you were.

While the season (or the weather) mattered little when you went on your expeditions through the woods. It was times like these where you were a little nostalgic for the cold.

When you first came here, the yearly snow had just set in and settled the earth in a soft silence. You took in his every word like a devout acolyte, breathing in the crisp air and appreciating the peace.

Though some days brought no game; and some he deliberately chose to forgo a rifle so as to not over-hunt, you listened to what he has learned from the silent world beyond your shared home. The behavior of the game, how they think, how best to navigate your way to the eventual conquest.

This goes beyond his usual quarry of pheasants, ducks, and grouse.

Eventually, he would expand your talks to his clientele.

The other quarry.

Over the years, you’d come to almost sympathize with the gamblers that entered your Dealer’s game room. The tragic souls that invested themselves in too heavily to back out, trapped in the decisions they made.

You could almost relate to that.

Almost.

Much like his clientele, you had spent so much time in his company, you don’t think you could unravel yourself from his life if you tried. Though such a fate brought them death and a perpetual cycle of financial loss, yours only brought stability and love.

“How are the nightmares?” he asked.

You shrug, “nothing that a night of you fucking me into the mattress won’t fix.”

A delicate blossom of pink blooms across his face, a lovely compliment to the foliage.

You chuckle, before immediately gasping. Slapping a hand over your face, you quickly duck, pointing out past the tree line.

A game bird, small, but serves its purpose to keep the Dealer’s aim sharp.

“Good eye,” he rumbles, taking aim, your deranged comment, not forgotten, but set aside in favor of the bird unknowingly about to take its last breath.

A crack rings through the air. A bird falls. You clap loudly, praising his skill.

He is not so humble that he doesn’t puff with pride at your words.

And as you continue walking through the woods, sunlight dappling through the full, green trees, applauding his success as he downs another bird, It’s hard to regret anything you faced if it is what led you here.

Stronger than you were, braver. A little shaken from your experiences, but safe, supported and cared for by someone that loves you. Incandescently happy.

You gather yet another bird with the others, smiling at him. You hold the handful of dead Finches with a delicate grasp.

“How do you feel about a bonfire this evening?”