At the end of the trial, it's just Ash and Lisa Sherwood. She has him a dozen times, well within swipe of her itching claws. She never takes him. She only drives him, further and further, a little closer with every minute that he gets a little slower. A person in their right mind, maybe even a spectator, might suspect her intention. Ash may even realize it when she drives him into a far, unremarkable stretch of brush and grass: he's not being chased, he's being herded.
The sigil in the dirt looks different from usual, and no mud sprite springs out when Ash crashes over it. Instead, his foot sinks into the ground. No friction, no impact, just sinking--like through a hologram. Like through an elephant trap. Like into sleep, because as soon as Ash's head passes through the ground, his senses are cut loose.
Taste and smell come back first, holding hands with wriggling fingers as they wander between his teeth and up the back of his nose: musty, damp soil and roots; smoke from wood, weed, and herbs; blood-tang high above it all, laced with fire. The sound of crackling logs comes from behind Ash's head, shuffling feet above him, a buzzing racing up his bones from his right side.
Sight beats sensation to him only by a few seconds. He'll see Quentin before he feels the work. Sweating, pale, plainly high from whatever is wrapped in the joint he pinches with his lips, Quentin leaves red marks like lipstick on the paper when he pulls it away. The smoke is getting in his eyes, making him think for a second that he saw Ash twitch. He sits up, knees folded under him next to Ash's hip, filthy hands resting on his own knees as Quentin turns his head up to the exposed floorboards above. Deep breath. He's seeing things.
Ash is seeing this, too. He's feeling more slowly. Fever pounding inside his temple, sweat dripping down the outside, onto the caked-dirt floor. It's cold dirt under his head, warm mud under his left side and right thigh, where Quentin is sitting and working. Even with his upper arm and upper thigh tourniqueted tight, he's bled plenty. Quentin had hoped to avoid too much mess. On the one hand, the best laid plans...
On the other hand, he's never been great at planning. In this example, he planned on the teleportation spell to knock Ash out long enough for him to get this done. Or maybe he planned on it going quicker. Limbs are hard to get through, even when you're a little wacked out. One leg, one arm, and the worst part (but probably the easiest? the neck has to be easy) left. He wets his lips (tastes bad, tastes like Ash's blood) and sticks the joint back in before getting back to it.
Sensation: the hacksaw rumbles Ash's femur, into his hip, up his spine. It's almost ticklish.
Someday, he's going to look back on this and laugh.
But for now, Ash thinks he's dreaming about the shed behind the cabin. His mouth feels dry yet slimy, dusty like the chainsaw resting on the top shelf over the workbench, like Linda's blue lips and her glassy eyes sightlessly staring up at him. The mechanical whirr is the sound of the blade churning to life, the harsh burnt-pennies smell is smoke from the engine, and the hot spray that hits his chest and some of his mouth—
(Ash!)
Darkness around him, darkness behind him; none of that stops him from whipping his head in the direction of the voice that whisper-shouts his name, who sounds so much like Cheryl he could almost believe it's her — if he didn't know better by now, that is. What follows is an eardrum-puncturing screech that catapults him out of his memories of that night when his brain latches onto another familiar comparison: a dentist's drill, the big and nasty kind.
Ash forces his eyes open. All he does is trade one kind of dark for another that makes it too difficult to tell where he is but not impossible to catch a glimpse of jagged wooden planks jutting out from a hole in the ceiling. Speaking of dentists: Guess I'm not the only one who needs one, he thinks suddenly when, as if hitting a perfectly timed cue, the shrill sorta-not-quite drilling sound starts up again.
He tries to lift his head, but the muscles in his neck almost immediately lock up. The back of his skull hits the ground with an unpleasantly soft thud, plopping against earth that's more mud than soil by this point, but it still hurts — for about a second or two. Once the stars clear from his eyes, all he's left with is a faint ache to pair with the tickling at his leg, and the hazy, dreamy realization that he must look very dumb right now.
"Ow," Ash says very clearly, then giggles faintly.
When he jumps and curses, the joint falls out of his mouth and somewhere into the various flaps of Ash's jeans, skin, torn sartorius. Quentin wedges his fingers in, but he can't find which side it's ended up on. Every slick thing presses together, too tight around his knuckles. His eyes flick to Ash's, frozen wide. "No. Shh, hush. Hush, go back to sleep."
Disoriented though he may be, Ash recognizes the voice in a heartbeat. He opens his eyes a little wider, squinting to make out the smaller figure in the gloom. The pieces clumsily tumble into place — or try to anyway — the moment Ash breathes in the air and sees the unblinking, glazed look in Quentin’s sunken eyes that makes him look a bit like a raccoon. Yep, that sure is Quentin, and yep, he sure is stoned — but apparently, so is Ash.
He digs the back of his head into the dirt, trying to stretch out. His entire body feels numb, but his arms and legs have been hit with it the worst, throbbing with a faint but unpleasantly warm sort of tingling. With the back-to-back engineering and chemistry labs his class schedule is packed with, he’s no stranger to that pins and needles sensation that comes with letting your feet fall asleep… but this ain’t it. This feels… wrong.
The thought should be setting off alarm bells, but all Ash feels is an easygoing kind of amusement when he titters, “You sound like Chet’s grandma.” It doesn’t even occur to him that Quentin has no idea who Chet is, doesn’t even matter. That’s how easily he’s slotted himself into Ash’s life.
“Did we win?” he asks breathlessly, letting his eyes slip shut again. He lifts the hand on his right arm — the only one he can move — and it bonelessly flops back into the mud seconds later, making him scoff like it’s simultaneously the most annoying thing to happen to him today and the funniest. His words slur together. “Some victory party. You gonna share some’a that or am I gettin’ cut off?”
He’s talking about the weed, the joint he can smell somewhere below him. Below him. That’s a good one. What’s Quentin doing, using his dick as an ashtray?
There's no immediate lashing out. Maybe he should take it as a comfort, but it just feels like a timebomb. Quentin's hand flinches back when his searching fingers bash up against the dull side of the hacksaw blade. This is bad. This is so very bad. He flicks the blood (et cetera) off his hand before scooting close to Ash's head, nodding to reassure. "We won. You're just hurt. I'm taking care of it, okay? Trust me, I got you."
He knows his mouth tastes like weed over meth, and he knows his hands are still sticky--so his fingertips only skim Ash's jaw, and Quentin only kisses his forehead. "Close your eyes. Lemme--that was the last of it, lemme roll up again. Gimme a second, just close your eyes."
Ash's eyelashes flutter under Quentin's lips, less out of any real desire to do as he's told and more from revulsion. He can smell the weed on Quentin's breath, a smell he generally associates with things he likes, like spending time with friends and relaxing to music after a long study session. Not this time, though. This smell is sour and sickly and secretive, and it pairs horridly with the equally rancid smell of Quentin's fingertips as they ghost along his jawline, leaving a tacky residue on his skin that sticks to his skin like a trail of slime left behind by a snail.
"What're you talking about?" Ash chuckles dimly, tossing his head back and forth in the mud like a sleeping child trying to shake off a nightmare. That's all this is, and any second, he'll wake up back at the campfire. Any second now. "I thought you said we won. How'd I get hurt?"
Little by little, his eyes begin to get used to the dark. They’re in some sort of shack where the only light is from the fireplace and the moonlight seeping in through the slats on the ceiling. There’s a fire crackling somewhere behind him. There’s a creaky metallic sound coming from the floor above them. And Quentin is holding something over his legs.
The mental image of a raccoon pops back up in Ash’s mind — Quentin looks like he’s been caught red-handed digging around in Ash’s garbage, literally. His hands are coated in red, so are his knees. Even his lips look red.
Somewhere deep inside Ash’s doped-up head, a part of his brain lights up with shock so fierce and so bright that it makes his big stupid grin falter.
"Quent? How'd I get hurt?" Ash repeats, groggy but cautiously alarmed. He lifts his head again, the muscles in his right arm tensing up as he tries to use it for leverage to push the rest of him up. His lips jittery like they’re struggling to hold up the weight of his smile, and damned if they’re not determined.
"Ash. Don't. Please, don't." The words are only just audible, more for himself than the man beneath him. Quentin's mind hangs back a little from his body, which does what it needs to do, warns himself through numb lips, "Don't freak out, it's okay. We're almost done.
"Ash, stop, we're almost done," He manages in a full voice at last, watching while his body pins Ash's arm by the elbow, by the opposite shoulder, fingertips catching in raw tendon and ragged cotton when Quentin gets a grip where Ash's arm should be. "You gotta trust me. I'll light you up for the rest. You gotta trust me."
But Ash doesn't hear Quentin. Quentin, with his bloodshot eyes and his deceptively soft voice, who always sounds so fucking gentle even when he's trying to be firm, even when he's running his mouth in the middle of a trial or back at the campfire and being a little shit, might as well be a million miles away.
He catches a glimpse of red and raw, jagged tendon before he falls back, but a glimpse is enough. It's more than enough. He's seen enough gore and mutilated bodies to last him several lifetimes, and to be able to recognize what torn flesh looks like in the dark. The image that burns bright behind his eyelids is identical to the images his nightmares are filled with: bloody, shredded chunks of roast beef.
It would be easy for Ash to keep his eyes shut. Instead he pries them open, and wishes he hadn't.
By the time he sees Quentin sitting on his elbow, Ash's eyes have gone impossibly wide. By the time he realizes he can't feel anything oh god why can't he feel anything oh jesus god god god, he's starting to hyperventilate. By the time he sees the ragged stump that had once been his left arm, he's screaming.
Things get hazy(er) after that. Still screaming mindlessly, Ash tears his right arm out from under Quentin's body. Or, he tries to. Everything below the elbow is completely unresponsive. He pulls until he feels a faint flare of pain in his shoulder, then pulls harder as he tries to throw Quentin off with his legs (leg), thrashing and tossing and shrieking like a rabbit caught in a snare. When that doesn't work, he strikes Quentin with the only remaining body part he has control over by head-butting him in the face.
He was just supposed to be out longer. Maybe Quentin miscalculated. Maybe the Hag did. Maybe the Entity gave him a little extra vim and vinegar just to be a fucking asshole, because this was not supposed to happen. Once Ash sets to wailing, it's hard for Quentin to think beyond no no no. Handicapped as he is, Ash has enough size on his side and fear in his veins that Quentin nearly topples off him in the thrashing, and his choice of grounding techniques (weighing his elbows heavy into Ash's chest, both hands fisting into his hair to hold him down) backfires severely.
Every one of his senses goes red, from the bright center of his forehead to the dark blood cascading into his mouth from the nose Ash breaks. Quentin doesn't manage the actual word part of the curse, but the noise he makes when he rears back should say plenty. Blindly (vindictively), he gropes for the hacksaw half-buried in Ash's leg and yanks.
The world telescopes around them. Pain explodes up Ash's calf, then fizzles out dumbly, swallowed up by the pins-and-needles fog still weighing him down. He feels like he's drowning in it. His leg spasms when it hits the wood, but there's no sensation, just dull thudding and duller movement. If he's getting anywhere with this, it's not away from Quentin.
Still, Ash continues to scream.
He screams as every hideous memory comes unbound in his mind and assaults him with rapid-fire, pinpoint accuracy, as if to punish him for trying to repress them. Watching his new friends die by the hook every night; Linda's body laid out in the workshed; Cheryl's bone white eyes leering at him from underneath the cellar door; Scott's face sloughing off him in doughy chunks; Shelly's severed limbs twitching obscenely in the bedsheets they wrapped her in. This is what you get for trying to forget — this is what you deserve.
Ash screams as he gropes for Quentin's cheek, which he had once pressed his lips against as they held each other under the giant roots of a tree, with bloody fingers that shake as they try to find Quentin's mangled nose. He screams as he digs his thumb into the red-soaked tangle of cartilage, and he keeps screaming as something in his head — some important part of himself — finally reaches the breaking point and burns out forever with a neat little POP!
The longer Ash pushes his thumb into Quentin's nose, the easier it gets, and the longer he screams, the more it sounds like laughter.
There was a horrifying few seconds when he thought he might be wrong, ha ha. Like maybe he made a mistake and was really screwing things up. Thank god for that clawing laugh. It breaks through the pain piercing his nose and eye socket and through the back of his head, breaks through the sound of his own screaming--through the doubt entirely. Ash is possessed. It was just a matter of endangering the demon enough to make it fight back.
Quentin's foot catches the saw and kickass, carving a massive lip out of his thigh. Spitting blood, he slams his elbow into Ash's elbow and rolls into it. He sounds like meat when he hits the dirt slurry. He's just meat now, Quentin reminds himself as he scrambles for the saw handle--he's just rotten meat. The laughter makes it so much easier; he just wants it to stop. Easy, it's easy to slosh above Ash's head and wrench him down by the collar. Quentin sits on his arm, elbow to shoulder pinched between his legs. His right hand knocks Ash's jaw up and holds it.
"Gotchu, motherfucker." Gagged, gasped as he fits the ragged teeth of the saw under the Adam's apple. It's not Ash. It's meat. It's a demon. It's a fucking demon. Still, he hesitates a split second: "...Ash. I'm--"
Demon. Rotten meat. Look at him--he's barely even human-shaped anymore. Ash can't hear him. Quentin swallows hard (it's hard, it's syrupy down the back of his throat) and pushes. The skin, the esophagus, the veins go easy. He expects resistance from the spine, but the hacksaw knows what it's doing too: it finds a soft slit of cartilage and shears through. Like it was meant to be. Like it's right.
Once the gurgling stops, it's him and his own body. His own wheezing and moaning, his own stomach boiling. It wants to come up, but he's got to finish first. The head stays connected by a stretch of skin as Quentin finishes the leg. Does the arm. The saw is so loud on the bone, but nothing compared to Ash's screaming. His laughing. Its laughing. He breathes long and deep through his mouth as he finally (covering the leering face, don't look, please) tears the last skin flap free with his fingers. The last rip is more of a feeling than a sound and after that, it's dead, unholy quiet.
For seconds. For an hour. He isn't sure how long it is before he starts throwing up, but he feels much better after.
Red. His world is a cascade of red, running down over his eyes, flooding his mouth, his ears, until all he can see, taste and hear is blood. The pulsating hum of his heartbeat rapidly drowns out whatever sounds his throat continues to push out until, ultimately, it stops. Everything stops.
Then the light finally goes out, and so does Ash.
For a little while. But not long enough.
Ash opens his eyes. Of course he shouldn't be able to, but he'd long moved past the point where such things were surprising. People don't tend to get up and walk after getting skewered on meat hooks, just like he shouldn't be alive after getting his goddamn head sawn off, but they do here, and he is. It's just the way things work in the Entity's funhouse. What does surprise him is where he wakes up.
Gathering up his strength, he pushes himself off the floor with stiff arms and looks up, straight into the dirty glass eyes of a trophy buck — the one mounted on the wall in the cabin's living room. The deer's head looks the same way it did the last time Ash saw it, as does the rest of the room; dusty, grimy, streaked with old dirt and cobwebs and years and years of neglect. Somehow he'd had the dim hope that he was back in the real world, in the real cabin, ready to pick up where he left off before the Entity had taken him.
But no. The sky outside the windows is dark, and the front door is shut, and the gun is still nowhere to be found. He should have guessed by now, he would never be that lucky.
He lets his hands unfurl at his sides and fog cloud his vision as he stares at the top of his knees, unfocused and blurry. Crying never helped him before; it didn't help Linda when the demon got inside of her, it didn't help Ash when he had to take her head off anyway, and it didn't help him when Quentin did the same thing to him. For once, his dad had been right — crying didn't do shit.
Ash doesn't care. In that moment, alone in that dark place, he curls his hands into fists and lets his despair wash over him like a wave.
He loses track of how long he stays there, beating the ground and screaming. The cellar door is securely bolted down and chained shut; if the thing down below hears him, it doesn't make a sound. By the time he drags himself to his feet and makes it outside, his knuckles are bloody and mottled with angry, purple bruises, and his throat is still shivering. The woods are still and calm, and the trees don't stop him from leaving. Good. He'd rip their branches off if they tried.
Ash keeps walking without a set path in mind. It doesn't matter where he goes — all roads eventually lead back to the campfire, or to another lost soul stuck roaming the Entity's realm. Sure enough, he finds both in no time at all.
He pushes through the trees and into a small grove with a tiny but fiercely burning fire, situated in the middle of a circle of stones. Ash takes the middle one and sits, spreading his dirty palms out; in the dark, the blood looks like mud, or chocolate syrup. It's fascinating in the same way the frogs he used to dissect in biology class were — gross, but fascinating — and he's still studying them when he hears several pairs of feet trampling through the underbrush behind him, followed by clear, sweet laughter.
It's been a long time since he's heard Claire Redfield's voice, but it's just as warm and wry and fucking impetuous as Ash remembers from the day they met. She greets him with a "Hey, Ash," as she saunters over to the campfire, her toolbox clanking as it swings in her hand, as Elodie and the nurse in the red cardigan (Lisa, he thinks?) follow close behind. Lisa echoes the sentiment with a smile. Neither of them seem to notice his hands, or the blank look in his eyes, or the way he tenses up on instinct when the trees part for another survivor muscling their way into the clearing.
Four days. He spent the first riding out the clingy hangover from the physical exertion of tearing a not small man apart. He spends most of the second day dodging questions about the emotional hangover. A well-meaning hey buddy is easier to brush off when Quentin sits (only somewhat precariously) in the knowledge that he did the right thing. When he can't sleep and he just hears a frantic, hitching cackle from somewhere he can't pinpoint, it's okay--he did the right thing.
Yesterday, a harrying bout with Dr. Carter ironically cleared his mind, scrubbing one nest of laughter and static out for another. Today, he's on top of his game, feeling fresh and awake and even excited when he grabs Lisa's hand to yank her out of the Demogorgon's snapping range just in time to hear the gates crunch open. Four days, and he's nearly forgotten what happened (what he did).
The lazy grin on Quentin's face goes slack when he hears Claire greeting the hunched survivor that waits for them at the fire. He steps cut short just outside of the ring of light, eyes wide to take inventory of the slope of his shoulders, the clean line of his spine that runs up his neck, his hands open and steady and--injured again, of course he already managed to fuck them up. "Ash." Quentin smiles fresh, not lazy in the least, possibly even too bright. The joy of it wells up behind his eyes. He reaches for Ash's shoulder as he jogs those last few steps. "Lemme, see, what did you do now?"
When Ash was little, his mother taught him a trick. He was an anxious little boy, and she always knew how to calm his heart. Whenever you feel afraid, or angry, or lost, just name all the animals you can think of. One for every letter of the alphabet. It was a good trick, the best kind of trick, because it was the kind that grew with him. When he got old enough to walk Cheryl to kindergarten by himself, months after mom packed up and left, he started substituting animals for monster movies; by the time he made it to high school, it was bands, and by college, it was chemical elements. Things he could rattle off quickly in his head, with no effort at all.
Elodie breezes right past Ash without even looking at him. Truthfully, he doesn't even notice. While she chats with Claire over the fire, he focuses on his recitation, going through the entire periodic table, telling himself that he's safe, it's over, he's safe, everything is fine.
Arsenic, boron, calcium, dysprosium—
Over and over and over again. Even when he hears a familiar voice over his shoulder, he doesn't stop reciting; instead, he speeds up. The pace of his thoughts begins to match the pace in his chest, frantic and jerky, but Ash doesn't let up. It's not even an option.
His spine goes as rigid as a steel bar, and every muscle in his body locks up when he smells the cigarette smoke on Quentin's hoodie and sees the shadow of his hand moving towards him, almost in slow motion.
Gold helium iron krypton—
Krypton — that was always a fun one. Still is, if he's going to be honest. His shoulders quiver unsteadily. His whole body feels agonizingly sore, but his neck — God, his neck. It feels like it's been scrubbed raw with sandpaper, right down to the bone. The laugh catches in his ruined throat as the names start to run together in his head, and he raises his head to look at Quentin, his mouth a twitchy line etched into a worn face that looks like it's aged about a decade in thrice as many hours.
He's still making that rusty, guttural noise when he lunges at Quentin, barreling into him hard enough to knock them both backwards into the trees, not-laughing so hard his throat burns, pummeling Quentin's face so hard the abrasions on his knuckles open back up. His thoughts are an unclear stream of unconscious babble, but his eyes — those are very clear, and twice as furious as the scream his incoherent voice slowly melts into. Behind them, Claire's toolbox clatters as it spills out on the ground. Ash hears her running towards them. She shouts at him to stop.
Lithiummercuryneonnickeloxygenplatnium—
But Ash doesn't stop. He can't stop. He couldn't stop even if he wanted to.
Okay. That's fair. A good punch probably should have been higher on Quentin's list of expectations. Go behind someone's back, even with the best intentions, get hit. Okay, he's ready for the first one, he thinks as Ash drives him back. He thinks.
Quentin is not ready. The blow (or the scream, that screaming) cracks through the calm he's gained these last few days, even if blood between his teeth tastes markedly different than blood pouring from his nose. He hits the (softer, drier) ground with a squawk, starts to cough blood out and air back in before he's interrupted by Ash's fist, again, and again, and again. The first two get him fully across the cheek before Quentin thinks to throw his hands up. Defense is his only recourse against a friend (with all four limbs and no sedatives), but taken on even ground, he's not exactly a match for Ashley Williams. Even his forearms can only hold up so long against the assault. Dropping guard for a second to try to reason only results in Ash knocking the stop, come on, what are you doing out of Quentin's mouth and into the dirt, dragging a chunk of his consciousness out with it.
Still awake, Quentin goes limp and dazed, only a few seconds before the girls catch up. Lisa skids to her knees near his head and stretches her arms over him, sounds like she's under water (above water? he's under, maybe) as she shouts, "Cut it out! What's wrong with you! Ash, stop it!"
The first shot to Quentin's jaw is like a shot of the purest adrenaline straight to Ash's veins, fuel for the motor, and oh baby, once he gets going, does that engine PURR.
He cracks Quentin in the face, striking open-handed. Another trick he learned when he was younger, back when he was a weepy, dumb, gullible crybaby who had every reason to hide his full name and take the long way home from school every time he saw the same group of guys coming his way. Ashley Joanna Williams was everyone's favorite little punching bag, because he made it so much fun and so goddamn easy. Then he wised up; got older, bigger, stronger, then nobody was laughing. Once he gets Quentin on his back and really starts going to town on him, all that experience comes back to him. It's like riding a bike; just 'cause he hasn't done it in a while doesn't mean he's forgotten.
Just as he rears back for another blow, Lisa throws herself at Quentin to shield him, and Ash... hesitates. Sure, he's enraged beyond the capacity for rational thought, but Lisa's a nurse and she's — his friend. Maybe? Hard to say. She is a girl, though, and Ash doesn't hit girls (at least ones who aren't possessed).
But then Claire seizes the opportunity to intervene and reaches out for his left arm, trying to reel him back in the gentlest but firmest way possible. Her shadow swims in the dim light and distorts into something odd and unclear that makes Ash bristle. A trick of the campfire, but an ugly one. He jerks away from her, shouting.
"BACK OFF!"
Ash raises an arm up to shield himself, giving Claire a fantastic view of the blood oozing from his knuckles. Any sympathy she had for him goes right out the window when she sees his fist, the way it curls, the unspoken warning it presents. The light from the fire flickers in her dark eyes as she watches Ash, and in Elodie's when she moves to join her. Ash doesn't miss the way she grabs one of the fallen tools — a flare wrench, his engineer brain helpfully supplies. Probably thought he wouldn't notice.
Ash whips his head around. "How long?" he rasps down at Quentin, still cradled in Lisa's protective grasp. His mouth is leaking blood like a facet, and his nose isn't much better. After the damage Ash did to his face a few days ago, it has to feel at least somewhat familiar.
"We just got out of trial, give him a minute, for god's sake!" Lisa scolds, but Quentin is already rolling up out of her lap so that when he spits, his fluids hit the ground and not her.
It doesn't hurt as much as it did then, as it did back there, but his gaze is cowed when he turns it back up to Ash. His whole head works to swallow and get a gulp of air. Lisa's hand is on his shoulder, light. Don't do this here. Do they have to do this right here? "...Since the cabin."
Weeks ago. Months ago. He'd needed the time to research and cut deals and make plans.
Oh, good. He's not trying to play dumb. That would've made this difficult. Ash's fists clench even harder — he didn't know it was possible. His nails bite into the meat of his palms, meat that stopped being sensitive a long time ago. He barely even feels them.
"Yeah. You had this all planned out," he breathes, cheeks splitting. His grin is downright merry, even if he can't keep his lips still for one goddamned SECOND. Even his teeth are shaking.
Of course it all comes back to the cabin — the goddamned, shit-sucking cabin. That was the inciting incident, Ash suspects. Figures. You save a guy from your demonically possessed sister and this is the thanks you get. Maybe Ash should have taken his time getting down to that cellar. Maybe he should have let Cheryl rip Quentin's other ear off with her teeth, and his throat for good measure, too.
It answers the most important question, but not the most burning one. The one wedged under Ash's skin. He was always too curious for his own good. His eyes narrow and his voice drops, a painful echo of the old days when he would tease Quentin, say corny shit to get him flustered.
"Were you thinkin' about it when I had your dick in my hand?"
The silence that follows is deafening. Most of it — all of it — comes from the peanut gallery. He can't see Claire or Elodie's faces, but he can feel their tension behind him, and he imagines they look at least somewhat close to how Lisa does: alarmed, confused, and so very worried.
"Were ya? Huh?"
No answer; at least not one that comes quickly enough for his liking. All the vicious mirth flows out of Ash's face like water down a drain, replaced with plain ol' viciousness. Before Claire can stop him, he kicks Quentin in the ribs, the sound his boot makes when it connects with Quentin's body swallowed up by Lisa's shriek, and by his own shouting as he struggles against Claire and Elodie's arms as they try to pull him back.
Oh, his heart turns over. He gets out Ash's name, at least, a dry sound that might as well be a cough, but he can't pull up any good explanation because...he was. Even then, even with his nose to Ash's jaw, fingers twisted in his shirt, lips split and twisting sideways and murmuring for him to shut up, you fuckin ha--ah--, there still scratched the dreaful thought--the awful ending that Quentin alone knew was coming. Had to come, if this was going to mean anything. He had to do it.
He nearly explains. Instead, a howl punches out of him when his ribs cave. The noise bleeds into the ground--he can't lift his head off the dirt just now, even to sob, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm--Ash--stop--!"
"Alright, THAT'S ENOUGH!" Claire's voice is like the final, booming crack of thunder in a storm. Warm, wry, fucking impetuous, and absolutely fearless. Big surprise she has the mouth to back it all up, too. While Elodie holds Ash back by twisting his arm behind his back, she holds him by his wrist, locking it in place. Must've been something her brother or Leon taught her. "If you don't want to see this go to a place you're not prepared to take it, you need to calm the fuck down!"
Oh, but he is prepared, and Ash has half a mind to tell Claire that to her face. The sharp throb of pain that comes shooting up his elbow makes him think twice about that, and Quentin's body gives him a final, less painful nudge in that direction. He looks so small, curled up in a sludgy mix of dirt and his own fluids. Fragile.
Ash has half a mind to kick him again, but the urge is just that; an urge, wishful thinking with no real follow up. What would be the point? It's not like it would make him feel any better. There's nothing left for him to do. The show's over. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.
"You don't know the first fucking thing about me," Ash says, staring down at Quentin. Free from tears, manic laughter, and hoarse screaming, his voice is clear and cold. His head, too. This is the most lucid he's felt since waking up. "You never did."
Lisa fumbles through the dirt on her hands and knees, gathering Quentin up in her lap. She gently smooths the hair out of his face, tucking it behind one of his ears. Maybe the same one Cheryl ripped off. Ash doesn't have the heart to ask if it is, or the energy. He just came back from the dead for Christ's sake. All he wants to do is sleep. Just go back to sleep and not wake up for a thousand years.
"Touch me again and I'll kill you."
"Ash, you don't mean—" Lisa starts, appalled. Her grip on Quentin's head tightens.
"He does," Elodie interrupts bluntly, as dreadfully final and firm as Claire was with her ultimatum. Another bolt of pain shoots up his arm and into his shoulder, but Ash ignores it. He's gotten pretty good with that.
"See if I don't," Ash agrees, his lips pulling back to give Quentin another mirthless grin; all teeth, no joy. The fun part's over, but he's not ready to let Quentin off the hook. Not by a long shot. The little twerp needs to know that he's serious. He needs to see it in Ash's eyes.
It's too much right now for Quentin to beg him to stay--to recover and make a little distance and turn this into the kind of shouting match that he thinks he might actually make progress with. He won't put Claire through the ringer of playing referee, though, nor will he reject Lisa's efforts to protect him. Even if he wanted to, lifting from her lap is a little too much to ask right now, nevermind keeping a fight going. But Ash puts the final nail in hard before Quentin can even gather himself to try.
You never did. Even through the mess, his face twists hard. "Don't--," Quentin slurs, tries again more clearly in response to that threat, "You don't--you don't understand--lemme just--"
Elodie's warning expression clears in his vision, and then he sees the animal smile Ash gives him, exactly the look of a trapped dog. There's none of the mania Quentin can recognize from Cheryl, from the mess in the Backwater basement. He huffs, shallow, and cuts his eyes sideways. Not now. Not right now, there's no reasoning now. He's waited this long for the payoff; he can wait a little longer.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@finalboy [ cw: body HORROR ]
The sigil in the dirt looks different from usual, and no mud sprite springs out when Ash crashes over it. Instead, his foot sinks into the ground. No friction, no impact, just sinking--like through a hologram. Like through an elephant trap. Like into sleep, because as soon as Ash's head passes through the ground, his senses are cut loose.
Taste and smell come back first, holding hands with wriggling fingers as they wander between his teeth and up the back of his nose: musty, damp soil and roots; smoke from wood, weed, and herbs; blood-tang high above it all, laced with fire. The sound of crackling logs comes from behind Ash's head, shuffling feet above him, a buzzing racing up his bones from his right side.
Sight beats sensation to him only by a few seconds. He'll see Quentin before he feels the work. Sweating, pale, plainly high from whatever is wrapped in the joint he pinches with his lips, Quentin leaves red marks like lipstick on the paper when he pulls it away. The smoke is getting in his eyes, making him think for a second that he saw Ash twitch. He sits up, knees folded under him next to Ash's hip, filthy hands resting on his own knees as Quentin turns his head up to the exposed floorboards above. Deep breath. He's seeing things.
Ash is seeing this, too. He's feeling more slowly. Fever pounding inside his temple, sweat dripping down the outside, onto the caked-dirt floor. It's cold dirt under his head, warm mud under his left side and right thigh, where Quentin is sitting and working. Even with his upper arm and upper thigh tourniqueted tight, he's bled plenty. Quentin had hoped to avoid too much mess. On the one hand, the best laid plans...
On the other hand, he's never been great at planning. In this example, he planned on the teleportation spell to knock Ash out long enough for him to get this done. Or maybe he planned on it going quicker. Limbs are hard to get through, even when you're a little wacked out. One leg, one arm, and the worst part (but probably the easiest? the neck has to be easy) left. He wets his lips (tastes bad, tastes like Ash's blood) and sticks the joint back in before getting back to it.
Sensation: the hacksaw rumbles Ash's femur, into his hip, up his spine. It's almost ticklish.
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But for now, Ash thinks he's dreaming about the shed behind the cabin. His mouth feels dry yet slimy, dusty like the chainsaw resting on the top shelf over the workbench, like Linda's blue lips and her glassy eyes sightlessly staring up at him. The mechanical whirr is the sound of the blade churning to life, the harsh burnt-pennies smell is smoke from the engine, and the hot spray that hits his chest and some of his mouth—
(Ash!)
Darkness around him, darkness behind him; none of that stops him from whipping his head in the direction of the voice that whisper-shouts his name, who sounds so much like Cheryl he could almost believe it's her — if he didn't know better by now, that is. What follows is an eardrum-puncturing screech that catapults him out of his memories of that night when his brain latches onto another familiar comparison: a dentist's drill, the big and nasty kind.
Ash forces his eyes open. All he does is trade one kind of dark for another that makes it too difficult to tell where he is but not impossible to catch a glimpse of jagged wooden planks jutting out from a hole in the ceiling. Speaking of dentists: Guess I'm not the only one who needs one, he thinks suddenly when, as if hitting a perfectly timed cue, the shrill sorta-not-quite drilling sound starts up again.
He tries to lift his head, but the muscles in his neck almost immediately lock up. The back of his skull hits the ground with an unpleasantly soft thud, plopping against earth that's more mud than soil by this point, but it still hurts — for about a second or two. Once the stars clear from his eyes, all he's left with is a faint ache to pair with the tickling at his leg, and the hazy, dreamy realization that he must look very dumb right now.
"Ow," Ash says very clearly, then giggles faintly.
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Disoriented though he may be, Ash recognizes the voice in a heartbeat. He opens his eyes a little wider, squinting to make out the smaller figure in the gloom. The pieces clumsily tumble into place — or try to anyway — the moment Ash breathes in the air and sees the unblinking, glazed look in Quentin’s sunken eyes that makes him look a bit like a raccoon. Yep, that sure is Quentin, and yep, he sure is stoned — but apparently, so is Ash.
He digs the back of his head into the dirt, trying to stretch out. His entire body feels numb, but his arms and legs have been hit with it the worst, throbbing with a faint but unpleasantly warm sort of tingling. With the back-to-back engineering and chemistry labs his class schedule is packed with, he’s no stranger to that pins and needles sensation that comes with letting your feet fall asleep… but this ain’t it. This feels… wrong.
The thought should be setting off alarm bells, but all Ash feels is an easygoing kind of amusement when he titters, “You sound like Chet’s grandma.” It doesn’t even occur to him that Quentin has no idea who Chet is, doesn’t even matter. That’s how easily he’s slotted himself into Ash’s life.
“Did we win?” he asks breathlessly, letting his eyes slip shut again. He lifts the hand on his right arm — the only one he can move — and it bonelessly flops back into the mud seconds later, making him scoff like it’s simultaneously the most annoying thing to happen to him today and the funniest. His words slur together. “Some victory party. You gonna share some’a that or am I gettin’ cut off?”
He’s talking about the weed, the joint he can smell somewhere below him. Below him. That’s a good one. What’s Quentin doing, using his dick as an ashtray?
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He knows his mouth tastes like weed over meth, and he knows his hands are still sticky--so his fingertips only skim Ash's jaw, and Quentin only kisses his forehead. "Close your eyes. Lemme--that was the last of it, lemme roll up again. Gimme a second, just close your eyes."
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Ash's eyelashes flutter under Quentin's lips, less out of any real desire to do as he's told and more from revulsion. He can smell the weed on Quentin's breath, a smell he generally associates with things he likes, like spending time with friends and relaxing to music after a long study session. Not this time, though. This smell is sour and sickly and secretive, and it pairs horridly with the equally rancid smell of Quentin's fingertips as they ghost along his jawline, leaving a tacky residue on his skin that sticks to his skin like a trail of slime left behind by a snail.
"What're you talking about?" Ash chuckles dimly, tossing his head back and forth in the mud like a sleeping child trying to shake off a nightmare. That's all this is, and any second, he'll wake up back at the campfire. Any second now. "I thought you said we won. How'd I get hurt?"
Little by little, his eyes begin to get used to the dark. They’re in some sort of shack where the only light is from the fireplace and the moonlight seeping in through the slats on the ceiling. There’s a fire crackling somewhere behind him. There’s a creaky metallic sound coming from the floor above them. And Quentin is holding something over his legs.
The mental image of a raccoon pops back up in Ash’s mind — Quentin looks like he’s been caught red-handed digging around in Ash’s garbage, literally. His hands are coated in red, so are his knees. Even his lips look red.
Somewhere deep inside Ash’s doped-up head, a part of his brain lights up with shock so fierce and so bright that it makes his big stupid grin falter.
"Quent? How'd I get hurt?" Ash repeats, groggy but cautiously alarmed. He lifts his head again, the muscles in his right arm tensing up as he tries to use it for leverage to push the rest of him up. His lips jittery like they’re struggling to hold up the weight of his smile, and damned if they’re not determined.
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"Ash, stop, we're almost done," He manages in a full voice at last, watching while his body pins Ash's arm by the elbow, by the opposite shoulder, fingertips catching in raw tendon and ragged cotton when Quentin gets a grip where Ash's arm should be. "You gotta trust me. I'll light you up for the rest. You gotta trust me."
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He catches a glimpse of red and raw, jagged tendon before he falls back, but a glimpse is enough. It's more than enough. He's seen enough gore and mutilated bodies to last him several lifetimes, and to be able to recognize what torn flesh looks like in the dark. The image that burns bright behind his eyelids is identical to the images his nightmares are filled with: bloody, shredded chunks of roast beef.
It would be easy for Ash to keep his eyes shut. Instead he pries them open, and wishes he hadn't.
By the time he sees Quentin sitting on his elbow, Ash's eyes have gone impossibly wide. By the time he realizes he can't feel anything oh god why can't he feel anything oh jesus god god god, he's starting to hyperventilate. By the time he sees the ragged stump that had once been his left arm, he's screaming.
Things get hazy(er) after that. Still screaming mindlessly, Ash tears his right arm out from under Quentin's body. Or, he tries to. Everything below the elbow is completely unresponsive. He pulls until he feels a faint flare of pain in his shoulder, then pulls harder as he tries to throw Quentin off with his legs (leg), thrashing and tossing and shrieking like a rabbit caught in a snare. When that doesn't work, he strikes Quentin with the only remaining body part he has control over by head-butting him in the face.
THWACK!
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Every one of his senses goes red, from the bright center of his forehead to the dark blood cascading into his mouth from the nose Ash breaks. Quentin doesn't manage the actual word part of the curse, but the noise he makes when he rears back should say plenty. Blindly (vindictively), he gropes for the hacksaw half-buried in Ash's leg and yanks.
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Still, Ash continues to scream.
He screams as every hideous memory comes unbound in his mind and assaults him with rapid-fire, pinpoint accuracy, as if to punish him for trying to repress them. Watching his new friends die by the hook every night; Linda's body laid out in the workshed; Cheryl's bone white eyes leering at him from underneath the cellar door; Scott's face sloughing off him in doughy chunks; Shelly's severed limbs twitching obscenely in the bedsheets they wrapped her in. This is what you get for trying to forget — this is what you deserve.
Ash screams as he gropes for Quentin's cheek, which he had once pressed his lips against as they held each other under the giant roots of a tree, with bloody fingers that shake as they try to find Quentin's mangled nose. He screams as he digs his thumb into the red-soaked tangle of cartilage, and he keeps screaming as something in his head — some important part of himself — finally reaches the breaking point and burns out forever with a neat little POP!
The longer Ash pushes his thumb into Quentin's nose, the easier it gets, and the longer he screams, the more it sounds like laughter.
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Quentin's foot catches the saw and kickass, carving a massive lip out of his thigh. Spitting blood, he slams his elbow into Ash's elbow and rolls into it. He sounds like meat when he hits the dirt slurry. He's just meat now, Quentin reminds himself as he scrambles for the saw handle--he's just rotten meat. The laughter makes it so much easier; he just wants it to stop. Easy, it's easy to slosh above Ash's head and wrench him down by the collar. Quentin sits on his arm, elbow to shoulder pinched between his legs. His right hand knocks Ash's jaw up and holds it.
"Gotchu, motherfucker." Gagged, gasped as he fits the ragged teeth of the saw under the Adam's apple. It's not Ash. It's meat. It's a demon. It's a fucking demon. Still, he hesitates a split second: "...Ash. I'm--"
Demon. Rotten meat. Look at him--he's barely even human-shaped anymore. Ash can't hear him. Quentin swallows hard (it's hard, it's syrupy down the back of his throat) and pushes. The skin, the esophagus, the veins go easy. He expects resistance from the spine, but the hacksaw knows what it's doing too: it finds a soft slit of cartilage and shears through. Like it was meant to be. Like it's right.
Once the gurgling stops, it's him and his own body. His own wheezing and moaning, his own stomach boiling. It wants to come up, but he's got to finish first. The head stays connected by a stretch of skin as Quentin finishes the leg. Does the arm. The saw is so loud on the bone, but nothing compared to Ash's screaming. His laughing. Its laughing. He breathes long and deep through his mouth as he finally (covering the leering face, don't look, please) tears the last skin flap free with his fingers. The last rip is more of a feeling than a sound and after that, it's dead, unholy quiet.
For seconds. For an hour. He isn't sure how long it is before he starts throwing up, but he feels much better after.
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Then the light finally goes out, and so does Ash.
For a little while. But not long enough.
Ash opens his eyes. Of course he shouldn't be able to, but he'd long moved past the point where such things were surprising. People don't tend to get up and walk after getting skewered on meat hooks, just like he shouldn't be alive after getting his goddamn head sawn off, but they do here, and he is. It's just the way things work in the Entity's funhouse. What does surprise him is where he wakes up.
Gathering up his strength, he pushes himself off the floor with stiff arms and looks up, straight into the dirty glass eyes of a trophy buck — the one mounted on the wall in the cabin's living room. The deer's head looks the same way it did the last time Ash saw it, as does the rest of the room; dusty, grimy, streaked with old dirt and cobwebs and years and years of neglect. Somehow he'd had the dim hope that he was back in the real world, in the real cabin, ready to pick up where he left off before the Entity had taken him.
But no. The sky outside the windows is dark, and the front door is shut, and the gun is still nowhere to be found. He should have guessed by now, he would never be that lucky.
He lets his hands unfurl at his sides and fog cloud his vision as he stares at the top of his knees, unfocused and blurry. Crying never helped him before; it didn't help Linda when the demon got inside of her, it didn't help Ash when he had to take her head off anyway, and it didn't help him when Quentin did the same thing to him. For once, his dad had been right — crying didn't do shit.
Ash doesn't care. In that moment, alone in that dark place, he curls his hands into fists and lets his despair wash over him like a wave.
He loses track of how long he stays there, beating the ground and screaming. The cellar door is securely bolted down and chained shut; if the thing down below hears him, it doesn't make a sound. By the time he drags himself to his feet and makes it outside, his knuckles are bloody and mottled with angry, purple bruises, and his throat is still shivering. The woods are still and calm, and the trees don't stop him from leaving. Good. He'd rip their branches off if they tried.
Ash keeps walking without a set path in mind. It doesn't matter where he goes — all roads eventually lead back to the campfire, or to another lost soul stuck roaming the Entity's realm. Sure enough, he finds both in no time at all.
He pushes through the trees and into a small grove with a tiny but fiercely burning fire, situated in the middle of a circle of stones. Ash takes the middle one and sits, spreading his dirty palms out; in the dark, the blood looks like mud, or chocolate syrup. It's fascinating in the same way the frogs he used to dissect in biology class were — gross, but fascinating — and he's still studying them when he hears several pairs of feet trampling through the underbrush behind him, followed by clear, sweet laughter.
It's been a long time since he's heard Claire Redfield's voice, but it's just as warm and wry and fucking impetuous as Ash remembers from the day they met. She greets him with a "Hey, Ash," as she saunters over to the campfire, her toolbox clanking as it swings in her hand, as Elodie and the nurse in the red cardigan (Lisa, he thinks?) follow close behind. Lisa echoes the sentiment with a smile. Neither of them seem to notice his hands, or the blank look in his eyes, or the way he tenses up on instinct when the trees part for another survivor muscling their way into the clearing.
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Yesterday, a harrying bout with Dr. Carter ironically cleared his mind, scrubbing one nest of laughter and static out for another. Today, he's on top of his game, feeling fresh and awake and even excited when he grabs Lisa's hand to yank her out of the Demogorgon's snapping range just in time to hear the gates crunch open. Four days, and he's nearly forgotten what happened (what he did).
The lazy grin on Quentin's face goes slack when he hears Claire greeting the hunched survivor that waits for them at the fire. He steps cut short just outside of the ring of light, eyes wide to take inventory of the slope of his shoulders, the clean line of his spine that runs up his neck, his hands open and steady and--injured again, of course he already managed to fuck them up. "Ash." Quentin smiles fresh, not lazy in the least, possibly even too bright. The joy of it wells up behind his eyes. He reaches for Ash's shoulder as he jogs those last few steps. "Lemme, see, what did you do now?"
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Elodie breezes right past Ash without even looking at him. Truthfully, he doesn't even notice. While she chats with Claire over the fire, he focuses on his recitation, going through the entire periodic table, telling himself that he's safe, it's over, he's safe, everything is fine.
Arsenic, boron, calcium, dysprosium—
Over and over and over again. Even when he hears a familiar voice over his shoulder, he doesn't stop reciting; instead, he speeds up. The pace of his thoughts begins to match the pace in his chest, frantic and jerky, but Ash doesn't let up. It's not even an option.
His spine goes as rigid as a steel bar, and every muscle in his body locks up when he smells the cigarette smoke on Quentin's hoodie and sees the shadow of his hand moving towards him, almost in slow motion.
Gold helium iron krypton—
Krypton — that was always a fun one. Still is, if he's going to be honest. His shoulders quiver unsteadily. His whole body feels agonizingly sore, but his neck — God, his neck. It feels like it's been scrubbed raw with sandpaper, right down to the bone. The laugh catches in his ruined throat as the names start to run together in his head, and he raises his head to look at Quentin, his mouth a twitchy line etched into a worn face that looks like it's aged about a decade in thrice as many hours.
He's still making that rusty, guttural noise when he lunges at Quentin, barreling into him hard enough to knock them both backwards into the trees, not-laughing so hard his throat burns, pummeling Quentin's face so hard the abrasions on his knuckles open back up. His thoughts are an unclear stream of unconscious babble, but his eyes — those are very clear, and twice as furious as the scream his incoherent voice slowly melts into. Behind them, Claire's toolbox clatters as it spills out on the ground. Ash hears her running towards them. She shouts at him to stop.
Lithiummercuryneonnickeloxygenplatnium—
But Ash doesn't stop. He can't stop. He couldn't stop even if he wanted to.
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Quentin is not ready. The blow (or the scream, that screaming) cracks through the calm he's gained these last few days, even if blood between his teeth tastes markedly different than blood pouring from his nose. He hits the (softer, drier) ground with a squawk, starts to cough blood out and air back in before he's interrupted by Ash's fist, again, and again, and again. The first two get him fully across the cheek before Quentin thinks to throw his hands up. Defense is his only recourse against a friend (with all four limbs and no sedatives), but taken on even ground, he's not exactly a match for Ashley Williams. Even his forearms can only hold up so long against the assault. Dropping guard for a second to try to reason only results in Ash knocking the stop, come on, what are you doing out of Quentin's mouth and into the dirt, dragging a chunk of his consciousness out with it.
Still awake, Quentin goes limp and dazed, only a few seconds before the girls catch up. Lisa skids to her knees near his head and stretches her arms over him, sounds like she's under water (above water? he's under, maybe) as she shouts, "Cut it out! What's wrong with you! Ash, stop it!"
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He cracks Quentin in the face, striking open-handed. Another trick he learned when he was younger, back when he was a weepy, dumb, gullible crybaby who had every reason to hide his full name and take the long way home from school every time he saw the same group of guys coming his way. Ashley Joanna Williams was everyone's favorite little punching bag, because he made it so much fun and so goddamn easy. Then he wised up; got older, bigger, stronger, then nobody was laughing. Once he gets Quentin on his back and really starts going to town on him, all that experience comes back to him. It's like riding a bike; just 'cause he hasn't done it in a while doesn't mean he's forgotten.
Just as he rears back for another blow, Lisa throws herself at Quentin to shield him, and Ash... hesitates. Sure, he's enraged beyond the capacity for rational thought, but Lisa's a nurse and she's — his friend. Maybe? Hard to say. She is a girl, though, and Ash doesn't hit girls (at least ones who aren't possessed).
But then Claire seizes the opportunity to intervene and reaches out for his left arm, trying to reel him back in the gentlest but firmest way possible. Her shadow swims in the dim light and distorts into something odd and unclear that makes Ash bristle. A trick of the campfire, but an ugly one. He jerks away from her, shouting.
"BACK OFF!"
Ash raises an arm up to shield himself, giving Claire a fantastic view of the blood oozing from his knuckles. Any sympathy she had for him goes right out the window when she sees his fist, the way it curls, the unspoken warning it presents. The light from the fire flickers in her dark eyes as she watches Ash, and in Elodie's when she moves to join her. Ash doesn't miss the way she grabs one of the fallen tools — a flare wrench, his engineer brain helpfully supplies. Probably thought he wouldn't notice.
Ash whips his head around. "How long?" he rasps down at Quentin, still cradled in Lisa's protective grasp. His mouth is leaking blood like a facet, and his nose isn't much better. After the damage Ash did to his face a few days ago, it has to feel at least somewhat familiar.
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It doesn't hurt as much as it did then, as it did back there, but his gaze is cowed when he turns it back up to Ash. His whole head works to swallow and get a gulp of air. Lisa's hand is on his shoulder, light. Don't do this here. Do they have to do this right here? "...Since the cabin."
Weeks ago. Months ago. He'd needed the time to research and cut deals and make plans.
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"Yeah. You had this all planned out," he breathes, cheeks splitting. His grin is downright merry, even if he can't keep his lips still for one goddamned SECOND. Even his teeth are shaking.
Of course it all comes back to the cabin — the goddamned, shit-sucking cabin. That was the inciting incident, Ash suspects. Figures. You save a guy from your demonically possessed sister and this is the thanks you get. Maybe Ash should have taken his time getting down to that cellar. Maybe he should have let Cheryl rip Quentin's other ear off with her teeth, and his throat for good measure, too.
It answers the most important question, but not the most burning one. The one wedged under Ash's skin. He was always too curious for his own good. His eyes narrow and his voice drops, a painful echo of the old days when he would tease Quentin, say corny shit to get him flustered.
"Were you thinkin' about it when I had your dick in my hand?"
The silence that follows is deafening. Most of it — all of it — comes from the peanut gallery. He can't see Claire or Elodie's faces, but he can feel their tension behind him, and he imagines they look at least somewhat close to how Lisa does: alarmed, confused, and so very worried.
"Were ya? Huh?"
No answer; at least not one that comes quickly enough for his liking. All the vicious mirth flows out of Ash's face like water down a drain, replaced with plain ol' viciousness. Before Claire can stop him, he kicks Quentin in the ribs, the sound his boot makes when it connects with Quentin's body swallowed up by Lisa's shriek, and by his own shouting as he struggles against Claire and Elodie's arms as they try to pull him back.
"ANSWER ME, YOU TWISTED LITTLE SHIT!"
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He nearly explains. Instead, a howl punches out of him when his ribs cave. The noise bleeds into the ground--he can't lift his head off the dirt just now, even to sob, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm--Ash--stop--!"
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Oh, but he is prepared, and Ash has half a mind to tell Claire that to her face. The sharp throb of pain that comes shooting up his elbow makes him think twice about that, and Quentin's body gives him a final, less painful nudge in that direction. He looks so small, curled up in a sludgy mix of dirt and his own fluids. Fragile.
Ash has half a mind to kick him again, but the urge is just that; an urge, wishful thinking with no real follow up. What would be the point? It's not like it would make him feel any better. There's nothing left for him to do. The show's over. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.
"You don't know the first fucking thing about me," Ash says, staring down at Quentin. Free from tears, manic laughter, and hoarse screaming, his voice is clear and cold. His head, too. This is the most lucid he's felt since waking up. "You never did."
Lisa fumbles through the dirt on her hands and knees, gathering Quentin up in her lap. She gently smooths the hair out of his face, tucking it behind one of his ears. Maybe the same one Cheryl ripped off. Ash doesn't have the heart to ask if it is, or the energy. He just came back from the dead for Christ's sake. All he wants to do is sleep. Just go back to sleep and not wake up for a thousand years.
"Touch me again and I'll kill you."
"Ash, you don't mean—" Lisa starts, appalled. Her grip on Quentin's head tightens.
"He does," Elodie interrupts bluntly, as dreadfully final and firm as Claire was with her ultimatum. Another bolt of pain shoots up his arm and into his shoulder, but Ash ignores it. He's gotten pretty good with that.
"See if I don't," Ash agrees, his lips pulling back to give Quentin another mirthless grin; all teeth, no joy. The fun part's over, but he's not ready to let Quentin off the hook. Not by a long shot. The little twerp needs to know that he's serious. He needs to see it in Ash's eyes.
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You never did. Even through the mess, his face twists hard. "Don't--," Quentin slurs, tries again more clearly in response to that threat, "You don't--you don't understand--lemme just--"
Elodie's warning expression clears in his vision, and then he sees the animal smile Ash gives him, exactly the look of a trapped dog. There's none of the mania Quentin can recognize from Cheryl, from the mess in the Backwater basement. He huffs, shallow, and cuts his eyes sideways. Not now. Not right now, there's no reasoning now. He's waited this long for the payoff; he can wait a little longer.