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.Â
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--!"Â
"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.
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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.
no subject
"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--!"Â
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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.