WHO: Much and Tuck WHEN: After Will’s post WHERE: The Parsonage WHAT/WARNINGS: Flashbacks to being killed, and a lot of swearing
“Fuck.”
It was all Much could say. It was all Much could think. He was in the kitchen and bolognese was boiling and he’d turned it up too high to get it started before he’d read Will’s post. Fuck. A bubble of sauce burst in the pot and threw a red-brown splatter of sauce over the white oven and all Much could see was blood.
Fuck.
It wasn’t true, that all he could see was blood. He could see the Sheriff’s grin, backlit through he’d been by his own headlights, as he dug the tip of his knife into the lowest joint of Much’s finger, and the way the blade slowly (the Sheriff made sure it was slowly, made sure he always had control) pushed through the bone and the gristle.
Sheriff hadn’t been lying to Will, when he’d gloated about how Much had screamed. He had. His voice echoed off the side of the hill and was swallowed up, apathetically, by the forest.
And Much could see the Sheriff pulling his arm back, pulling the spanner back, and beating down on him, over and over.
Fuck.
He’d lost all the air from his lungs and was fighting to get it back. Both of Much’s fists were clutched tight, the fleshy bit of his palm digging into the corner of the bench. His arms so straight and muscles so tight they’d shake if he stopped leaning so hard on his hands.
Will had said I’m not the worst and Much had said not dead, you mean? And in the sick part of his imagination the Sheriff laughed and said not like you.
He wanted to call out the Sheriff and take the fight to him. The way Much was feeling right now, the Sheriff didn’t stand a chance. No one stood a chance. He was so furious, sick with it. Will needed vengeance. Much needed vengeance. This had to end. This had to end. This had to end.
They didn’t intend to kill me Will said, and it only made Much want to scream because they could have done it. If they’d intended to murder Will, Will would be murdered. One day soon, someone else was going to be murdered.
Fuck.
And the next moment all he could see was the Sheriff again, and his knife, and for a moment the only thing in the whole world that felt real was the breath of air he pulled in through his nose, that somehow managed to reach his lungs. He had to channel this energy somewhere else...
He wanted to take his fist and bury it in the wall – no – he wanted to run, faster and harder than he’d ever run before – no – he wanted Leila, wanted to push her against a wall and kiss her till he couldn’t breathe – he couldn’t breathe anyway – but it would matter less if her hands were clutched in his hair.
“Fuck,” he said, out loud, breathlessly, and hit himself in the face to snap himself out of this. It helped, a little. Bought him back into his body. Next breath helped a bit too.
And then the floorboard creaked behind him. Moving faster than thought, Much spun around, grabbed the intruder with both fists, and shoved him back into the doorframe, hard. The bolognese splattered again, aggressively, across the stove.