Work Text:
Chase closed his eyes for a moment, giving them a break from the buzzing fluorescent lights of the Interpol office. He finally had time to relax - at least, until he heard the thud of a new stack of papers hit the desk. He opened his eyes and sighed. It seemed like the boring paperwork never ended. He grabbed a piece of paper and went to pick up a pen.
He froze, staring at the pen for a few seconds before taking it in his hand. It looked similar to the ACME pen Chief had given him. He quickly glanced around the office before clicking it once. Nothing happened. Cautiously, he held it closer to his face.
“Hello? Hello, hello?” he asked, wondering if an ACME agent would answer. Suddenly a shadow crossed his desk - it was his supervisor, bringing him more papers and staring down at him in confusion. Chase felt his cheeks turn hot and quickly tried to explain himself.
“I...thought it was my other pen.” He forced a laugh, but it turned into a groan.
His supervisor raised an eyebrow. “Whatever you say, Devineux.” He shook his head and moved on to the next desk, leaving Chase to stew in his embarrassment.
“Idiot,” Chase muttered quietly to himself. “Of course it is not an ACME pen.” He got back to work, checking over the documents one by one. He could hear the clock ticking away on the wall, counting down every second he was stuck in this place. Every minute was time he could have spent doing something. Every case file was a case he could have worked on.
What if you were wrong?
Chase grumbled, stamping another page.
Try again.
He glanced over at the pen. He’d already tried it, and it didn’t work. He’d even embarrassed himself in doing so.
Try again.
It was just a regular pen.
Try again.
He sighed and grabbed the pen, clicking it again. He glanced around, making sure no one was watching him this time before holding it up to his ear. If it was a communicator, he would hear static, right? But there was nothing.
He sighed and placed it back down. “See?” He muttered. “Just a normal pen. For writing.”
He started going through the documents again, stamping each of them. A bead of sweat formed on his brow. The pen...it was laying there, teasing him. He shook his head, trying to ignore it. He started stamping the papers harder, feeling himself getting frustrated.
Try again.
He grabbed the pen and put it in the drawer, slamming it shut. A few of the other workers glanced his way at the sudden noise, but he did his best to ignore it.
* * *
Chase fumbled for his keys while holding a bag of groceries. After a bit of a struggle, he managed to get into his apartment and set the bag down on the counter. It was mostly full of yarn, as his supply was getting low. He started to walk away - Wait, did he lock the door?
He turned and glanced at the door, walking back over and grabbing the handle. Locked. He turned back around again.
What if it’s unlocked?
He shook his head, putting the few food items he bought away. “I just checked it,” he told himself out loud. “It was locked.”
What if you were wrong?
He frowned and stopped what he was doing. What if he was wrong? He tried to shake the thoughts away. “The door was clearly locked,” he said aloud again, his voice getting gruff in annoyance. He knew it was locked, and he didn’t want to start double checking things again.
What if it’s unlocked?
Suddenly the image of Carmen Sandiego walking into his apartment flashed across his brain. She just waltzed right in while he was sleeping.
What if it’s unlocked?
She approached his bed, reaching into her coat to pull something out…
What if it’s-
He growled and grabbed his keys, heading back to the door. He unlocked it and then relocked it again. Wait, no, that didn’t feel right. What if he missed it? That didn’t make sense though. He unlocked it. He relocked it. He didn’t notice how much faster he was breathing now. He unlocked it and opened the door. He slammed it shut and locked it hard, making sure to listen to the click. Unlock. Relock. Unlock. Relock.
“Merde!” he shouted, suddenly tossing the keys down onto the table hard enough to scratch the wood. That was enough. It was locked.
* * *
Food. That’s right, he needed to eat. How long had he been standing in front of this cork board, staring at the map, trying to find the pattern? He sighed and set down the roll of yarn he had been twisting around his fingers. He hadn’t even noticed how hungry he was until now.
He went to his kitchen and pulled out a bowl and cutting board. A salad would do. He took out some vegetables from the refrigerator and took out a knife.
You can’t stop.
He started chopping, trying hard to focus on the task at hand and not on the cork boards in the other room.
She’s out there. She’ll find you.
“You are fine,” He told himself aloud, hoping the sound of his own voice would overpower the intrusive thoughts. “You need to eat, that is all.”
It seemed to help for a moment. He filled the bowl with greens and scraped some of the chopped vegetables off of the cutting board. Thinking some bread and cheese would be nice with the salad, he pulled out the baguette he had bought and started cutting that too.
If you don’t find her…
He could hear the knife scraping across the board.
You’re worthless.
He slowed to a stop.
You’re a failure.
He could feel the presence of the other room, the web of red yarn pinned across every surface. He swallowed hard. It was fine. He just needed to eat.
She’s out there.
The red yarn stared at him.
She’ll find you.
The red yarn had a life of its own.
What if it’s unlocked?
The red yarn snaked its way around him, pulling him back into that dark room.
Worthless.
Constricting.
You can’t stop.
Please stop.
You can’t stop.
Please.
You can’t stop.
You can’t stop.
You can’t stop.
A sudden sharp pain made him gasp for air. How long had he been holding his breath? He looked down. One hand was still holding the knife, the other had a deep cut in the side of his thumb. He hissed and put the knife down, turning on the sink to clean the wound. His hands were shaking. His chest felt tight.
The red yarn had a life of its own.