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Even in the dream, his head aches. Which is annoying. Plus odd, right – specially alongside this, hrm, pseudo-clarity.
Or, shit, maybe it’s entirely normal. Maybe in sleep he’s always this hyper-aware, and come re-entry to reality that’s just…conceded away? What in fuck kinda authority can he possibly be on the nightly journey or routines or any-damn-thing, given he’s blatantly unconscious – every semblance of sense sent shade-struck.
Cos that jolt a moment back? Textbook false awakening. Despite its dingier lighting – mostly courtesy of cartoonish plump moon (aided, histrionically, by forking flashes through the thunder) dancing in between far-fluttering curtains – Rio recognised this scene immediate. From the outline to the bathroom door; that shape caused by the light fixture cast across the ceiling. All shit he’s scoped too often, awake and otherwise, in exquisite agonising detail.
The marshmallow-y mattress undergirding his form strikes at a tedious familiarity, so too that pipe-tick rhythm brushing close to cochlea, beneath the drum of the downpour. But it’s these tormenting visuals etched in his crux – the shapes outlining Elizabeth as she floated above in that blistering sunshine which turned her hair to golden drapery, mostly hid her clammed face and those ink-blown pupils till he–
Mm, he’d rather twist off that caper.
It’s no matter what he, they, whoever did that day. Point is: Rio’s got no business waking here. Ain’t like he ever has, not once in their sidereal of better terms, and now is certainly not th– Besides! He hasn’t even seen her, not since – well, the last time he saw her.
Seriously, didn't his subconscious manage to be barrels more inventive, back in the bygone? This shit is – it’s pat. Dolefully predictable. The greyscale theme, for one. That’s been of common rotation since the morphine. Like his brain’s not connecting at full power; just another thing added to the tally of shit she’s robbed.
At those souring thoughts, he turns slightly from the staple supine stance, deducing well enough what to expect. Yeah, there she is. Though Elizabeth’s mostly under snuggly cover too, this view’s more than enough for identification. Neither the hair nor her resolute contours provide the ultimate tip, more it’s cinched by the pulse-pestering particulars of these perennial plaguings.
And wow, okay, it’s not exactly the subtlest symbolism – her back to him. Gee thanks brain, Rio internally tuts, real illuminating.
Spying the hind of a dark shirt he can’t recall ever seeing on her, he wonders if that’s some spirited signalling of innate kleptomania. Ugh, the over-kill of that honey-sweet smell pervades, recollections nudge on in, threaten to destroy the barrier between memory and torpor.
Rio tilts himself up properly to his side, knees ungraciously protesting, as he tries to stretch a cramped calf. The rain pelts down harder, and he shivers at the ice on his imaginary air finding its way internal, permeating practically down to plasma. Instinctually, he burrows into the bed and. They’re too close, too mutually blanketed – him almost central, versus her having claimed (of course) the good spot.
So that’s what this is supposed to be then, ghost of Christmas averted?
If she starts making ooh-wooh noises he’s insta-waking somehow, for real. There exists a limit to what a person can let wash over themself.
His head pounds and pounds, left eye spasming to its meter.
Elizabeth’s not pregnant, and he should be glad. Maybe is. Cos, Christ, who’d want to bring a child to their fucking tangle.
Sure, it was a contenting thought for a whole second. That of abandoning to divinest intervention. Giving over to the stupid, supple myth that a baby could fix – ha, anything. Would be capable of calming the flapping, ruined tatters of. Of...an indefinable mess.
But she isn’t, and Rio could be relieved for it. If he could believe she ever actually was. Indisputably, he’s lacking even a single reason to trust her but he can’t exactly say how she might’ve swayed the doc, s–
No that’s a lie, it’s a lie. And what’s the point of maintaining one into unconsciousness. He recognises well enough how she’d’ve got that done, and he keeps pussying out on asking Rhea point blank, and each time he does the tension tautens at his temples and–
And whatever.
Yeah, Elizabeth’s – breathing. She’s not having his baby, wouldn’t wanna, and he doesn’t want hers, so that’s perfect. She’s alive for the money, for the c– The. God, never mind any of that.
This blotchy nullity’s making his head swim, upends everything too dizzily. Fuck. Can’t he just get some decent rest. Must her endless cyclone of shit take even that from him. Rio needs to flush her out his system, the message could hardly be served with greater clarity. Only…
Only – here’s where his mind’s gone and delivered him.
He sort of…leans into her. Not cuddling, hell no, just – she’s physically warm and soft, and that’s soothing how it stays in unreality.
Dream-Elizabeth groans. It’s distinctly more despondent than amorous.
“You’re on my side,” croaks out, as she nudges him backward with a sturdy shoulder shimmy.
Which is…new.
Rio’s not sure what that’s supposed to ‘mean’ or whatever, if she’s bullshitting about the mattress or, like, life. It’s probably too much to hope the dream’ll shift elsewhere, to boats or vegetables or genealogy or any-fucking-place off of this.
So he just says, “Yeah,” sorta encouraging, before wrangling one hand onto her hip under the covers, stroking up, up, up, down, down, down her, ah, side.
She shove-shuffles away from his touch.
“Dean, you’re right. I don’t want a baby.” Her voice strains, sleep-scoured. It’s almost whingey. Not pleading, but – attempting pleasing, plausibly.
That part’s hard to focus on however, cos – what. Seriously. No, seriously: the nightmare of playing unhappy families ain’t bad enough, he’s gotta be accused of resembling her idiot husband now too? There’s haunting, and then there’s just indignity.
“Go back to sleep.” Elizabeth’s husking interrupts his outraged sub-blanket gesturing. She whispers, almost quieter than catchable, “I’m so tired.”
Those words remind him of a different time, though the tone hardly matches. It’s not plaintive, hints rather of bargain. Doesn’t suggest a person cut open, or if so only cos she’s filled a hollow with something saccharine and syrupy to bleed for this type purpose.
Rio nods a stiff line, though it doesn’t make sense cos she can’t see him and this isn’t real and if it was he wouldn’t like her.
He pulls back, topples himself spine-down once more; Elizabeth’s somnolent sigh sours through their gap. And then Rio – fixates. Cos one of his hands has pulled forth from shelter and it is ghoulishly, greyishly pale and floppy, and, he’s realising only now, implausibly clammy.
“What the fuck.”
Elizabeth groans again, strongly suggesting all human speech is pure evil far as she’s concerned.
And he just – he scrambles out from the bed fast as possible, beelining for the en suite. He does not miss her placated mmph, nor the sounds of her resettling contented behind him. Rio’s centre of gravity feels way off, wobbly and weird, while walking. Why couldn’t this at least be one of those dreams with convenient 360-vision, he laments. Surely suffering of such magnitude’s gotta be balanced with a decent perk or three?
He shuts the bathroom door after him, senseless habit, before finding the mirror and – gawping. Everything’s fuzzed and fake still, one eye especially seems to burn as it focuses, but he shuffles up close to the reflection and. Huh. It makes a twisted sense, he supposes. Cos, okay, he’s ‘Dean’ tonight. But wow, Rio was in no form aware he’d committed the guy’s appearance to memory in such detail; it’s almost terrifyingly photorealistic. Every hair – salty and otherwise, each pore. Those pale eyes (like someone’s washed the saturation out Elizabeth’s), reminding of a deluge-threatening sky. The awkward settling of each new notch of horror upon the expressions. How the gums pull high round crammed canines.
Rio stares and stares and stares and stares – teeth flashing as rictus moves to frown to pout to something more neutrally despairing. Till what he’s goggling at stops resembling human features, or parts of any whole. Till it’s just abstract shapes. Till his bones hurt and nerves freeze. Till he’s somehow drowsy within the dream, which doesn’t make– But what has made sense, for the last – oh, aeon and a half.
He turns finally, quits rubbing at the single scar, righting the collar of the t-shirt which unnecessarily bears its location to properly close this admittedly comfy robe. Each move feels like so much effort – limbs weighty and feet barely shuffling, as if they’re virtually stuck in tar. And at least that aspect is familiarly, appropriately, surreal.
This – the Dean of it all – is a clear mental warning. And he should, will, be appreciative. Leaning soft with Elizabeth (which he’s not, but vigilance must remain) would be a grave mistake, indeed literally.
He gets lost for a moment – thinking about stupid swaddlings, about the idiocy of letting her buy back her life – before being drawn back to the bed, and her subduing snores. Yep, he needs to harden up, or this is his grisly future… Scarier than death.
Rio climbs back in – gently, quietly. This is goodbye, kinda. One last daydream, as it were. He’s careful not to touch, but curling kinda around her, warmth gets finally felt again. And that’s comforting, or at least it is as much as it’s not.
Pulsing dream-eyes shut, it’s easy to fall deeper and deeper into the grey, into the nothing. And this feels stock, yeah. Maybe it, the empty he’s hurtling for, is the good REM stuff. What Rio’s just left behind is that half-awake weirdness, deleted come waking. He’s– he’s n– he’s –
*
When he surfaces back up, the same room is soaked in mid-morning bright and Elizabeth’s glaring above him.
Still not roused then. It seems less smoky and soporific with the intrusive daylight; things no longer resemble rotoscoping over reality.
“You’re still asleep?” she snips unimpressed, unbelieving, from her bedside position.
“Not now.” He’s proud on the velocity of the reply – though not at how well he’s clearly retained her husband’s nasal vocalisations, jesus.
“I’ve done drop off already.” Arms crossing over chest, fists finding homes near the opposing beige armpits of this buttoned-up coat he cannot recognise, she adds, “You’re not ready for work?”
At her tutting, Rio merely stares. It’s so mundane. He almost misses the other sort of sleeps, at least he’d spring from them speedy (sweat-soaked and stricken, yes, but still). This presents as an endless goddamn loop, like one of those video games that has no point, just goes on for infinite level upon infinite level. There’s nothing to fight, to stop, to do. If neither he or Elizabeth is the final boss, then shit…
What if the worst has happened, maybe she got the drop on him again, improved her aim, and he’s bleeding out unconscious somewhere, with this as his final six to twelve. The notion rankles viscerally, in fact acrid: an overbearing smack of vomit-scent assaults his psyche.
He grumbles, trying to roll his distorted face back into the sagging pillow.
“Are you sick?” She sounds less cross, almost maternal. It’s far from solacing, being spoken at equal to a child sends his hackles upward as if steel under magnets.
He looks for her to nod, given it’s as good a guess as any, eyes feeling baleful and wooden.
Elizabeth’s hand comes out, her knuckles aiming for his forehead’s region.
Rio recoils, on instinct.
She frowns. Nothing else happens as they blink at each other.
His brain scrambles. Is there some kind of…cheat code? If he says or does the right thing to this Elizabeth automaton can he – leave? He wants to wake up, he wants to go home, he wants to make her Mick’s forever problem, be done with this all. He’s exhausted, which again lacks basic sense. Dream time isn’t equivalent to the real stuff, anyone knows that. But he can’t shake the very solid sensation this shit has gone on too long; that anticipation which surrounds sunsets thrums over him.
“Might be contagious,” he croaks, fairly convincingly.
Her eyes widen as if she’s never heard of germs before. Swallowing a snort, he notes she seems sorta – touched. It evokes the, eminently bothersome, suggestion it’s cos maybe no one’s ever been considerate of her interactions with them.
Poking at his subconscious is the distressing chorus: nobody suggested purgatory’d be this dire.
“Do you want some tea?” That placid-placating noface is back.
He squints at her. And actually, left eye closed, she’s a little clearer. So maybe that’s a clue!
“Does he–” Rio breaks off to amend, enunciating over-formal, “Do I wear glasses?”
She flusters in confusion. “Dean your – your contacts are right there.” Her finger indicates a case on the nearest night stand.
“Ah.” It could almost sound sage.
She continues to observe, with a panicky kind of disbelief, as he drops the container twice before finally grasping it, and sticks to his heels when he enters the bathroom to watch him fumble the thing open. He hasn’t done this in forever, trying to fit the stupid gimmicks to place demands abstruse manoeuvres.
Her insistent twittering surely doesn’t help. “Are you okay?”
The words startle, but at least he’s not attached to these eyeballs’ long-term health. Rio merely grunts. In the mirror, he becomes distracted by her winces over his continued fluffings.
“Did something happen last night…?”
He forms a lacklustre shrug, attempting to concentrate on the second lens now. Rio can’t quite – remember. Well obviously he can’t for Dean. But it’s striking that he can’t reach that history for himself. Or maybe it shouldn’t sense as significant in a dream… Everything else though seems to be locked in tight – full name, date of birth, yesterday’s lunch, so–
“The back door was open…” she says slowly. “Maybe, um. Maybe we should get you checked out?”
Some aspect to her tone suggests: bait. But it isn’t that which gets Rio pulling a face. He really hopes the way through this ain’t some fantastical medical quest, has had more than enough of doctors.
Elizabeth laughs, a bite bitter, and when he spins to face her after triumphantly completing his task, she’s staring at the shower like it’s leagues off. But she clicks outta that soon, and as her frame firms that gaze zeroes in on his robed chest.
Her voice is back to that quasi-consoling tone, although a despairing under-thread does present, when she says, “I know we can’t afford – anything. Right now. But… I’ll make it work.”
Elizabeth’s chin tips up, shoulders squaring while her expression hardens. It’s imperious. Almost impressive, and could he be moved to buy into her crap he might care.
If anything, he’s just taken by being able to see her clear. Now his vision ain’t all splotched, she appears a lot more real. Worry starts to prickle when he looks around further. The trance-y quality is fading fast – except for him, the only surreal item left.
“Elizabeth,” he begins.
She ruffles. Something ferrous sharpens her face while, “Don’t call me that,” snaps out.
And he – he feels like snapping too. Fuck, why is he being polite, playing along? It’s like the muscle memory of this illusory body is leading him round by an invisible leash.
“It’s me!”
The expression his yell gets him is one he’s seen earned from strangers by a melting down toddler.
“Me!” he insists, fingers splaying back to himself.
Nearing, he mimes sticking a gun under her chin with one hand, thumb and forefinger of the other rubbing together directly in her sights.
“Dean, this isn’t funny,” Elizabeth whisper-warns. And yeah, she is right, if remaining wrong over who she’s talking to.
“What, you want proof?”
She gapes, backing up one step.
Pinky first, he starts counting off. “You met Marcus, and I know you met Rhea–”
She flings her furious face forth. Like it’s unacceptable for him – for Dean – to meddle with this knowledge, which is, all things considered, hilarious.
“Interrogating our six year old does not make you a–”
But Rio raises his voice over her to continue. “What else? Oh yeah, you shot me. Three times.”
She pales, somehow. Silently gasped, her face drags. “Who told you that?” hisses out.
“I was there.”
As he presses forward slow she traipses out from the bathroom ahead of him, forming some gruesome approximation of a waltz. “Have the FBI, again…?”
Head tossing horizontally, he points to the bed. “Fucked me right there, and it wasn’t the first time, then you–”
“Stop this,” she demands, confusion flickering. “I don’t know where you got this from but–”
He chides out an, “Elizabeth,” before stalling, upon catching the reflection. If anything, he always thought she had too few mirrors about. That impression has – left.
“Stop.”
Her snarl sings out to something inside him even as he’s trying to erase it, her, himself. His attention returns off the glass, eyes skipping over and over the bright primary colours of her face – the blue, the blonde, the blush. It’s almost like something mocked up by a drunk toy manufacturer, and… She looks real. Too real. Too usual. Too baffled. Too miffed. Too.
Shit – what if… What if this isn’t delusionary, somehow? He pinches at the back of approximately his hand and it hurts, jagged nails catching.
Elizabeth’s fingers come up to rub at her temple, both sides at once, as she gawks.
“It’s me,” he says again, defiant. Rio inhales deep to do his breathy impression of her voice justice, “Christopher.” The larynx is all wrong, whole vessel rotten, for it.
Her jaw works like she’s going at toffee, but nothing is said.
He reaches out to a lamp; flicks the switch. It lights up. When he taps again, the thing turns right off. Well, that’s not a great sign.
His right hand cups his forehead as he mutters, not to her, “Am I awake?”
Shit, Rio curses himself for stubbornly buying the neatest option. Again.
“Did you, uh. Did you take something…?”
Oh god, he hopes he didn’t let Mick sell him on some creative pain relief. They learnt that lesson long ago, just cos Mick gets smarter doesn’t mean that’s true of anyone. Rio cannot understand why the guy still snorts over his understandings of Pokémon, he’s gained a complete grasp of its world now. But that thought does spark further filmic memories and–
Yeah, okay. Lucidity, right? He flaps his arms energetically, morosely notes his complete lack of flight.
Running out of options, he rolls up one sleeve. Instructs, “Pinch me.”
“What?”
He waves his arm out.
Elizabeth gestures to an invisible audience. Then clearly thinks screw it, cos she steps up close to dig her talons in, fast and hard.
“Wake. Up.” Rio delivers it in as harsh a tone as he can muster for himself.
It does not help. Biggest of fucks.
A loud, loud banging starts. His eyes dart, mostly up. Elizabeth’s openly distressed by the sight of him hunting for the external reveille.
“It’s the door.” There’s an unpronounced ‘dummy’ hovering at the end of her statement, he’s sure of it.
She retracts her hands to hold a finger up in a one moment gesture, which he ignores. Rio trails her through the house.
When she opens up, he bursts in. Elizabeth's nudged out the way, with floppy brusqueness. Rio barely registers that, so taken with the attractive figure blurring toward him. He barely gets a second to appreciate that face, or bemoan the crumpled clothing and bizarre bodily jerking, because suddenly he’s enveloped in a bear hug.
“I wish I could know what it’s like to be me again for one day, and also all the days after,” the interloper shouts.
When clearly nothing happens, his face falls. And Rio feels a swathe of empathy, urges to upend that frown. He squirms, the hold isn’t unpleasant exactly – it cloys like the attentions of an infantile lick-happy Labrador – but the position he’s pinned is getting him familiar with his own dick in a fashion he’s near certain a person shouldn’t ever experience.
Suddenly there’s a palm poking over his chest, which he immediately bats askance.
Their hands are scuffling as he demands, “What did you do?!” That voice is obviously appealing and exceedingly familiar – but wrong too. It’s like hearing a recording of oneself, pitch off without the shape of skull around it to reverberate in.
“Me?” Rio replies, incredulous.
Dimly, Elizabeth’s squawking sorta registers, but it’s a bridge beyond his ability to attend to. He starts pushing, shoves this guy – Dean right, that’d be the only thing that makes– Well, sense seems long past an achievable goal.
The extra height’s useful, he can squint down over – over himself. It’s all a massive headfuck, specially marking his own eyes a little subdued, scared even.
“Why the fuck would I–”
But he doesn’t get any further before Elizabeth’s pulling him away, an outraged scolding look to her. She shoves him behind, inserting herself. He glimpses her chest heaving beneath the coat and part of her flashing face through that cloud of hair; she’s somehow got the vibe a trashed fire safety blanket.
“Why are you here?” She asks imperiously of, well, presumably-Dean.
That’s gotta be it, a simple switcheroo. Unless, shit, Rio’s got some doppelgänger he doesn’t know of… How many fuck ups could possibly be converging at once though? The blood under the back of his scalp thumps and thumps and thumps. Maybe he’s not awake, might’ve got it awfully wrong so much as indulging the concept.
Should he get this guy to pinch him...?
Rio’s sights slide down, catch on Elizabeth’s still very visible clawing. He rights the sleeve.
“He! He stole my body!” Probably-Dean shrieks.
“You – you… You… think… also…?” The cringe to Elizabeth’s pitch is exceedingly clear. And the way she obviously can’t pull and seal the idea into her fragmenting mind – lacking genuine adaptability – it is kinda funny.
It’s all a little fascinating as well, honestly. Watching his own face, approximate enough any rate, captivate her. How she shifts closer too, like she’s dust getting vacuumed along. She wastes what must be half a minute in slow observation, so Rio does too. It’s not like he ever gets to see the pair of ‘em from this angle, right.
Being forgotten to the background doesn’t sit so well, but that has – its uses.
Elizabeth suddenly steps around not-him. And – okay, how can she not tell he wouldn’t let her at his back like that? Assumed-Dean mutely allows her to eye the whole of his head with weariness, yes, but an overall lack of appropriate wariness.
He eventually zips around to yelp, “Bethie it’s me! Me! Your husband!”
Her fingers find her waist, as she surveys the pair of them. “Is this a – a joke?” Those shiny eyes roam, implying she’s searching for hidden cameras. Perhaps the maniac does believe she possesses super-vision.
“He did this!” almost-certainly-Dean accuses. It’s hard to find that as annoying as it should be, between the winsome timbre and those warm eyes.
“Me?!” Rio splutters. “You clearly got the sweeter deal.”
Dean stiffens. “I have tats now!” He shouts it like that’s the most unbelievable thing in the world, kinda like he’s poking at a bruise and enjoying the sensation, and definitely like Elizabeth doesn’t sport a couple in intimate spots, which – despite it all – Rio can admit were fun finds.
She doesn’t even flinch. He’s moved to wonder if immaculate conception is a general trend of hers. Hell, there’s gotta be a reasonable chance every one of those children was stolen off a ward.
“Yeah?” Rio, pulled back to the problem of the day, chuckles humourlessly and waves both hands in front of – not-his everything. “Boo hoo! I–”
“You’ve stolen my wife!”
Rio cannot avoid cackling, thinks he hears some hushed feminine snuffling too.
This guy’s a little too fucking clueless. How can he possibly believe that’s what’s wanted, or been happening. The information this man is oblivious to is so plentiful, it’s surprising the total heft can be contained within the universe. Shit, how is this dumbass alive? Moreso, a permanent fixture here. Rio’s exceptionally familiar with Elizabeth’s approach to personal obstacles.
“Did you both. Maybe. Take a very large amount of hallucinogens?” she hazards.
“Oh my god, Beth!” Dean punctuates the words with several slaps to not-his thigh. “This is real!”
She does this strange startling-but-not thing. Her body barely moves, it’s almost all in the face. And there’s a momentary flicker of what looks like disgust, before it buries.
Rio’s a little curious, under everything else, as to why the fuck she’s with this guy. It’s not something he’s spared a lot of thought on in the past, beyond presuming hubby incited Elizabeth’s original crime spree, that sudden onset penchant for bathroom hook ups too. She doesn’t appear to like him much. But the musing is shoved off. This ain’t his problem. And it’s certainly not pertinent – bigger pigs to fry, for one.
“I–”
Elizabeth’s phone starts droning on, she abandons her words to fish it from a back pocket, next goes to answer it.
Dean grouses, “You cannot seriously be taking a call right now.”
"It’s Abbie,” she mumbles with a pointed air, before holding the phone up like she’s actually heard of FaceTime and pressing at the screen.
That’s one of her chucklehead sidekicks’ names, he’s pretty sure anyway.
“Hey sis–”
Elizabeth cuts her caller off fast with aggressive waving. She swings into a position that gets him and Dean behind her, holding the phone out so this Abbie – yeah it is one of her crew, the short one – can catch a glimpse of them both. Dean’s grumpy mutterings don’t stall throughout.
“Oh shit,” comes through the tinny speaker. Then a whispered, “What’s happening? Are you in trouble?”
Elizabeth makes a defeated noise, and wiggles her free hand in a shrug-esque fashion, before looking over her shoulder at them like she’s not gonna be the one to explain.
So fine, fuck it. Isn’t this eternally the way with her? Rio steps up to grab the phone, letting it be sloppy, letting their fingers tussle and tap if they must. Cos they aren’t even his, so who cares.
“Yo,” he says to the screen.
Elizabeth’s sister peers back at him. “…Deansie?”
Rio shakes his – or rather not – skull. “Try again.”
“Oh, are you giving your middle name another try? Cos I don’t–”
“Nope.” It comes out almost definitive enough.
“Um.”
“You three making my money, yeah? Uh, you and the other idiot screwed up that one job so fucking bad, and I dunno if it had something to do with your obsession with smuggling stuff up your ass or–”
“Hey!”
He mostly ignores Abbie’s raucous protestation, in favour of glaring. However, glancing across to Elizabeth, he realises there’s probably not a lot he alone knows about her crew.
So he beckons Dean over. The guy ambles, cautious. The phone hand-off is a tad tense, but they both nod quick at the end of the play.
Abbie sucks in a breath; Rio can hear it conspicuous, being still very much in range.
“Gangfriend?” whispers out of her.
And… What? Okay, no. Pin that for later on. He’s flush with enough problems. Though seriously, is this what they think friendship looks like – death threats and enforced, unpaid work? No wonder they, she, whoever, can’t ever act rational, with that skewed a perspective.
“No,” the man says – mournfully proud. “It’s me. Dean.”
Abbie titters nervously, eyes floating to the side in search of Elizabeth. She’s beyond her depths, poor kid.
“I taught you how to drive!” he splutters.
She snorts.
“Well it didn’t go very well…” Dean allows. “Oh! I always forget your birthday, although it’s a couple of days before – um, I know it’s one of the kids…” He trails off rather pathetically.
Elizabeth shoots him an annoyed, if entirely believing, expression.
Jesus. Rio really needs to get out of here. If he thought his family was dysfunctional, it’s getting put to shame. At least his relatives are capable of circling a date on a calendar.
“So what – you’re saying you guys… Freaky Fridayed?”
He and Dean just shrug in disturbing tandem. Dimmed memories of chuckling over a car chase with Mick in dull-warm lighting against soft seating swirl…
“Beth?” Abbie calls out.
Elizabeth flutters back in amongst them to snag back her cell phone as she stiffly tries not to knock at Dean. Though Rio’s really got no sense whether she’s accepted which of ‘em is whom.
She paints on a smile in front of the camera.
“Is this a prank?” Abbie asks.
Elizabeth merely warbles a baffled note.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” her sister says, fake confidence barely masking profound panic reserves. And then she ends the call.
*
Almost twenty minutes later, she’s yet to arrive. That’d be annoying anyhow, but it smacks far worse in current situ.
Elizabeth somehow got them all sat down and coffeed up (her cup laced with a hearty dose of cheap bourbon) in the spuriously wholesome-smelling kitchen. The agitation coursing through Rio fouls as a punch past rolling with. Second, third, fourth, infinity thoughts question, scream even – and her hypnotic insistence at moving through some hostess motions is barely enough to keep him playing along.
He’s distracted, leg jittering, as Elizabeth asks again what happened last night. She ain’t helping matters none, still acting personally victimised by the confusing ordeal, like this isn’t far worse for him. Them, he amends – Dean’s at least got some right to be flapped.
The sister bursting in provides a naturally distressing relief. Abbie runs to Elizabeth, resembling some dinky Pikachu, fresh out its egg thingy, happily reincarnated once more. Least till she fast turns pissy the interrogation begun without her and a whiteboard’s not materialised itself in their midst.
Mostly to shut her up, Rio discloses he's a little hazy on yesternight’s happenings. He’s not convinced he should be telling them anything, though a common enemy suggests… Only, do they even have one? Cos if Dean didn’t do this, then who the fuck would wanna?
He squints at Elizabeth; she’s draining another ‘coffee’. Surely no one could fake at this quality of flabbergasted, not after so much morning boozing.
Dean scoffs, “You don’t remember what happened last night?”
Rio glares – or tries to anyhow – at essentially his own face. It’s hard to maintain negative emotion while looking at something so pleasant; he wonders how Elizabeth possibly manages it. Swallowing annoyance isn’t laborious as expected, and he simply head-shakes.
Her ridiculous husband crumples fairly quick, admits he’s got no ideas neither. What an embarrassment of a man.
Abbie taps away like a beaky bird at the laptop she sourced here. She murmurs about lightning storms and full moons and Fridays the thirteenth while her sister (standing close by to see the computer’s screen) nods along, totally captivated. Elizabeth’s breathing shallow plus shifting, and he – he just gets a bit…static, is all. That coat got cast off some point, revealed she’s still in her soft sleepwear. It’s not quite what he’d expect, her apparently out in the world of day, inappropriately dressed. Beyond that, catching her a sprig sack-rumpled stays a simple sort of strange; he’s not seen her in this state for – a while. Maybe forever, it’s a reasonable cry from that formal set with over-robe; this t-shirt’s neck dips lowish, and when she shifts he can spot skin shining beneath the cotton of her pants and– It’s a shock being suddenly so short-sighted, is what it is. She happens to be about the right distance off for fastening on.
“Let’s just try it!” Abbie says triumphantly, smacking her toddler hands together.
Dean’s already squabbling, which could be any kind of sign really.
“Try what?” Rio presses, frowning a fold into not-his forehead.
“Don’t you listen?” Abbie’s way too snarky for someone in her position. His – or rather Dean’s borrowed – scowl is apparently ineffective for intimidating this quarry.
“They want to electrocute us!” Ol’ face-stealer whines at him.
Rio flaps back fast, almost tips off his stool. “That is not h–”
Elizabeth waves him off, and absolutely fucking no–
“With what?” she asks her sister quietly, like she can’t see or hear either of the afflicted. “If you’d ever returned that blow dryer you broke…”
Abbie’s eyes roll.
Then Elizabeth, overly-dramatic, goes, “Oh wait! You did bring it back!”
“…What?”
“Yeah, at Christmas. Don’t you remember?”
Rio’s visual attention ping-pongs back to the shorter one. She resembles a creature wanting to argue more – he’s not unfamiliar with how that flavour gets teased outta even a brief discussion with Elizabeth.
And then she’s a bit too amused – mirth needing noticeable smothering as the pair of sisters communicate something wordless. Like there’s a story there, like… Like Elizabeth fucked Santa, or similar?
His scrutiny lifts over to Dean, who’s obliviously muttering woe-is-me shit to the ceiling.
“I think it’s in the home office.” Elizabeth starts striding thataway after dropping the words.
Abbie hops down, tipping an imaginary hat to say, “After you, gentlemen.”
“Nah.” Rio’s arms cross as Dean voices his own – less pithy – disagreements.
They’re wheedled up, however. To at least come look. So they can figure out the voltage or whatever, find the safest method.
His headache bays, that distracting way it’s been doing far too long. And when Dean capitulates, Rio thinks – fine. Fuck it. Whatever. Anything to end this conversation.
Dean tries to slink beside him, so he storms off ahead. Entering the cluttered room quick, Rio’s suddenly enthused about finding this famed janky item.
Elizabeth is searching through a basket, so he noses round a cabinet on the opposite side, as fiasco-man clatters in. The noisiness makes Rio blench.
“Oh, Abbie! I just remembered!” Elizabeth screeches, too enthusiastic. She taps her brow then rushes out the room to where her sister is leaning against the hall wall opposite. Spinning and grinning, she adds, “I left–”
The door’s already slamming home into its frame, her closing action forceful and practised, before he realises what’s happening. Rio almost gets there in time – extra long legs a benefit. But it’s no use, the external lock clicks into place.
Hollering and ranting gets them nowhere. Soon he’s scanning Dean, trying to assess whether he’d be more hindrance than help with an escape. The guy’s literally stolen his skin, so – could go either direction.
Abbie’s voice shoots clear through the keyhole, a fresh front slapped sloppily to her tone, barely masking nerviness. “Best guess, it’ll be over come Saturday. So… Think of it as a personal day?”
Elizabeth croons, corn-sweet, “You guys just need to stay put till then.”
“And when that doesn’t work?” Yeah, he sounds incredulous. Offended. Cos he is. And – and maybe he’s a little impressed, but that’s probably emotional whiplash from all the absurdity.
“Then we electrocute you for real!” Abigail or whatever sounds far too joyous over the prospect.
Dean kicks off some expressly voluble denials as to him ever allowing that, but Rio’s honestly not sure what he wouldn’t try to be done with this personally. Like, he’s not letting that insane posse run anything of the sort obviously, but maybe if he explains it slow, Mick’ll get on board. Or, matter of fact, he can see an outlet…
Rio pinches the back of this right hand again. Once more, he fails to wake.
He’s certainly not prepared to let Dean out his sights, maybe oughta grab him and go. Though he’s obviously reluctant to let the guy take any damage till he’s back in the right receptacle. And, much as he hates granting it, Elizabeth and her sister seem to have some idea of–
“Can’t you pick locks?” Dean sniffs, gesticulating a demand.
“Damn, not got my certificate yet.” He accompanies the words with a forlorn head motion.
The dud blinks, then grumbles off to collapse onto the ugly couch.
Yeah, okay. Slouching tight – especially with this company, though at least it doesn’t present as its usual eyesore – is far from his top picks for desired course of action. Rio still feels antsy, desperate to leave. Yet at the same time, weighted down and unable to deviate. Conforming to dreamscape – the other kind, the ones that ripped and blurred into reality, shaking and sweating across, and–
And.
His breaths turn slow, deliberate.
Mm, maybe giving sitting unpretty a chance makes sense. As much as anything can. Beside, at minimum Dean’s having a horrible day. Relishing that is almost an entertainment enough to wildly improve a bad mood.
Come a minute past midnight, if he’s still not himself, if he’s still not woken from this mazy nightmare… Cracking the two of ‘em out here won’t be hard. Rio’s eyes tip for his – watchless, wonderful – wrist.
“Dean?” Elizabeth calls.
The guy mms non-specifically.
“I’ll call Three Star, okay?”
She continues blithely, ignoring Dean’s bluster, “I’ll let them you know you won’t be in today.” The words are slick with routine. “And I’ll get your mother to pick up the kids. I don’t think we need them seeing… This.”
Dean snorts before saying, “Gee, thanks.” It’s petulant in a way that Rio has to acknowledge is pretty impressive.
Then there’s some light scuffling from the other side, what sounds to be an argument mostly composed of a second person pronoun thrown back and forth between the two participants. Jesus, if they’ve managed to somehow switch bodies too (and oh, it’d be just like Elizabeth to play copycat at the worst possible moment) he’s gonna… He’s gonna take a, possibly in-dream, nap. If that’s indeed the only available recourse.
“Um, boss man?” Abbie eventually says.
Rio grunts, trying to keep the acknowledgment of that stupid voice still being his minimal.
“You need anything?”
It forces a stock-take. He’s still fence-sat as to whether any of this is truly happening, represents more than dying moments. Maybe he’s back on those once-his floorboards, staining them scarlet, caught between the light and Turner’s monologuing. Everything since then has been unreal, as if it was all gearing on up purely to crash down. Maybe this is simply routine REM sleep. But if it is actual…
“Hey man, you got my phone?”
His maybe-alive ringer looks a bit surprised to be addressed vaguely affably. Truth be told it’s an effort to keep one’s attitude mean while observing those eyes blink and widen. Rio can kinda understand why Elizabeth likes sideswiping him so much if that’s the outcome.
Dean fumbles at a jacket pocket (as whatsherface grumbles on the lack of civil response from out in the hall), before thrusting the phone out.
Rio hums upon grabbing it, marginally appeased. Thanks fuck it’s passcode, not print, locked – presumably Dean can’t have broken in. But, god. Where did this dumbbell wake up? Yeah, that’s an easy enough guess. And so, great. He’s gotta move, again. What is with this family, thinking they’re allowed to just pop up in somebody’s domicile uninvited.
Staying stood but meandering off from the…autoscopy, he scrolls through his messages. First he checks in with Rhea. Then the family. Tells Mick, ‘something came up’ – receives far too many hand emojis in response. He’s tempted to get a bit more specific, but isn’t sure he can muster the energy for another round of how-did-you-get-this-high.
“Dean?” his wife calls out.
The guy stiffens, like there’s no way this can be good, whatever’s up. It’s hard not to feel for the idiot in the moment, an uncomfortable solidarity.
“Yeah?” Rio says, cos why not.
Elizabeth just carries on, like she’s got no bead on the current situation. Typical. “Where’s your phone?”
“I don’t know!” Dean yelps, shoulders crumpling.
Her soothing-irritated, “Okay, okay. I’ll call from mine…” putters out with gaining distance.
Dean’s almost snuffling, mumbling about the hardship of it all.
So Rio steps close again, double pats one of his seated shoulders. Puppy eyes are turned upon him. And okay, fine that is where Marcus gets it from.
This forms a disturbing stretch, one bound with mirroring neck bends. But just – who else can understand exactly how fucked his day has gone. And he might be the only other person who gets what it’s like to be so wronged by Elizabeth – this guy’s got a hole in his chest which is largely her fault, after all.
Rio retreats to the desk, not wanting to get caught up, accidentally offer to take this bozo under his wing or whatever. The shitty fibreboard creaks under his light lean.
He’s glad of his phone, if concerned with salvaging its battery life. Rumbling through all this clutter in search of a charger ain’t appealing. He surveys the outlets again. Goes a bit disoriented cataloguing every fine crack in the nearest wall.
Dean at one point jumps up, starts investigating a perilously piled collection of decaying board games too hungrily, making Rio shudder. Seriously, there’s way too much crap in this house.
Delicious smells start to permeate, and Dean becomes distracted by whinging on dying of starvation.
The door’s cracked open, before Abbie enters with a giant shotgun. It’s practically larger than her.
Face-thief gulps, audibly.
She shuffles further in, aiming at one then the other of them. It’s quite like being threatened by a lapdog though without, Rio deeply hopes, the implied possibility of being urinated on, but still it – chafes.
Elizabeth, now changed and day-armoured, beams in, table cloth under an arm. She makes a production of dressing up the nasty desk, chasing Rio off it to do so, laying out cutlery evenly ahead of briefly vanishing. On her return, she places down a pot of stew and two bowls with a full suite of unnecessary flourishes.
Then she begins backing out, nodding to Abbie.
“What’s with the dramatics,” he grits out.
Elizabeth quirks an eyebrow, now behind her tiny guard.
“Where the fuck you think we wanna go like this?”
She’s stock still a moment, before tossing her hair. And then she smirks. It’s irritating. And maybe – maybe just a tiny piece impressive. Elizabeth turns around, starts heading down the hall.
“Don’t gotta be such a bitch about it.” His words hit her back, Rio clocks that fashion Elizabeth straightens with his eyes bent around Abbie and her yardarm – mostly unconcerned (the trigger-happiness doesn’t appear to be genetic, at least). But she doesn’t respond, sticks to sauntering.
The sister though, after sparing way too long peering behind herself, throws a, “Neither does your face!” at him with a giant grin, before slamming the door shut.
And that – well that’s actually pretty funny. But he manages to turn his response to more of a cough.
When he looks round, Dean’s furious. At him, it resembles. Which…what?
“Don’t call my wife a bitch!”
Oh jesus. Like he’s not got plenty actual insults worth flinging at that target.
Managing to slam it all down in favour of sustenance, he claims the desk chair with its rickety wing before Dean can try for the pathetic prize. They eat with inimical glared silence.
Dean retreats back to the couch, after. Rio opts for slumping on the floor, to one side of the locked exit. He feels achy and just… Over-limbed. Christ, no wonder this guy went in for car sales, must’ve taken one peep at those floppy inflatable characters on the lot and assumed he was home.
The voices of the two women, further into the house, come through loud enough.
Elizabeth says, “I’ve got a shift at The Porcupine later… I should cancel, right cos–”
“Like hell!” he interrupts, propping himself up. His palm plies light over the varnished wood.
Elizabeth tries to argue back.
“You’ve got – collections,” he attempts to hiss, though the voice ain’t built for secrecy. Dean suddenly appears to be paying unfortunate attention again.
She frazzles, he can picture the annoyed squish of her face too well.
They seem to mutter something about a Goosey – he files that away for later. But then Abbie distinctly over-promises, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
Like fuck she does. Rio collapses into an alcove, head down to avoid the sight of the crockery and everything still sitting on the surface, festering forgotten.
The glimpse of sparse, wiry strands against a veiny background as the striped pyjama pants pull high on one leg when he stretches – where hairless, brown ankle should be – sends his face burrowing against misshapen knee. This is patently ludicrous, cannot represent real life. Maybe it’s, what, death’s waiting room. The final pukings of his brain.
Jesus, how much worse can this get.
*
“Can I ask you something?”
Rio grunts acquiescence to the out-of-nowhere question.
“Why an eagle?” Dean flutters a hand in front of not-his throat.
The recognition is obscurely rousing, a lot of people do make incorrect assumptions. But hey, not everyone’s an avian connoisseur. Rio sizes him up, rocking thin lips. Decides to indulge the curiosity.
“Ghostface.”
Dean gives him a curious look. “Scream?”
“Huh?” Is this some exit ploy he’s cooking up…?
Dumbass only waves him off to return to poorly thwacking a ball he’s conjured from somewhere, incapable of bouncing it off the floor long enough at a go to even build a rhythm worth getting annoyed at.
He goes back to his cell phone. His attempts at research find him little more than the fact that there’ve been four Freaky Fridays.
Dean speaks suddenly, toy dropping out of his hand and rolling under the desk. “If you think Beth’s such a – bitch…” There’s not actually an accompanying giggle, but Rio can hear his own tells plenty well. “Why don’t you just let her go?”
He doesn’t answer. To start with, he’s stuck parsing what the one has to do with the other.
But the nuisance keeps needling, obviously. “Why won’t you leave us alone?”
“Why don’t you ask her, yeah.” There. It’s not that he ain’t twitching to explain, to drop that apparently unknown bomb. But it’s not like anyone needs this moron walking around with ammo. And – and it’s just kinda funny in a pure way that he’s out here believing his bizarre fairy tales. It’d almost be a shame to burst the guy’s babyish bubbles.
“I know you want her,” Dean scoffs.
Rio huffs. “Yeah?” He sounds bored. He is bored.
He’s expecting a line on her looks, or his attentions there. Something he can wave off, having had enough practice. Honestly: fuck Mick.
That sly smile should’ve got him defensive, but it’s just so agreeable.
“Otherwise… Why is she alive?”
Rio sniffs. Okay, he doesn’t exactly have an answer to that. At least not one he’s willing to share with her goofy cannonball of a spouse. So he just shakes his head.
“I know you’re trying to steal her.” His posture is suddenly coiled.
And great. Here we go. “Can’t steal a person.” The statement’s convicted. Cos it’s true, he reckons. Oh, you can fold one up and move ‘em somewhere, turns out you can’t always steer their will with it though.
So he shrugs at Dean. At himself.
Fuck it, whatever. Let the guy, now narrowing eyes that shouldn’t be his to play with, stay suspicious up on his toes. No Rio’s never going there again, double never wants to come back here either, but where’d be the fun in allaying this moron’s fears.
He doesn’t stand when Dean comes toward him, nor get his hands out. Not when he grabs for the bathrobe’s opening, pulling back a fist.
“You given up on getting this face back then?” Rio grins. Shit, he hopes the guy hasn’t. Not cos he’d care much over taking a punch, hell a reason to swing back’d be plenty appreciated, but – if even a fool’s hopeless, well…
Dean gnarls, then walks away.
The girlfriend arrives – whatever her name is. The clanging to this changing of the guard presents distraction soon enough, diffuses some scowl-soaked tension.
The two women take the opportunity to lead he and Dean to Elizabeth’s en suite for (thankfuckfully) separate piss breaks. Rio decides, striding through the bedroom, that it’s better to spend a day in a shitty junk room than here. Surrounded by her smells, her memories.
The whole hostage-lite operation is… Frankly unprofessional. Abbie keeps trying to banter with him, though he maintains a total lack of responsiveness so it falls flatter than an unfilled envelope. And they don’t do anything to prevent him locking the door. The whole thing feels like a charade of the silliest magnitude. He’s tempted to teach them a lesson after – after trying to be as perfunctory as possible. But he’s shattered, not angling for anything other than simplicity.
The third stooge – Rudi, he picks out from the mouthy one’s jabbering – barely speaks on either leg of the journey, only mumbles a little about the end times, and the sanctity of the children’s space. She glares at him, though he gets the sense it might be more at the visage he’s stuck displaying. However, when they’re all back in the supposed office, Abbie and her preposterous gun included, Rudi glares just as hard at Dean.
Not much later, Abbie calls out a jubilant goodbye when she heads off to– Well, wherever. He didn’t ask and wasn’t listening to her babbles while she locked the door on them yet again after their uninteresting jaunt. The tufting patterns to the rug are, truly, more engaging.
Boredom is briefly punctuated when Rudi jars open the wood.
“Abbie said I have to feed you,” she says, each word sounding more of a chore than the last, before a couple of boxes of crackers are thrown into the room. The door is swiftly re-barred subsequently.
Dean complains unreasonably about the lack of a proper meal, even as he’s chewing and chewing – crumbing up the place. Rio retches at the sight of his poor clothes getting attacked in such a fashion. At least he knows that outfit’s being burnt soon as he’s back in it and able to fling each item off.
Once it becomes clear his yells on the subject won’t be met with anything other than silence, Dean putters round the room in search of snacks. He unearths an undoubtedly warm bottle of Chardonnay.
When the wine’s tilted Rio’s way it is tempting – or, no it sounds disgusting. But the potential numbing on offer… He eventually signals his negative interest. Adding another layer of vulnerability to an already shaky situation can’t be what’s needed.
Dean necks and necks and necks, quickly turning maudlin. Back on the couch he curls inward, facing wall.
At one point, he looks over shoulder to declare, “You shot me.” The eyes are red-lined; expression unkempt.
For a moment, Rio kinda wants to apologise. And then he really, really doesn’t.
Dean turns away, curves foetal.
If he’d known what was to come, Rio wonders, would he have done it different? Not given her the gun to hold that night, not shot this dope in lieu. Certainly he wouldn’t’ve handed it over the other time, or – or would he have simply prepped the situation far better…? Well, who cares. Hypotheticals can’t matter. Although, if this is real, not the worst night to ever mare, time travel can’t be as impossible as assumed, surely…
Abbie returns, Rio dully clocks the noises over the buzz of his brain. Elizabeth’s not too long after, the tapping to those treads familiar.
About a half past eleven (his cell phone’s held up inspiringly well after its stint airplaned), they start playing that Carmen McRae song on repeat, giggling tipsily as they sing along. It sounds like the threesome are perched up against the other side of the door. He urges to yell at ‘em for their abysmal timekeeping which sets his teeth grinding (thankfully it’s not gonna be his dental bill) but oh – there are so many things he wants, and none of them involve waking Dean. Even if essentially watching himself drool round a thumb is vividly uncomfortable.
Agitation itches across subcutis, rubbing into organs to increase itself exponentially.
Twelve hits, battery symbol now perilously red, and nothing happens.
Which is his cue, right. To hell with this; it’s time to find a route free, as much as anything saddled with Dean Boland could be described that way. Rio stands – stiff joints protesting – and then he– He has to– He has to avoid the li– Has to, for M–
*
He wakes on the floor. Or he thinks he does. Maybe he’s dead. Dying, still.
Limbs move with him, feeling right enough. And when his hands come up to pat, to check, and his chin tips to collar to see, they’re actually his, and the sleeves are modestly unfluffy and he smells normal again and he’s – himself.
Only as his head’s flowing back in relief does he take in the yelling from the hall.
Rio tries to speak, mostly just croaks, throat feeling – used.
Oh fucksake, he should never have let the sour turnip drink like that. His occipital area aches beyond belief, alcohol seems to be steaming off his skin. How long has he…?
“What?” he snaps at the cacophony.
“Are you guys… Better?” Elizabeth squeaks.
“Yeah.”
The door cracks, and she peeks in. Her eyes tip to Dean, snoring and shuddering.
“Say something only you would know,” she murmurs.
He tuts. “You’re very annoying.”
Elizabeth pulls a face, as if she’s offended by the very suggestion that could be sequestered knowledge.
Somehow that gifts him a slice more – patience. He points at a spot on his chin. Mimics a throw.
She nibbles at her lower lip, then exhales shakily to present a tiny nod. Next, slips in to lean against the inside of the door.
When her right wrist awkwardly spasms, Rio hastily swipes up his phone before helping himself up.
She grimaces for a split-second, before re-gaining control.
“What’s with the hunting gun?” he asks, rubbing at his cricked neck.
She glances over at Dean again.
Ah. “For me?” Rio grins, palm centred and fingers splaying over the needlessly open top buttons of his shirt, like he’s delighted by some gesture.
It’s the barest of shrugs that she gives in response.
“Was that thing even loaded?” Ugh, this addiction to trying to teach her might really be his downfall. Why won’t his mouth obey and shut itself.
Half-smiling, she asks, “Didn’t wanna find out?”
He looks off to the side, distant from her. Chewing at cheek, he lets the fluttering every which way of his eyelashes shake his head a little. Just for a sec. Cos she’s awful, and she’s funny sometimes, out of wastelands, and that socks a fresh shock each time. He’s never sure if it’s a calming appeal, the lull before the strike. (Is almost certain it must be, given her love of stealing his tricks.)
“Oh,” she says, and he’s not too sure how long she’s been standing there, watching him. Elizabeth’s hand disappears into a pocket; she extracts his keys, then passes them over.
Staring down at the floor, she seems to be subsuming a threatening grin. “He,” she gestures absently at Dean, her eyes now locked back Rio’s angle. “He left them in, with the door–”
Her face flounders as he feels his cement – the insides of lips sliding against his teeth in a manner satisfying and homey, which he’d never known was normalcy till it turned different.
“He what?” It booms too big.
Just – it’s the thought of the wagen tossed aside, his stuff pawed through… Shit, has Elizabeth or one of her girls been to his place today, could Dean’ve communicated the location to them? Or dug through the car (almost certainly, right) and he can’t even be sure what state it was left in. Fuck, he still has to deal with moving. He’s so goddamn tired and she – she suggests it too. And, who the hell’d care. Fuck her.
His burst must waken Dean. Almost immediately the imbecile’s zoning in on them, narrowing his own eyes.
“Whatever,” Rio snorts, cold, as he tosses the keys high in the air once before snatching his fist round the attached turtle, definitive.
Elizabeth melts out the way when he starts forward.
“Hey gangfriend!” Her sister says cheerily once he’s out the depressing room. She obviously doesn’t catch his annihilating glower, cos she sing-songs, “You’re welcome.”
“For what?” he blurts, not pausing to hear her reply – instead stalking for the front door.
But she’s loud. “You guys are all fixed now, right? And, not to horn-toot, but I was the one who figured it out with the moon charts and the–”
Turning, he sends a snort her direction; it registers hollow.
There’s a muted click as Elizabeth leaves the alleged office after him, her urge for mimicry forever abundantly-fuelled. Rio doesn’t scour to catch more than his periphery revealed.
The friend whose name he’s also refusing to commit to memory now stares wide-eyed at the showdown, one chip-holding hand paused at a mid-air locus.
“Yeah? Kinda seems like I could’ve waited this out anywhere, not caged in with that clown.”
Little sis blanches.
There’s an extensive crash as Dean escapes, whooping celebratory. Then: “Time for you to go, buster.”
And there is nothing more in the world Rio urges to do – but not if it’s at the behest of this ass. So he twists slightly, takes the couple in. Says, “Elizabeth,” in a way that gets both her and Dean’s left eyes twitching.
“Out!” Dean shrieks, fuchsia-faced.
“Dean!” Elizabeth bites the name out, somehow, through gritted teeth. Then she pacifyingly taps his elbow.
He sours but also silences, arms folding.
“What?” she asks, head inclining as she strides up closer.
He starts off quiet, sweet almost, “I wake up as anyone other than me again…?”
Elizabeth fills the flagrant gap with a serious bob of her head.
Rio picks up a finger to include all of them. “Everyone’s dead.”
She splutters as it registers. “That’s hardly fair.”
Absently, he notes her sidekicks flapping at her.
“How am I supposed to control–”
He interrupts, “You hearing me?” The finger spins round again.
She nods once more – this one’s snarky, combative. Nears, nonsensically, betrayed. Oh what, they’re supposed to have leapt buddy-buddy cos he let her coop him all day? No thanks. He steps back, out from headbutt range, finally makes for the fresh air.
As Rio exits the house, he hears Dean – in that annoying voice he is beyond satisfied to not have burbling out him any longer – yelp, “Bethie, I think he was being serious!”
“Dean!” she retorts, vinegar-sharp.
“Yeah?”
Elizabeth sighs, then slaps that soothing voice on for some vapidity or other. Rio is sure there’s a mollifying smile to her, simpering agreement and alleviation all at once.
As he walks to, climbs in, drives home with, his car – drifting through this whole host of topics which needs dealing with (plans to re-locate, post haste; investigating the lucrative-sounding possibility that magic is real, soon as he can convince Mick he’s sober; actively purging all thoughts of Elizabethan domesticity from his mind forevermore – the reality’s even worse than he could’ve possibly posited; finding out who this Goose is; working out how many showers he needs to take before he’ll feel anywhere near correct; regretting not walking off with that bathrobe) – he can’t stop his brain circling back to the other theme. It’s not even what she sees in Dean, just… Why is she with him?
But she’s unfathomable. Maybe that’s how much she loves deceit. Or the familiar. Or having things reached down from high shelves. The important part is: she seems annoyed by his mere existence and that is – well, it makes him beam is all. The thought of anything torturing Elizabeth, tangled up in her footing and dragging her down.
Cos, okay. Once upon a time, Rio was very, very stupid. And now he’s not. He spared too few fucks for Elizabeth’s husband, with her naked finger and their consistent eye-fucking, the guy didn’t present much of a concern. And when she said hey be my dirty little secret, Rio said – sure. Only when he said then let’s have a real one, she shot him. More than once.
Knowledge of thy enemy, yeah that’s where power is stored. Dean’s about the dictionary definition of a weak link, but he might not be the right one. Elizabeth let him put a bullet in the fool, like that death’d be the worst punishment in the world. Shit, Rio’s gotta hand it to her hamming, it’s a shade – impressive.
If he wants to exert pressure, that...flamingo is hardly the key to her. But Rio understands what is – and it radiates off those ten dollar bills.