Work Text:
Wherever this place is, it's his home now.
The fluorescent glow of the lights overhead hurt his eye. At some point, and he can't remember when since time paradoxically means absolutely nothing and absolutely everything here, the thing in front of him wearing Dell's face had decided it'd be oh so kind and restored him to his poor condition back when he could (barely) be considered alive. His arm is missing again, a cruel reminder of the torture he'd been put through by men directly related to Dell, exposed to the frigid air that the Bartender almost seems to emit.
Like the source of evil itself.
Boxed in, in the middle of nowhere in particular, Tavish is nursing his -nth drink. He can't truly get buzzed here since the Bartender's drinks are nothing more than a crude imitation of the way Dell mixed drinks. He has the technique down when it comes to shaking them up, but the actual taste is nonexistent.
The Bartender laughs from where he stands directly opposite him, in the middle of fruitlessly cleaning another glass for some invisible speck of dust. His laugh is a wheezy sound, like someone's had their hands cruelly wrapped around his neck for so long that eventually something had to give. Wet, messy and crunchy. The garbled gasp of a phlegm-riddled throat. A panicked stare eventually giving way to blank eyes, maybe even a slack jaw.
His mind runs wild. His heart hangs heavy. He will never know what happened to him or see him ever again.
"Someone's feelin' real picky today, huh, Tav?"
His hand clenches his glass of whiskey a little tighter at the teasing. This only serves to make the Bartender laugh just a little more, before being swiftly interrupted by a concerning coughing fit that has him thumping at his chest and excusing himself with an offhand comment about how cold it gets around here.
Wherever here is.
Something about the simple display that'd usually mean nothing to him makes Tavish's stomach turn as he notices the man is gradually taking on more and more human traits besides the act of bleeding—more specifically, his.
It hasn't taken long for him to realise that whatever the Bartender is, it's deeply manipulative.
Any previous feelings of affection or remorse he felt towards the man solely for his face, his body, his soul or the startling lack thereof: they’re all gone, replaced by a profound disgust felt towards not only the Bartender, but also himself too.
Dell would probably, and rightfully, put a hole right through Tavish's chest for technically being the one to make this thing.
The Bartender exists as something separate and beyond his full understanding, that much is clear from behaviour he's observed for God-knows-how-long, but it seems like Tavish's death was the inciting incident to wake the beast. Whatever slumbered deep within the womb of the slaughterhouse must've found him worthy enough to base itself off of something deep-rooted like a weed in his memory — his heart.
The pale machine.
Maybe it's his ever-growing insanity talking, but he’s completely sure that the Bartender’s appearance is directly based off some embarrassing fantasy of Tavish’s. Him in that dry-cleaned, hand-me-down suit he hated so much. Talking all sweet to him.
Still, Tavish — maybe stubbornly, as he can gradually feel his will to protest disappear beneath the urge to just give in, relapse, you know you want to — refuses to play along with whatever the Bartender wants from him. There's nothing left for him to give.
Besides his heart. This thing wants to break him. This thing wants to love him.
This thing wants to
be Dell.
A chill trickles its way down Tavish's spine like a spider. He screws his face up and keeps his eye focused on the wall of booze situated behind the bar, his reflection showing a man at his wits end. There's nothing God could do now that could possibly save him, but he tries to pray regardless; he'd rather be in Hell than be here.
It's at this point, the silence having grown tense, that the Bartender seems to have caught onto Tavish's attempts to get himself unstuck from his web. Whether he's amused or annoyed is impossible to tell. His hands are resting back down on the black marble counter that separates them not nearly far enough for Tavish's liking. The glass he was previously polishing off has disappeared into the possibly endless space around them, ready to be replaced by another one of its identical brethren.
The clinking noise begins to grate on his nerves.
He can't help but finally turn his head and glare, eager to tell the abomination to go shove those glasses right up his arse because Tavish Finnegan DeGroot is not going to be trapped down here any longer — he's gonna rip his way out of here if he has to, he needs to go and help the people who saved him, BLU team or not.
Instead of any of that happening, just as he's about to get up off of the tacky bar stool and storm into the abyss, he's met with a smug smile that cuts all the ambition mustered in half, leaving him with a grim realisation: he's played directly into the Bartender's hand. Getting Tavish's attention was the whole point.
Checkmate.
"You're dead serious about givin' me the silent treatment, huh?" There’s an almost pouty look on the Bartender’s stolen face. "Dang. Here I was, all dressed up fer you, thinkin' that you wanted me." His breath audibly hitches at the implication in the other's voice. An airy chuckle leaves the man’s lips at Tavish's stunned face. "Oh, so y'do? Could've fooled me with that newfound bad attitude of yers…"
A quiet solitude passes between them for what feels like an eternity. He watches on, with a haunted look on his face, as the man removes one of his black gloves with his all-too-perfect teeth. Each tooth was arranged like a white picket fence. Suburbia incarnate, Bacchus himself revitalised and given shape. There's a knowing simper that crosses over his face and stays there. Despite not being able to see the Bartender's eyes beyond his eerily bright goggles, he can feel his stare cutting through him like a hot knife through butter. Tavish feels as though he's staring down the barrel of a gun as the ghost's no-longer gloved hand sloooooooooooooooowly reaches out for him.
Faster than he has any right to be, Tavish slaps his hand away hard enough that the audible sound of his hand meeting the Bartender's bare one in a vicious smack echoes throughout the lonesome space they’re in together for a good few seconds afterwards.
Despite being the one to deliver the strike, the solemn look on the Bartender's face as he examines the reddened mark on his hand makes Tavish feel like he's the one who's been hit.
"Alrighty then," his voice is still as silky as ever, a perfect imitation of Dell's. But there's nothing in his tone for the former Demoman to go off of. There's no sadness, no anger, no joy, just… nothing. A blank, empty void that soaks itself into Tavish's soul. The thought that this thing is disappointed in him hurts him like nothing else before, even if he’s aware that this is just another way that the Bartender's been able to wrap him around his finger like the cord of a telephone.
Tentatively, the Bartender takes Tavish's glass away with his bare hand, rattling the never-melting glass inside with a somewhat mournful hum. "I see how it is."
What's left unsaid hangs in the air like a threat. You don't want me.
Even geniuses get things wrong sometimes. It's part of being human.
His mouth struggles to make a sound for a good while, all of them getting constricted in his neck. The Bartender says nothing, playfully resting his cheek in his hand. It occurs to Tavish that this really is all just some twisted idea of entertainment for the man, and now that he's finally backed Tavish into a corner, there's not much he can really do to get out of the grave he's dug for himself.
As long as they're buried right next to each other, all would be well.
"I," need ye, Dell.
Once again, the space around him seems to find new nameless shapes to contort itself into, though the pervasive feeling of being trapped remains like blood staining a beloved button-up shirt. No matter how many times it's washed, you'll always have the reminder.
He immediately hears the trilling sound of a piano—Blackbird, a song Tavish hasn't heard in a good long while—gently twinkling through the previous silence of their shared tomb, and miserably, he notices the idle chatter in the background.
He's not alone.
God help him. He can't bring himself to lift his head up from where he's hunched over, wishing he could vomit. His eye's stuck on the familiar details of the linoleum wood floor and the overall shabby presentation his new location seems to have. His breathing quickens. Whoever's playing piano stops abruptly, low mumblings from his side signifying that Tavish's presence has finally been noticed by the few talkative patrons of this place.
Their voices are instantly recognisable. Tavish's restored arm impulsively jerks.
He makes his -nth mistake of the everlasting night when finally can't take it anymore and needs to be sure what he's seeing is what he thinks it is, only to be greeted by—
Dell leans across the oak surface of the bar counter.
"Then have me."