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The roar of the engine echoed like a feral beast through the dense cathedral of trees. Hawkins gripped the wheel of the matte-black car, their knuckles stark white, veins raised like rivers on a crumpled map. The vehicle - a sleek, angular predator of steel - darted down the makeshift path, its tires spitting gravel and dirt like a cornered animal lashing out. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden shards, flickering over the windshield like a strobe light, making the whole world feel frenetic and surreal.
Hawkins’ long blonde hair, damp with sweat, whipped around their face in the rush of air blasting through the half-open window. Their chest rose and fell in rapid rhythm, their breath shallow, as though the weight of the forest pressed on their lungs like an unseen hand. The trees blurred past, their trunks like sentinels standing too close, menacingly still as they tore through the woods. The path, if it could even be called that, was a jagged scar through the underbrush, littered with roots and ruts that jolted the car with bone-rattling force.
Ahead, the path curved sharply, a hairpin turn that seemed impossible at their speed. Hawkins’ pulse thundered as they yanked the wheel, the car screeching like a banshee as it skidded sideways, tires clawing for traction. For a heartbeat, everything seemed to hang in suspension, the world tilted and weightless. As Hawkins wrestled the car back onto the path, the memory of the text messages burned in their mind like glowing embers threatening to ignite. It had started innocuously enough - they had been standing in their and their husband’s bedroom, the late morning sun spilling through the blinds in soft ribbons, unpacking their suitcases. It still smelled faintly of salt air and sunscreen, remnants of a honeymoon in Brazil that already felt like a lifetime ago. They had been pulling out a crumpled Hawaiian shirt when their phone buzzed on the dresser.
I need help.
Grey’s name lit up the screen, and Hawkins found themselves grinning at the sight, until they read the messages.
Come now.
And then, as if to drive the stake deeper.
It’s urgent.
Three simple messages, their bluntness sharp enough to slice through the thin veneer of peace they’d managed to construct over the past while. Their hands had trembled as they held the phone, their mind already spiraling. Grey was practically a kid - a reckless, impulsive kid with no real sense of consequences.
What had he done? Had he been witnessed? Had someone escaped? It could be anything.
They had shoved the suitcase aside, half-unpacked, and grabbed their keys. The honeymoon glow had evaporated, replaced by a cold, gnawing dread. There would be questions, secrets to bury, and lies to tell - so many lies. They were good at lying. Too good. They weren’t sure they could say the same about Grey. Their mind kept circling back to Grey’s face, with that stupid lopsided grin that made him look like he’d never done a single thing wrong in his life. They’d known better. Everyone who knew him did. But there was something about Grey, something that made you want to believe in him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.
The trees thinned for a moment, revealing a flash of sky, then closed in again, the shadows swallowing the car. Hawkins’ chest constricted, their paranoia mounting with every mile. What if it was worse than they thought? What if Grey had done something that couldn’t be undone? What if there was no fixing it - no clever cover story, no convenient scapegoat, no way out?
Their jaw clenched as they pushed the car harder, the engine snarling in protest. The forest blurred past, a kaleidoscope of green and brown, and Hawkins felt the weight of it all pressing down on them like the canopy above. They had a sinking feeling that whatever waited for them at the end of the drive was going to be bad.
The forest broke suddenly, spilling Hawkins into an open clearing as if the trees themselves had parted in reverence to what lay beyond. They slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a dusty halt, its engine growling one last protest before falling silent.
The house in front of them was unmistakably beautiful, but in the same way a coiled snake would be - elegant and unnerving all at once. The building had once been a Catholic church, its towering spire still intact, piercing the sky like a solemn finger pointing heavenward. The stone facade was weathered and gray, streaked with moss that clung to it like ghostly veins. Gothic arches framed windows of stained glass, their colors muted in the afternoon light. A grand double door, carved from dark oak and reinforced with wrought iron, stood at the entrance, flanked by ivy that curled up the walls like a greedy, verdant tide. Above the door, a stone carving of a weeping angel gazed down, its face worn smooth by time, its sorrowful expression blurred but still palpable.
Hawkins killed the engine and sat for a moment, the silence pressing down on them like a weight. The air outside was thick and still, the kind of silence that felt alive, like it was listening. The house was silent too, its windows blank and unreadable, like the eyes of a statue. Hawkins swallowed hard, their mouth dry, and stepped out of the car. Their boots crunched on the gravel, the sound startlingly loud in the oppressive quiet. They glanced around, their eyes flicking over the details - the shadows pooling under the porch, the faint scent of earth and rain lingering in the air despite the day’s dry heat.
When Hawkins reached the door, they hesitated, their fingers hovering over the iron ring that served as a knocker. They gripped it tight and slammed it against the wooden door. Hawkins stepped back, their breath shallow, their heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst free.
"Grey!" Hawkins’ voice cut through the stillness, sharp and urgent, their thick Scottish accent roughened by stress. "Open the bloody door, lad!"
The response came quicker than they expected. The heavy oak door creaked open with a groan, spilling a sliver of muted light onto the porch. Grey stood there, his frame filling the doorway like a shadow cast long before sundown. He was taller than Hawkins, his pale skin so stark against the dark wood behind him it was almost luminous. His albinism gave him an otherworldly appearance, white hair like moonlight falling in soft waves around his angular face, and purple-tinged eyes that caught the light like a predator’s. A jagged scar cut down his left cheek, pulling at the corner of his mouth, giving him a perpetually lopsided expression. Grey’s clothes were slightly rumpled, a charcoal sweater hugged his lean frame, its sleeves pushed up to reveal long, pale fingers flecked with ink stains.
"Hawkins." He said, a small smile on his face, clearly relieved at the sight of the officer, "Come in, please."
" Come in , ye say? I’ve been runnin’ like a demon wi’ the hounds o’ hell on my heels, an’ ye just say, come in ?" Hawkins stomped past him, their voice rising. The hallway was dimly lit, the light filtering through stained glass windows casting fractured colors across the flagstone floor. The walls were painted a deep, almost oppressive blue, lined with heavy wooden paneling that still bore faint traces of the church it had once been. There was a faint smell of old wood, dust, and something sharper, like the acrid tang of paper burned to ash. "What’ve ye done this time?"
"Calm down, good Lord." Grey closed the door with a soft click, "I didn’t mean to drag you here like this, but I didn’t have a choice."
"Didn’t have a choice?" Hawkins shot back, their voice a whip crack in the quiet. "Don’t ye dare start wi’ riddles, Grey. Ye sent those texts, aye? Ye said it was urgent. I’m here, now tell me, what’s goin’ on?"
Grey ran a hand through his white hair, the movement making him look younger, almost fragile, despite his height. The scar on his cheek twitched as he seemed to wrestle with himself, his pale skin blooming with a faint blush that crept along his neck and onto his sharp cheekbones. Hawkins stared, their brows knitting tighter with every passing moment of silence.
"Well, lad?" Hawkins prompted, their voice a low growl. But instead of answering, Grey muttered something incoherent under his breath and brushed past them, his steps quick and deliberate, the soft soles of his boots whispering against the flagstone floor. His movements were a stark contrast to the nervous energy radiating off him, like a tightly wound spring finally snapping.
"Grey! What in the hell-?" Hawkins spun on their heel and followed, their boots heavier, louder, echoing in the unnervingly quiet house.
Grey was already in the kitchen, his lean figure hunched over the stove as he lit the burner. The kettle, an ornate affair of polished brass that looked as though it belonged in another century, sat squarely on the flame. Hawkins stopped at the threshold, their arms folding across their chest, incredulous.
"Tea," Grey said without turning around, his voice almost too even, as though he was trying to sidestep whatever storm brewed behind him. "You want some, don’t you?"
"Ye want tae sit down wi’ a cuppa ?"
"Milk? Two sugars?" Grey interjected, finally glancing back at them with an expression so nonchalant it bordered on maddening.
Hawkins spluttered, their frustration bubbling over. "Aye, milk an’ two sugars, ye daft fool, but what does that have tae do wi’ anythin’? Are ye stalling, or are ye just daft?"
Grey turned back to the kettle, his hands fidgeting as he adjusted the flame. The quiet of the house pressed in, thick and heavy, amplifying every sound - the faint crackle of the fire beneath the kettle, the soft rustle of Grey’s jumper as he moved, and, eventually, the shrill scream of the kettle as it boiled. The sound cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and unsettling, and Hawkins felt their jaw clench. They glanced around the room, taking in the eerie stillness. The kitchen was vast and meticulously kept, the dark countertops gleaming, the cabinets painted a muted grey that seemed to swallow the light rather than reflect it. The only sign of life was a half-empty mug on the counter, its contents long cold.
"It’s too quiet in here," Hawkins’ voice cut through the scream of the kettle as Grey removed it from the stove, "I don’t hear anyone else in the house. So there’s no trouble there, aye? Yer not hidin’ a corpse, not dealin’ wi’ someone catchin’ ye in the act."
Grey poured the boiling water over the tea leaves, his movements precise, almost ritualistic. He didn’t respond immediately, and Hawkins’ patience wore thinner by the second.
"And you’re not panicked," Hawkins continued, their brows furrowing as they searched Grey’s face for cracks in his composure. "So it’s not that ye’ve been caught or witnessed doin’ somethin’ stupid. Which leaves me wonderin’ what in God’s name could be so urgent ye dragged me out here like my arse was on fire! "
Grey picked up a small silver spoon, its edges worn smooth, and stirred the tea with deliberate care. The milk swirled into the dark liquid like clouds unfurling across a stormy sky, and the sugar dissolved with a faint, crystalline whisper. He slid one mug across the table to Hawkins, then took a seat opposite them, his long, pale fingers curling around his own cup. The mug seemed almost comically dark against his hands, as if it were trying - and failing - to anchor him to the shadows. Hawkins dropped into the chair with a huff, their sharp gaze never leaving Grey. They took a sip, the warmth spreading through them like a reluctant truce.
"Well, it’s good tea, I’ll give ye that much." They muttered, setting the mug down with a soft clink. "Now, are ye gonna tell me what this is all about, or do I need tae wring it outta ye?"
Grey didn’t respond immediately. He stared into his tea, though he didn’t drink, his thumbs idly tracing circles along the rim. The silence stretched, taut as a tightrope, until it threatened to snap. Hawkins tapped their fingers against the table, the rhythm sharp and impatient.
" Grey. " They growled, leaning forward.
Grey’s shoulders sagged, the scar on his cheek pulling taut as he scowled.
"I do need your help," he said quietly, his voice barely carrying above the weight of the moment. "It’s... it’s about something to do with the cult."
"The cult? Bloody brilliant." Hawkins’ eyebrows shot up, and they let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Of course, it’s somethin’ tae do wi’ them."
Grey’s eyes flicked up to meet Hawkins’, and for a moment, they looked vulnerable in a way Hawkins rarely saw. His hands tightened around the mug, and his voice was low and edged with discomfort. "It’s not like that. I... I need you to help me practice something."
"Practice? Christ, ye couldnae have started wi’ that instead o’ draggin’ me out here like the apocalypse was on yer doorstep?" Hawkins blinked, then leaned back in their chair, crossing their arms. They shook their head, their voice dripping with sarcasm. "What’s next, Grey? You need me tae help ye rehearse a wee speech for the next meetin’?"
Grey’s expression darkened, and the faint blush that had been lingering on his pale cheeks deepened. "It’s not a joke," he snapped, his voice suddenly sharp, though his eyes flickered with embarrassment. "This... It’s a sensitive topic."
"Sensitive, ye say? Lad, ye’ve had me steamin’ through the woods, and now yer sittin’ here blushin’ like a wee bairn who’s spilt their porridge. Ye’ll forgive me if I’m nae feelin’ particularly patient."
Grey’s face flushed deeper, the pale skin of his cheeks now a betraying canvas for his discomfort. His hands tightened around the mug, and he shifted in his seat like a boy called to the headmaster’s office. Then, as if the words had been building pressure inside him, he blurted, "I need you to teach me how to tie knots."
Hawkins froze, their mouth half-open as if they were about to deliver another snide remark, only to have it stolen by the sheer absurdity of the statement. They blinked once, then twice, as if the words hadn’t fully registered.
"Knots?" They echoed, their voice flat with disbelief. "Ye dragged me all this way tae teach ye how tae tie knots ?"
"Yes." Grey nodded, his expression as serious as if he’d confessed to plotting a heist.
"What kind o’ knots are we talkin’ here?"
"Ones that don’t come loose with just the slightest bit of movement."
There was a beat of silence, and then it clicked. Hawkins leaned back in their chair, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across their face.
"Ahhh." They said, drawing the word out like a detective triumphant, "Didn’t think you’d be into that."
Grey flinched at the implication, but didn’t immediately deny it. Instead, he scowled, his pale lashes brushing against his cheeks as he stared into his untouched tea.
"It’s not like that." He muttered defensively, though the way his ears turned pink suggested otherwise.
" Not like that. " Hawkins repeated, their tone half-amused, half-skeptical, "Ye cannae just drop this on me like a sack o’ bricks without explainin’ yerself. Why ask me? Why no’ Google it?"
"I don’t know…" Grey admitted, his voice quieter now. He shifted again, his long legs stretched out awkwardly beneath the table as if he couldn’t find a comfortable position. "You’re... smart. A police officer. You probably know this kind of thing better than anyone else I could ask." Hawkins raised an eyebrow, their skepticism sharpening. Grey hesitated, then sighed, slumping back in his chair like a deflated balloon. "And... I was going to try to guilt trip you into giving me your handcuffs…" he mumbled, his voice barely audible.
Hawkins choked on their tea, setting the mug down with a clatter.
"Watch it." They warned, though their tone was more amused than angry. "If ye think fer a second I’m handin’ over police gear tae a lad who still looks like he’d faint at the sight o’ his own shadow, ye’re sorely mistaken."
Grey bristled at that, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I wouldn’t faint."
Hawkins snorted, shaking their head.
"Fine." They said at last, leaning back in their chair with a resigned sigh. "I’ll teach ye yer bloody knots, or maybe I’ll tie ye up myself an’ leave ye tae figure it out."
Grey’s face went from pale to crimson in a matter of seconds, his head snapping up as if Hawkins had just poured the boiling kettle over him. He shot out of his chair so fast it scraped against the flagstone floor with a harsh screech.
" No! " He snapped, his voice pitched higher than usual, "You’re not doing it to me! I’m doing it to you!"
Hawkins stared at him, their brows shooting up so far they nearly disappeared into their hairline. A slow grin crept across their face like sunlight spilling over a hilltop.
" Ohhh ." They drawled, their voice heavy with teasing. "So ye like tae be in control, then? I see how it is." They leaned forward, resting their elbows on the table, their smirk widening. "Well, lad, it’s been a while since I’ve been on the bottom, so I suppose-"
" Enough! " Grey’s frustrated yell cut through their taunting like a whip crack. He glared at Hawkins, his purple-tinged eyes ablaze with a mix of mortification and indignation. "Just... just follow me upstairs." He said, his voice tight and clipped, as if holding back a flood of emotion. "Leave your mug. I’ll sort it out later."
Before Hawkins could offer another quip, Grey turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his boots striking the floor with a sharp, determined rhythm. Hawkins chuckled under their breath, the sound low and amused, like a cat toying with a mouse, before pushing back their chair and rising to follow.
"Aye Aye, captain!" They called, still tinged with mirth as they trailed after him.
Hawkins followed Grey up the winding staircase, thudding heavily against the worn wood as each step creaked in protest. The stairwell was narrow, its walls lined with an odd assortment of old family photos and religious portraits. Faces stared out from behind dusty glass, their expressions frozen in time: somber, stiff, and faintly accusing, as though disappointed in the neglect that left a fine layer of grime covering their frames. Hawkins’ eyes skimmed over them without lingering, their focus more on Grey’s stiff back. The upper landing was dim, lit only by the weak glow of a single bulb encased in a frosted glass shade. Grey’s lanky frame seemed to fill the small space as he stopped in front of a closed door. The heavy wood looked weathered, its handle worn smooth from years of use. Hawkins could tell immediately - it was Grey’s bedroom.
A grin tugged at the corners of their mouth, their earlier amusement flaring back to life. They reached out, fingers brushing the door handle. "Oh, right tae the bedroom, then? Ye really know how tae-"
Grey spun on his heel, his reaction so quick and sharp it startled Hawkins into stopping mid-sentence. He stepped between them and the door, his hands braced against the frame, blocking their path entirely.
"Don’t." His voice was firm, edged with something uncharacteristically sharp, his pale face flushed again but not from embarrassment this time. His eyes, usually distant and calculating, locked onto Hawkins’ with an intensity that made them straighten up slightly. "Do not go in there."
"Alright, alright," Hawkins muttered, raising their hands in mock surrender. "Didnae ken it was such a sacred space. Ye don’t have tae bite my head off."
Grey didn’t move. His shoulders were tense, his body forming a barricade. "Just… don’t go in here." He said, his voice lower now, almost pleading. "At all."
Grey slipped into the room, the door opening just wide enough to let him through. As he moved, Hawkins caught the faintest glimpse inside, a cluttered desk, dim light spilling across a floor littered with papers and… something else.
And then there was the smell.
It was faint but unmistakable. Metallic and sharp, it curled into Hawkins’ nose and sent a prickle of unease dancing down their spine. Blood.
Grey shut the door quickly, his movements almost frantic, as though sealing away whatever lay within. Hawkins stood frozen for a moment, their hand still hovering near the doorframe, their mind racing.
"Grey…" Their voice was quieter now, the teasing edge gone. "What’ve ye got goin’ on in there?"
Grey emerged a moment later, clutching a length of rope in his pale hands. His face was carefully blank, but his body betrayed him - the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers fidgeted with the fraying ends of the cord.
"Nothing you need to worry about," he said, brushing past them and heading down the hall without another word.
Hawkins stood motionless for a moment, staring at the closed door like it might sprout lips and spill its secrets. Grey’s hurried retreat down the hall only fueled their curiosity. Ignoring the gnawing edge of unease that had taken root in their gut, they reached for the doorknob. Their fingers brushed the cool metal, hesitant at first, as though the door itself might bite.
"Ah, what the hell," they muttered under their breath, twisting the knob and pushing the door open.
The smell hit first, a sickening wave of copper and decay that clawed at their throat and curled their stomach. Hawkins coughed, stepping into the room as their eyes adjusted to the dim light.
It was chaos. Papers were scattered across every surface, curling at the edges like autumn leaves left to rot. A desk sat against one wall, its surface stained with dark smears that could only be blood. But it was the bed that froze them in their tracks.
The sheets were soaked, the once-pristine white fabric turned a grotesque crimson. The blood had dried in places, creating dark, crackling patches like a macabre painting gone horribly wrong. Hawkins’ breath caught in their chest as their eyes landed on the unmistakable outline of a body beneath the blankets. A mop of blood-matted blonde hair spilled out, the strands clinging to the fabric like the desperate grasp of a drowning victim. They couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman; the gore obscured too much. The shape beneath the blankets was still, eerily so, and Hawkins felt the bile rise in their throat.
"What the fuck ?" The words escaped them in a whisper, their voice barely strong enough to breach the thick tension of the room.
Before they could take another step, Grey was there, slamming the door shut with a force that made the frame shudder. His grip on their arm was like iron as he yanked them back, his expression more frantic than Hawkins had ever seen.
"I told you not to go in there!" he hissed, his voice sharp and cracking at the edges. He dragged them away from the door, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, like a marionette with tangled strings.
"What the hell was that about?" Hawkins demanded, gesturing toward the door as though the mess inside might leak out and explain itself. They wrenched their arm free from Grey’s grip, staring at him like he’d just turned into a creature from some unholy nightmare. Their chest heaved, adrenaline pounding through their veins, but their voice, when it came, was sharp as broken glass. "Why is it so bloody messy in there?"
Grey avoided their gaze, his pale cheeks burning red. He tightened his grip on the rope in his hands, twisting it like a lifeline as he took a shaky breath.
"I’ll clean it up later," he mumbled, his voice low and defensive. "I… I panicked."
" You panicked? " Hawkins repeated, incredulous. "Aye, well, no bloody wonder it looks like a slaughterhouse in there! Panickin’ makes ye sloppy, Grey! It makes messes like that! " They jabbed a finger toward the door for emphasis.
"I know! " Grey snapped, his voice rising in frustration. "I know, alright? I just… I didn’t realize they’d fight back so hard… I didn’t think they’d realise I wasn’t actually going to… sleep with them.”
Hawkins exhaled, long and slow, shaking their head.
"Christ." They muttered, pinching the bridge of their nose. Their voice was quieter now, but still sharp with a blend of disbelief and resignation. "Ye need tae get yer bloody head on straight. That person in the bed-" they paused, casting another glance toward the closed door, "-they better be some nobody. Someone no one’ll be lookin’ for. Tell me they are."
Grey’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. He swallowed hard, his voice a dry rasp. "They are," he said finally. Then, softer, almost to himself, "Well… they were. "
"Bloody brilliant," They muttered. "So now what, Grey? Thinkin’ rope lessons are gonna solve yer problems?"
"I don’t need a lecture, Hawkins," Grey shot back, the fire in his voice rekindled. "I just need your help. That’s why I asked you to teach me in the first place, so this doesn’t happen again."
Hawkins groaned, dragging their hand down their face.
Grey took a deep breath, steadying himself as he ran a hand through his hair. "We’ll… do it in the room next to my art studio," he said, his voice tight but deliberate. "There’s enough space in there for what we need. You’ll have to excuse the mess, though. It’s full of… old family stuff right now. Boxes and junk. I’ve been meaning to clear it out." He shifted the rope in his hands, his gaze flicking toward the hallway, struggling to find his words, "Might turn it into a… more useful room. Maybe even toss a bed in there, if it’ll fit."
"Mess can’t be worse than what I’ve just seen," Hawkins muttered with a dry chuckle, shaking their head. "Lead the way, Picasso."
Grey’s lips twitched in what could almost be called a smile, but it faded quickly as he turned and led Hawkins down the dim hallway. The floor creaked beneath their feet, each sound magnified in the oppressive silence that hung between them.
When they reached the art room, Grey pushed the door open, revealing canvases that leaned haphazardly against the walls, some blank, others adorned with vibrant splashes of blue or stark, haunting images. Easels stood like skeletal sentinels in the room, their wooden frames spattered with paint. The air was thick with the smell of turpentine and linseed oil, mingling with the faint metallic tang that lingered in Hawkins’ nostrils.
"Not bad," Hawkins muttered, their eyes flicking over the room. "Ye’ve got a good eye, I’ll give ye that."
Grey didn’t respond, already moving toward a smaller door on the far side of the room. He pushed it open, the creak of the hinges echoing in the stillness, and motioned for Hawkins to follow.
The connected room was small and dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a single narrow window near the ceiling. Dust motes danced in the faint beam of sunlight that slanted through the glass. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of old wood and damp cardboard. Boxes were stacked against the walls, their sides bulging as though the contents were trying to escape. A few were labeled in faded marker with words like Books and Mum’s Files.
Hawkins’ gaze swept over the room, taking in every detail. Wooden planks lay scattered on the floor beneath the window, their surfaces rough and splintered. A hammer and a handful of rusted nails rested on top.
But it was the hunting equipment that made them pause.
It was all laid out in a large open crate shoved against the far wall, its contents a haphazard collection of tools and weapons that seemed more suited to a survivalist’s bunker than a family home. Bear traps sat coiled like metallic jaws, their teeth gleaming even under the dim light. Rolls of hunting wire gleamed silver, neat and ready, next to a scattering of wickedly sharp knives with handles worn smooth from use. There were coils of rope - thicker and sturdier than the one Grey held - and a pair of binoculars that looked like they’d seen more than their fair share of use in the wild.
Above the crate, a shotgun was mounted on the wall, its barrel polished to a dull sheen. The wood of the stock was dark and glossy, and it hung there like a relic.
Hawkins approached the crate, their boots kicking up a faint cloud of dust as they crouched to get a closer look. They picked up a serrated knife, turning it over in their hands, the blade catching the weak light from the window.
"Well, this is quite the arsenal." They murmured, their tone edged with both amusement and unease. Grey glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tugging downward. Their eyes flicked to the shotgun, hanging like a trophy on the wall. "That one yours?"
"Used to be my father’s." He responded, his voice low and flat. He hesitated, then added, "But he won’t be needing it anymore."
Hawkins hummed thoughtfully, setting the knife back in the crate.
"Aye." They said, their voice light to cover the odd twist of discomfort Grey’s words sent through their chest. They stood, brushing their hands on their pants. "Fair enough. Can’t picture my da wi’ any o’ this gear. Man could barely manage tae fix a leaky tap, never mind wrangle somethin’ like that." They jerked their chin toward the bear traps.
Grey didn’t respond immediately, instead reaching into a shadowy corner of the room. He pulled out a rickety wooden chair, its legs wobbling slightly as he set it in the middle of the floor. Dust puffed up from the seat as he straightened, brushing at it half-heartedly with his hand.
"Well?" He mused, glancing up at Hawkins with the faintest hint of a smirk. "You gonna ask if I’ve got a license for the gun next?"
Hawkins raised an eyebrow, folding their arms. "Do ye?"
Grey scoffed, shaking his head in amusement.
"Come on." He encouraged, motioning toward the chair. "Let’s get to it, you’re wasting time."
"Well now, Grey," Hawkins teased, their accent thick as treacle. They raised an eyebrow as they sauntered toward the chair, their grin sharp and cheeky. "Didnae ken ye were the dominant type. Should I be callin’ ye ‘sir’ next?"
Grey groaned, his pale cheeks flushing as he rolled his eyes.
"Jesus Christ, Hawkins," he muttered, grabbing their shoulders and pushing them down into the chair with more force than necessary. The chair groaned under their weight, wobbling like a drunk on unsteady legs.
"Easy, lad!" Hawkins laughed, leaning back with exaggerated nonchalance, though the rickety chair didn’t inspire much confidence. "Yer no exactly helpin’ yer case here."
Grey ignored the jab, kneeling in front of them and fidgeting with the rope in his hands. His movements were jerky, like he was trying to act confident but hadn’t gotten the script yet. "Give me your hands," he said brusquely, looking anywhere but at Hawkins’ face.
"Aye, aye," Hawkins said, holding out their wrists with a smirk. "Gonna sweep me aff my feet next?"
Grey glared up at them, his pale eyes narrowing. "Do you ever shut up?"
"Not while yer blushin’ like that, I don’t."
Grey muttered something inaudible under his breath and began wrapping the rope around their wrists. His hands were trembling slightly, and the knots were loose, the rope slipping and sagging with every pass. Hawkins tilted their head, watching him work with a bemused expression.
"This it?" they asked, waggling their fingers. "Thought ye were tryin’ tae keep me from escapin’, no’ makin’ me some half-arsed friendship bracelet."
"I-" Grey stammered, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "I don’t know! I- I don’t know, okay? I’m figuring it out!"
Hawkins gave an exaggerated sigh, shaking their head. "Christ Almighty. Go an’ get more rope, then. Maybe some bloody instructions while yer at it."
Grey shot them a withering glare but stood, muttering under his breath as he turned toward the crate.
"Smartass."
The moment his back was turned, Hawkins moved like a coiled spring, rising from the chair with fluid grace. Their bound arms shot forward, looping around Grey’s torso like a trap snapping shut. They didn’t start choking him but held him tight, pressing their chest to his back as they leaned in close.
"Gotcha," Hawkins murmured near his ear, their voice low and amused. They tightened their grip just enough to feel his startled jerk beneath them.
Grey froze, his breath hitching.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, his voice cracking slightly.
"Provin’ a point," Hawkins replied, their tone like honey dripping from a comb. "Ye get sloppy, ye get caught. Now, what’ve ye learned, Grey?"
"That you’re an absolute nightmare," Grey grumbled, twisting his neck to glare at them.
Hawkins chuckled, the sound vibrating against his back. "Aye, but ye love it."
Grey stood stock-still for a moment, his breath shallow and quick. Then, with a sudden burst of movement, he lifted his boot and stomped down on Hawkins’ foot. Hard.
Hawkins yelped, the sound sharp and indignant as they jerked back.
"Ah, bloody hell, Grey!" They loosened their grip instinctively, and Grey seized the opportunity. With a swift motion, he twisted free, turned, and shoved them back. Hawkins stumbled, their shoulders hitting the wall with a dull thud. Grey loomed over them, his face flushed and his eyes blazing with a determination that hadn’t been there before.
"How’s that for sloppy?" He snapped, his voice a low growl.
Hawkins blinked, momentarily stunned, before a wide grin split their face. "There ye go, lad! That’s the bloody spirit!" They crowed, their voice brimming with approval.
But their praise was short-lived. With a practiced ease born from years of scrapping, they wriggled their hands free of the loose rope Grey had tied moments earlier. The bindings fell to the floor like an afterthought.
"What the-" Grey barely had time to react before Hawkins lunged, their laughter ringing out like an ominous bell.
They collided in a tangle of limbs, the force sending Grey staggering back. He tried to maintain his footing, but Hawkins was already on him, using their weight to push him toward the chair. The two grappled, their movements wild and chaotic like a pair of boxers in a back alley brawl. Grey managed to get one hand on their shoulder, attempting to shove them off, but Hawkins ducked, their wiry frame slipping out of his grasp.
"Not bad!" Hawkins grunted, their voice breathless but amused. "But yer still nae match fer me!"
Grey growled in frustration, throwing himself forward with all the force he could muster. But Hawkins was faster. With a sharp pivot, they hooked their leg behind his, sending him off balance. Grey landed in the chair with a jarring thud, the rickety frame creaking ominously beneath him. He thrashed as soon as he hit the chair, his muscles coiling like a cornered animal. His shoulders jerked forward, his wrists twisting wildly to escape the rope Hawkins expertly looped around them. The chair creaked and wobbled beneath him, threatening to collapse under the strain of his struggle.
"Let me go!" Grey barked, his voice sharp and laced with panic. He kicked his legs out, his shoes scraping against the dusty floor as he tried to push himself upright.
"Oh, calm yersel’, ye big bairn," Hawkins muttered, their voice a mix of amusement and exasperation. They pressed a firm hand to his shoulder, pinning him back against the chair with surprising strength for their lean frame. "Ye keep flailin’ like that, an’ ye’ll break the bloody thing. Then where’ll we be, eh?"
Hawkins wasted no time. They grabbed the discarded rope and moved with surprising efficiency, looping it around Grey’s wrists and pulling them behind the chair. Grey squirmed, twisting his shoulders and trying to break free, but Hawkins just chuckled, their hands deft and sure as they secured the knots.
Grey twisted again, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. "Hawkins, I’m serious!" he snapped, his voice rising as his panic bubbled over. "Let me go!"
"Serious, are ye?" Hawkins quipped, their tone light and teasing as they tightened the final knot with a brisk tug. "Aye, I can see that. But ye’re nae gettin’ out o’ this one, lad. You asked me to teach you, ye’ve got tae learn somehow."
Grey yanked against the bindings, his movements growing more desperate. The rope bit into his skin, holding firm despite his struggles. Hawkins stepped back, arms folded, and watched him with a raised brow and a smug tilt to their grin. Grey stilled, his chest heaving as he glared up at them, his eyes bright with frustration and a flicker of something else - resentment, maybe, or grudging respect. The rope held fast, and as the fight drained out of him, he slumped back into the chair with a defeated groan.
Hawkins leaned in, their grin sharp and teasing as they crouched until they were eye level with Grey. Their breath was warm against his flushed skin, and their fingers tilted his chin up with a gentle but insistent grip, forcing him to meet their gaze. Grey’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, his defiance tempered by the faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.
"This what ye’re wantin’ tae learn, then?" Hawkins asked, their voice low and laden with mockery, each word a playful jab. "How tae turn the tables, aye? Ye wanna be the one wi’ the upper hand, like me now?"
Grey grumbled something unintelligible, his gaze darting away from theirs and fixing somewhere over their shoulder. His breaths came fast, his face warming under the weight of their proximity. Hawkins chuckled, the sound rich and full of mischief, as they leaned in even closer.
"Aye, thought so," they murmured. Their eyes flicked down briefly, catching on something that made their brow arch. A devilish grin spread across their face as they glanced back up at him. "Och, Grey," they drawled, their tone dripping with mock innocence. "Is that an unlicensed shotgun in yer pocket, or are ye just thrilled tae be trussed up like this?"
Grey’s entire face turned a shade of crimson that could rival the sunset, his eyes widening before he snapped his gaze away, focusing intently on the far wall. His lips parted as if to retort, but no sound came out, and he quickly pressed them shut again. His fidgeting became more pronounced, his shoulders hunching as if trying to curl away from the situation entirely. Hawkins’ grin faltered as their eyes flicked down again, a flicker of genuine surprise replacing the teasing glint in their gaze.
"Bloody hell," they muttered under their breath, the words barely audible. Their teasing demeanor wavered for a split second as they glanced back up at him, their expression caught somewhere between shock and amusement.
Grey, resolutely refusing to meet their eyes, looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. His ears burned red, the flush creeping all the way down his neck.
Grey’s foot shot out, catching Hawkins lightly on the shin. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, more of a petulant swipe than a real attempt to free himself. His glare was sharp enough to cut glass, though, his jaw tight as he spat out, "Go away, Hawkins. And shut up."
Hawkins stepped back, rubbing their shin dramatically as if the kick had been a mortal wound.
"Oh, aye, such gratitude fer yer teacher." They chuckled, the sound low and rich, as they straightened with an easy grin. "Alright then, if that’s how it is. I’ll leave ye to it. Let ye figure out how tae wiggle yer way out. Shouldnae be too hard… fer someone who knows what they’re doin’."
" Hawkins. " Grey growled, his voice low and warning, but his words caught in his throat when Hawkins waved him off over their shoulder, their boots scuffing against the wooden floor with deliberate slowness.
"Dinnae worry, mate," Hawkins said, their tone breezy, as if they were discussing the weather instead of abandoning him. "Ye’ll have plenty o’ time tae think about what yer doin’. Or no’ doin’, as the case may be."
They reached the door, glancing back with a cheeky smirk. "Good luck, Grey. Ye’ll need it."
Grey’s eyes widened, his panic breaking through his earlier bravado.
"Wait!" he barked, his voice cracking slightly. "Get back here! You can’t just leave me like this!"
Hawkins paused, hand on the doorframe, and tilted their head as if considering his plea. For a moment, Grey thought they might actually relent, but then they shrugged, their smirk widening.
"Aye, I can," they said simply, slipping out the door before Grey could muster a response.
The room was eerily quiet without them, the faint creak of the door fading as it swung shut. Grey sat frozen for a moment, his breath loud in the stillness. The chair beneath him wobbled slightly as he shifted, testing the bindings again. The ropes bit into his skin, holding firm, and frustration boiled over, hot and sharp in his chest.
"Hawkins!" He yelled, his voice echoing off the walls.
No response.
" Hawkins! "
No response. Just the faint hum of the house settling, the dust motes swirling lazily in the beam of sunlight from the narrow window. Grey’s jaw clenched, his mind racing with a mix of fury and something dangerously close to embarrassment. He shifted in the chair, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. He leaned forward, testing the strength of the ropes again, but they held firm, biting into his wrists and pinning him against the rickety wooden frame. With a low grunt, he tried to stand, his legs pressing into the floor, but the bindings only dug deeper, tethering him like a ship lashed to a dock.
"Damn it, Hawkins…" he muttered, his voice a venomous hiss. His frustration churned in his chest, a hot, restless thing that wouldn’t settle. His eyes darted to the door, his mind painting a vivid picture of Hawkins rummaging through his kitchen, tossing cupboards open with gleeful abandon - probably had already found the good biscuits.
The oppressive quiet of the room settled over him like a thick woolen blanket, heavy and stifling. Every creak of the old house sounded amplified, the faint groan of the beams above like a distant, mocking laugh. The silence was a presence, pressing down on him, making the room feel smaller, more suffocating.
Then, just as his frustration was about to boil over, the door creaked open.
Hawkins’ head poked through the gap, their grin as bright and cheeky as ever. They leaned casually against the doorframe, their eyes dancing with amusement.
"Miss me already?" they asked, their tone dripping with mock sweetness.
"What the hell are you doing? You're just gonna leave me here to rot?"
"Rot?" Hawkins echoed, stepping fully into the room, holding their hands behind their back. "Och, come on now. Ye’ve only been alone fer… What, five minutes? Thought ye’d appreciate a bit o’ peace an’ quiet."
"Peace and quiet?" Grey barked, his voice rising. "I’m tied to a bloody chair!"
"Aye." Hawkins said, their grin widening. "An’ yer stayin’ put, looks like. Not bad fer a first lesson, eh?"
Hawkins sauntered closer, their grin sharp and teasing, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse. They tilted their head, their expression a mix of mock curiosity and delight. "So," they drawled, stopping just out of reach, "still havin’ fun, are we? Ye’ve nae escaped yet, which either means ye’re enjoyin’ yerself far too much… or ye’re just not tryin’ hard enough."
Grey’s glare could have melted steel.
"Oh, I’ll get out, you watch it ." he snapped, his tone dripping with defiance. He shifted in the chair, testing the ropes again with a sharp tug. "It’s not that hard. Just gotta focus. Your knots aren’t that good. You’re just arrogant."
Hawkins raised an eyebrow, their grin widening like a sunrise.
"Och, is that so?" They murmured, their tone rich with amusement. From behind their back, they pulled out another length of rope, coiled and ready, as if it had been waiting for this very moment. It dangled from their fingers, swaying slightly like a pendulum, as they took a step closer.
Grey’s eyes narrowed, his bravado flickering for a split second. "What are you-"
Hawkins glanced purposefully downward and chuckled lowly before meeting his eyes again.
"Oh… Just thought I’d ask." They mused, their voice a soft purr as they leaned in slightly, their presence filling the air between them like the crackle of a live wire. They raised the rope meaningfully, their grin impossibly cheeky.
"Want tae make it harder?"