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They're lying in Dee's bed together. 1 AM. Dennis had appeared at her door earlier—no knock, wordless. She'd let him in the same way.
He'd been too defeated to speak. So was she.
She went to her room and let gravity take her into the mattress. He followed, like always.
They'd been lying together in silence, motionless under the covers.
"Maybe we should kill him," she says casually, as if asking what they should order for lunch.
Dennis thinks on it.
He's thought about it before.
He's never actually killed anyone, despite what Mac and Charlie might suggest. It's annoying they think he's a murderer, but also kind of nice to know they find him to be cool enough to have done it.
Dee doesn't think he's cool at all.
Sometimes Dennis thinks about killing someone when he jerks off or has trouble falling asleep. The idea of smothering a big breasted woman to death is one he goes back to a lot.
It's fine.
However, a spectacular orgasm would only last a few moments at most. A lifetime in prison wouldn't be worth it.
Probably.
Besides, once he peeled off all the skin, the fun part would be over. A little bit of blood from a cut or a bite—that's sexy. But buckets of it pooling from a decaying corpse? Gross. Sticky. Getting everywhere.
Oof, all the cleanup.
He'd have to dismember the body. Remove the teeth—dental records. Burn off the fingerprints. Dispose of organs, bones, all that disgusting biology.
Hide it from the cops, but mainly from Mac. Charlie. They'd know something was off.
And Frank—god, Frank—already vile alive, imagine him dead—bloated and leaking and still somehow revolting—
Dennis gags and covers his mouth to keep from hurling.
Dee laughs, her shoulders shaking against his. When she turns to him, her expression says she watched every second of that spiral play out on his face.
"Yeah, it would be pretty gross wouldn't it?”
she asks like she already knows the answer.
Dennis manages to stop gagging, then groans and covers his face in his hands.
She laughs some more.
"Also you're definitely too much of a pussy to do anything like that," she adds.
Dennis scowls.
"You bitch!" he exclaims. "As if you could!"
Dee scoffs.
"Oh I could, Dennis," she says confidently. "I've thought about it a lot actually.” She sighs wistfully as if having a fond memory. “One time I had a pretty stellar orgasm to the idea."
She looks genuinely proud of this, which is kind of pathetic and pretty disturbing.
Very on brand.
Dennis rolls his eyes.
"We've ALL jerked off to the idea of killing Frank, Dee," he waves a hand dismissively. "You're not special."
Dee snorts and laughs.
"Barbara certainly has."
Dennis laughs too, despite himself.
"She told me once," he admits.
The confession hangs between them. Then-
"Ewwwww," Dee groans.
Laughter escapes despite themselves, then tumbles between them until they're breathless. Her mirth fades first. Something sharp flickers behind her eyes and her smile trembles. Her brows pinch as if the idea has teeth.
"I wonder if Mac and Charlie ever think about killing him," she muses.
The thought hits after a moment.
"What?" he says, punctuated with a laugh.
"Well, I just assume everyone who meets Frank would imagine killing him…" she trails off. "But now that I think about it, Mac and Charlie probably wouldn't."
Dennis chuckles despite himself. He'll humor her, why not?
"How do you figure?" he asks.
"Well, Charlie of course wouldn't want to lose his sleeping partner-sugar daddy- ‘night crawler’ or whatever.”
"Well yeah…but why not Mac?"
He doesn't want to think about the answer, but he can't help asking.
Dee snorts and looks at Dennis quizzically.
"Uh, it's Mac," she says, like it's obvious. "Your soy-spined little altar boy doesn't have a murderous bone in his body, too busy wetting himself on the ten commandments."
Dennis winces in disgust.
"Ugh, Dee," he complains.
She cackles.
"Am I wrong?" she challenges.
Dennis stutters. Unexpectedly, Dennis finds some defensiveness on Mac's behalf creeping in.
"Y-Yes!" he protests. "He's not some boy scout, Dee!”
"I didn't say that," Dee corrects. "I said he's a soft-shelled dweeb."
“Hey!" Dennis objects. "I'll have you know…he and Charlie might've beat up a bunch of kids to death…so there's that!"
Dee snorts.
"Doesn't count," she dismisses. "That was a team effort, and it was more of a stupid accident. No…only I'm capable of murder…maybe Charlie. He's very capable of getting his hands dirty.” She smiles affectionately as if proud, like a weirdo.
"Heyy!" Dennis whines. "I could kill too!"
She laughs.
"Nuh uh," she says in a singsong voice.
"Ya huh!" he insists.
"Nuh uh!" she repeats. "You'd cry and call for your precious mommy and I'd have to finish the job!"
Dennis attacks her. Within seconds she has a pillow over his head, smothering him. He's about to see the light when he kicks out blindly. She doubles over with a grunt. He scrambles on top of her. He rains down blows that land like tissue paper against stone as she cackles at his expense.
"What's so funny, bitch?!" he spits, but his voice cracks pitifully.
"You are!" she cackles. "It's like being attacked by a pool noodle!"
He sulks and collapses next to her, boneless.
Face burning, he shields it with both hands as she guffaws.
"Deeee!" he complains.
Her laughter stings.
He hates her.
He hates how when he's alone with her he's suddenly a kid again, trailing after his twin sister bully, because his only other friend was mom.
Before she even notices, she's fallen against his shoulder - laughter dissolving into breath.
He feels himself softening, despite himself.
Even with her laughter aimed at him, she looks better like this than she did earlier today. He remembers her face smeared with dog food and something worse—humiliation so profound it looked like grief.
He remembers sitting next to her on the bus afterward. He hadn't needed to look to know she wore the same expression he did: empty and carved hollow.
Frank's favorite toys, broken just right.
"We should kill him," Dennis says.
His voice has gone flat. Final.
She stops laughing. She looks at him and her smile fades a little.
"Dude, we just talked about how you're too much of a pussy-" she starts.
Dennis shifts, propping himself on one elbow.
"Not if I have your help," he interrupts.
Her smile fades completely and she sits up.
"Uh…you're actually serious?" she asks.
He sits up fully, suddenly righteous.
"Deadly," he says.
Dee looks serious for a second.
"Dennis, we won't have to wait much longer," she reasons. "He's on death's door."
"I don't want another second of that man polluting my existence," Dennis insists. His hands curl into fists in the blankets. "We find the will, alter it. Cross Charlie's name right out of the story.”
Dee raises an eyebrow.
“Why cross Charlie's name out?” she says hesitantly, even though she knows the answer.
“We earned it! Charlie was given house pet treatment! Charlie wasn't branded like cattle while we screamed in torment and he laughed! Charlie didn't pay for it in blood, we did! It's ours!”
Dee looks a little stunned…but not really surprised.
She agrees.
Then, she looks contemplative.
"You know for sure he's leaving it to Charlie?" she asks.
"I just assume…the only person he's ever loved…or as much love as the devil is capable of…" Dennis trails off.
Dee laughs bitterly. "Even Hitler loved his dog."
It stings a little.
He sighs in bitter defeat. "And the dog probably loved him too."
Dee hums in sad agreement.
They let it wash over them for a second.
"Charlie would never forgive us," she says quietly.
It cuts through the air like a knife.
The silence is heavy.
This is the real obstacle.
Not logistics, not consequences.
Charlie.
"He doesn't need to know, Dee!" Dennis argues.
"Charlie isn't as stupid as you think" she counters. "He'd figure it out."
Dennis rolls his eyes.
"No, he wouldn't!" he insists. "We can cover our tracks well."
She looks at him, annoyed.
"Dennis, even an idiot like Mac would be able to figure it out," she says pointedly.
Dennis flinches as if struck.
She gives him a knowing look.
It makes him feel funny.
He recovers.
"W- no Dee- they're so easily manipulated- we- we can just-" he stammers.
Dee rolls her eyes and groans.
"Even if you actually believed we could get away with it… I know you've never actually killed anyone-" she begins.
“But I could- we could - do it. If we do it together.”
She looks at him, assessing.
"No Dennis…" she says with certainty. "You'd…you'd definitely chicken out and leave me to do all the work!"
“No! I-”
“Yeah you would! You’re so fucking fragile!”
It hits like a punch.
“I - w-”
She raises her eyebrows daring him to disagree.
He sighs in defeat.
"Well, okay… you can kill him and I'll dispose of the body," Dennis negotiates. “I'll peel off the skin and-
"Oh God what is with you and the skins?" Dee asks, exasperated. “You even want Frank's skin too?” she sounds disgusted and judgemental.
"Skin is skin, Dee!" Dennis defends.
A beat.
"But no, not particularly," he admits. "This wouldn't be for pleasure. Just what needs to be done."
She looks at him for a bit, then sighs and lays back down next to him.
"It's a nice idea," she says.
Her voice goes soft, almost dreamy.
Dennis bites his lip for a second.
“You really don't think we could?" he asks quietly.
"We could…but we won't," she says. Her voice carries something heavy—sadness, maybe resignation.
"Why?" he breathes out, muscles tight in suspense.
She looks at him, eyes serious.
"You know why," she says simply.
Silence stretches.
Then it hits him.
He does.
He lets out a breath he was holding—deflating.
He collapses flat on his back, the thud muffled by the bed.
"Yeah…we can dream," he murmurs.
They're silent for a bit.
He feels her finger ghost over his, and something in his chest loosens.
They've survived this long. A few more years—they can manage that.
Frank wanted to pit them against each other, bash them together like action figures. He'd succeeded often enough—broken bones, broken trust, broken nights like tonight.
But he failed where it really counted.
Even as kids—when they were given weapons and thrown into the arena, forced to fight like gladiators for their parents' entertainment—he could look into her eyes and see everything.
Even with her hands around his neck, they were never alone.
Any blood Frank drew still ran between them.
Same as today.
Impulsively—stupidly—he grabs her hand.
Waits for her to mock him. As is her way.
The rehearsed sting of rejection. Her specialty. He breaks first and admits what they know.
She never does.
He squeezes tighter before she makes him pay.
She doesn't pull away. Her hand just rests in his.
No rejection as an escape.
He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
He smiles.