Work Text:
You knew. You knew . You keep bitterly telling yourself this, but then why does this feel so earth shattering, so shocking? Why does this feel like such a betrayal ?
Because it was a betrayal. Just because you saw it coming doesn’t mean that it wasn’t any less low of him. It just means that he’s a shitty liar on top of being a shitty boyfriend. You whispered your secrets and dreams into his ear, did things with him you’d never done with anyone else, gave him years of your life, and what does he do? Fucks around is what, as if sex is more important to him than your relationship, than you . As if you’re not good enough for him, not enough period.
You’re going to burn down his house, crash his car, and ruin in his life. By which you mean you’ve literally got a can of gasoline and a lighter in the trunk of his car which you’re planning to crash right after you finish blowing up at the Other Man. For now, you park the embarrassment on wheels (you finally feel free to feel disdain at him having painted his waifu on the side of his idiotic truck) besides the apartment building to one Horuss Zahhak. Whore-us. Fitting!
Double checking the room number written neatly on the scrap of paper you’d torn out of the comprehensive file PI Crocker had given you (very professional, you’ll make sure to pump her bank account full of as much as Rufioh’s money as you can get your hands on before he catches on and freezes you out of your joint account), you efficiently lockpick your way into the building. It’s strange. You’re burning with rage, yet it also feels like you’re a million miles away from your body, watching as it nimbly does whatever you want it to calmly and coolly. This is a good feeling. You need it right now, or else all you’d be doing would be screaming and breaking windows. And a window is far too easy to replace. You’re going to salt the fucking earth.
You walk softly upwards, feeling like you should be stomping, tearing your way up flight after flight of stairs, already shouting and swearing.
You don’t bother knocking. You’ve got your lockpicks, don’t you?
The door creaks open and you take one step inside into the dark apartment, and then a voice in your head that sounds like yours says hey wouldn’t it be funny if you walked in on them fucking?
And you freeze.
You stand there silently for a long moment and you can’t seem to bring yourself to move even as you hear approaching footsteps. He rounds the corner. You recognize him from the pictures Detective Crocker had solemnly slid over her desk to you. Smiling at Rufioh. Standing close to Rufioh. Holding hands with Rufioh.
Kissing Rufioh.
He’s not as put together as he was in those photos, which makes sense. In those he was on a date with a handsome, kind (ha!) man. Here, he’s alone at home. Or so he thought. His dark ponytail is far messier, and he’s not wearing his shades. Large shirt baggy enough to mostly cover his ridiculous muscles (but you can still go for his eyes, his throat ), and comfortable looking pajama pants with a hoof print pattern. Fuzzy socks.
Fuzzy. Socks.
He gasps when he sees you, eyes wide, and he recoils a step backwards in his shock.
“Whore,” you rasp. “I am Damara.”
“What!?” he asks. For some reason, this really brings back the rage in a way his weak points and his fuzzy socks hadn’t quite managed.
“The girlfriend ,” you hiss, infuriated. You’d imagined them whispering about you like some sort of dirty secret, an obstacle that made their entire tryst seem all the more forbidden and exciting. The thought had made you want to scream. But for some reason, Rufioh not even bothering to mention your name to him, or Horuss not bothering to remember it, it. Stings. It hurts as well. Everything hurts. There is no winning except for vicious revenge.
“What are you doing in my home?” he asks, still sounding frustratingly bewildered. Isn’t it obvious? Didn’t he know that he had it coming? Or does he seriously think that he didn’t do something shitty enough for you to be seriously considering castrating him?
“Why the shit do you think?” you ask savagely, and you finally take a step forward. You kick the door shut behind you, and in the gloom of his dim apartment he really starts to look scared. The expression is a balm for your wounded soul. You want everyone to be scared of you right now, forever. People don’t betray people they’re terrified of. They cower. You’re fine with cowering, you’ve decided.
“I-is this a robbery?” he asks, sounding absolutely aghast at the idea despite the fact that he’s seven feet of towering muscle and you’re five something feet of a tiny Japanese woman with mascara tear streaks on her face.
“This is not a robbery!” you shout, and you hate him, he’s so awful. Why does he continue to play dumb? “I am Rufioh’s girlfriend,” you choke at the word, clear your throat, ignore the stinging in your eyes. “I… am Rufioh’s now ex-girlfriend. Good riddance.”
You spit on the floor in disgust and note Horuss’ wince.
“And you are the other woman. Pig.”
“No,” he says faintly.
“You are,” you snarl unapologetically.
He shakes his head, strands of loose hair swaying across his vision. “Rufioh isn’t-- he wouldn’t. No.” He breaks out into a sweat.
You stare at him for a moment, before reaching into your pocket. You grab your phone and throw it at him, not caring if it breaks or not. It thumps into his stupid-big chest and then falls onto the carpeted floor. He looks down at it and picks it up, the sole piece of garbage on his floor. This place is creepy-clean.
“... You dropped your phone?” he tries, and you rake your hands through your hair to stop yourself from punching him.
“Press the--! Just look at the picture on the screen!”
He does. He stiffens, and the phone finally breaks in his hand. You know what he saw. A picture of you and Rufioh, his arm around your shoulders, your lips on his cheek. It’s undeniably recent (you switch it several times a month, your gallery’s full of pictures of the two of you together and more of just him. You were lovestruck. Your first real relationship.), snow in the background, his nose still healing from him walking into a fucking doorframe a week ago. You’re going to rebreak it for him.
Is this how Detective Crocker felt when she saw your face crumple at seeing the pictures? Undeniable evidence of the man you loved loving someone else behind your back? Or rather, evidence that he’d never truly loved you all along. Because if he did, then why would he hurt you like this?
Probably not. You’re sure Detective Crocker’s seen that face on a weekly basis for years. And your situation is… complicated.
You hadn’t thought about what you were going to do here. You had no plan. You were too furious. You were going to wing it. Breaks some shit, shriek some accusations, watch him cry.
Two out of three isn’t so bad.
He sniffles, and you realize that you really, really don’t want to see this guy cry any longer. No thank you.
“Stop that,” you snap at him. His face does something complicated and ugly, but he manages to stop, rubbing roughly at his face. “That cheating pig should be the one who’s crying, here.”
“I,” he rasps, voice wobbly. “I am so terribly sorry. I didn’t realize--”
“Obviously!” Well, it hadn’t been obvious to you only moments ago, but whatever. “Trust Rufioh to trick someone into being his mistress. I somehow managed to think too highly of him once again. Will not happen a third time.”
He stares at you for a long moment, seeming to have no idea what to say or do from here. You don’t either. Well, when in doubt, be rude. Something your mother used to say.
“Is this how you treat your guests?” you ask him, ignoring the fact that you literally broke into his place.
“Oh, of course!” he says, strangely not offended, shocked out of his upset by the apparent sheer magnitude of his impolitiness. You suppose Rufioh likes his significant (or not so significant to him at least) others a little odd. You like odd. A thing you agree on that you won't let him ruin for you. “Do you want anything to eat, to drink?” And now there’s nothing but a slightly too intense polite smile on his face, all earlier weeping forgotten for the moment. Clinging to manners. Fine. Acceptable.
“Ice cream.” It’s the first thing you think of. Classic breakup food. You’re experiencing a breakup now, aren’t you? The both of you.
“What flavor?” he asks, and you’d seriously been doubting for a second there that a walking heap of muscles like him even would have ice cream (you’d been preparing to get him to go and buy you some, fuck if you're going to guzzle a bucket of protein powder or what fucking ever), but apparently that’s a question he has to ask, so. You tell him to just give you everything.
The ice cream tubs cover the entire surface of his coffee table, some of them even having to be put on the ground.
What the fuck. This is weirdly hilarious. You feel mildly cheered for the first time today.
“You will help me,” you tell him, pointing a spoon he hands you at him.
“With eating the ice cream?” he asks you.
“Yes,” you say in your best duh voice. And then you think for a moment, inspired. You smile, and Rufioh used to compliment you on how sweet your smile was. This doesn’t feel like any kind of smile you’ve ever worn before. “But you will help me with other things too. It will help you as well.”
“Like what?”
“Burn down his house, crash his car, and ruin in his life,” you repeat, like a mantra, a prayer.
It turns out that Horuss knows how to make bombs. That’s best friend material, right there.