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cult-magic · 5 years

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Oh boy, ResDogs fic. Buckle up, kids, it’s gonna be a wild ride.

“Freddy, newly 18 and with no prospects, settles in a vacant house. He gets more roommates than he ever wanted, and some of them are less than human.”

The bus pulled away in a suffocating cloud of hot exhaust and dust, leaving Freddy standing alone at the bus stop with a hand over his eyes despite his sunglasses, wishing he’d spent those few extra bucks on a decent pair of shades. But his money was running low already, the few hundred bucks he’d saved after working for Holdaway at the local precinct going to the bus fare and what little food he’d eaten since he left two days ago. Both his wallet and his stomach were running on fumes now, and he needed a place to stay.

Two hundred and forty dollars had taken him to the middle of Tennessee, where the sun beat down hard and heavy even though it was mid-September. The air was sticky, the tarmac so hot he could feel it through his shoes. Heat waves rolled up from the horizon just down main street. Next to the sidewalk where he stood, a small diner boasted the best white gravy in all the south. Across the street stood an antique store, rusted and racist junk lining the windows masquerading as history.

Freddy went walking until he came across a city hall in the center of the town square. Most of the storefronts surrounding it were empty, a few cars scattered in the parking lot. There was a barbershop across from the front door of the city hall, a pet store next to it with the door open and a loud fan whirring in the vacant threshold.

Inside city hall, it was blessedly cool. The small, empty lobby gave way to one long, white corridor. On the walls were various maps and a copy of the town charter from 1876. The glass was smudged with fingerprints. On either side of the hallway, the pale wooden doors were closed, the frosted glass dim or backlit with the high afternoon sun. In the right corner at the end of the hallway, next to another closed door, a fern was dying slowly.

One door was open on the left side, but when Freddy looked inside, he was greeted by an empty waste management office. He cut his loses and left the building.

Around the back of the city hall, Freddy found a cafe sitting alone among a strip of empty storefronts, claiming to have coffee and milkshakes. Come back after five, the sign said, and they would serve him alcohol too. Freddy wondered if they carded as he stepped in.

The woman at the counter waved him in lazily, said she’d be around to take his order in a second. Freddy slid into the booth, the cracked red vinyl sticking to his sweaty ass and back, pulling his skin unpleasantly. He tucked his bag between himself and the wall.

“What can I get you?” the woman asked when she ambled up a few minutes later. She smelled like cigarette smoke and damp perfumed skin.

“Strawberry shake,” said Freddy. The woman nodded uninterestedly and ambled off to place his order, her scent lingering until the overworked fan in the ceiling swept it away.

When she returned, placing his already sweating glass in front of him, Freddy asked if she knew of any vacant houses around town. She eyed him suspiciously and said, “You can’t spit without hitting an empty place ‘round here.” She ambled off with a little more speed this time, taking glances at him from the counter as he finished his milkshake. He put money on the table and left without another word, her glassy yellowed eyes watching his retreating back.

Freddy walked down a few empty streets, passing only a few people on the sidewalk or in their yards as he went, until he turned down a red gravel road and found a decrepit old house standing in a lot of tall yellow grass, a tangled jungle of trees starting on the edge of the yard. It was isolated, maybe a few miles from town, and deadly quiet. The sun was starting to make its way to the horizon, casting the world in golden light. Freddy decided, looking at the broken living room window refracting stretching orange triangles across the rotting wood of the porch, that this would make a fine temporary home.

He went inside.

...

They took two cars northeast out of Mississippi, passing through Memphis and stopping in Jackson for gas. When they came to Myersville - tiny, sparsely populated, and with only one road in and out - they decided this was home until the heat died down.

Larry was driving the lead car, taking the curves nice and slow so the townspeople took no notice of their little motorcade. It was a rather moot point, seeing as it was so hot today no one was braving the outdoors. They drove through the town square, then on through what Larry guessed to be the only traffic light in the town. He followed the road to nowhere, checking his mirror occasionally to make sure Vega was still on his tail.

Finally, after driving through what passed for suburbs in this town, Larry came across the perfect place. The house was old and had obviously been abandoned for some time, but most of the windows were unbroken and the roof looked in good shape. The grass was tall, but the woods off to the side would provide good cover for the cars. Plus, the place was at least three miles out of town with neighbors half a mile out. In the moments before dusk, Larry decided this place would be HQ until Joe called the all-clear.

He parked on the side of the street in front of the house; he wanted to walk the grass before driving into it so he could avoid something gouging the tires. Vega pulled up behind him and climbed out, Brown emerging from the passenger side. Both squinted into the setting sun to see the house.

“This the best place you could find?” said Brown.

“It’ll work,” said Larry.

Vega nodded. “Discreet and isolated. It’ll work, at least ‘til Eddie gets here.”

“It’ll work ‘til Papa says it doesn’t need to work anymore,” corrected Larry. Nice Guy Eddie was the heir, but Joe Cabot was still the King, and Larry was nothing if not an obedient little knight.

“Okay,” said Pink, “but what do we do with the cars? Any cop sees us loitering around here and they’ll be on us like pigs on slop.”

Vega slapped Pink on the back genially. “You calling us slop?” he asked around his vague, threatening smile.

“Only if you get us caught,” said Pink as he stepped away from Vega warily.

“No one’s getting caught,” Larry interrupted. “We’ll pull the cars around the side after we case the place. C’mon, while there’s still daylight.”

Larry brushed his fingers over his piece where it was tucked into the back of his pants. The place gave him the creeps: the low light cast long shadows over the yellow grass; the dying sunlight glinting off the broken windows on the first floor; the way the gables casted the top windows into darkness. The air smelled like dry dirt and wet rotten wood, and was mostly silent but for the bugs in the trees.

“Creepy,” said Brown offhandedly.

Pink threw a glare over his shoulder. “Be a goddamn professional,” he replied, as he had many times over the weeks they’d planned this job. Even after they had gotten away with the heist, Pink’s paranoia was in overdrive. Not to say that was a bad thing; they’d saved themselves from a nervous rent-a-cop thanks to Pink’s paranoia.

Larry tried the doorknob, unsurprised to find it open already. The porch steps groaned in protest as the other guys followed him. Pink had his gun hanging at his side. Blonde was smoking, waving his cigarette at Brown when he tried to peer around him into the house.

The inside was dark, the trees to the left blocking most of the light that would come into the living room. It smelled damp, like mildew and rotten leaves. The broken window was in the kitchen to the right of the front door, dead leaves and puddles of stagnant water were collecting in the sink and on the floor below it. Down the hall, Larry could see light falling in from open doors that probably led to bedrooms.

“Hey, what’re you-”

All four of them had guns pointed at the kid before any of them really had time to think of it. The kid looked terrified, fear-wide green eyes reflecting the light from the flashlight he had in one hand. He was camped out on a bare patch of floor, a sketchbook open in his lap and a pen clutched in his free hand. A duffle bag at his side was propping up his flashlight hand over the book.

He was dressed like a kid trying to look tough, decked out in a leather jacket over a white t-shirt and dark jeans that all hung off his skinny frame like they belonged to his dad. His hair was dirty blonde and a little greasy with sweat, falling to frame his face like he didn’t know what to do with it otherwise. A pair of cheap sunglasses sat atop his head, probably meant to keep the hair back but not succeeding.

“Shit,” said Larry, tucking his gun back into his pants. “What the fuck are you doing here, kid?”

“Squatting,” said the kid. He was watching Pink, who had not yet lowered his gun.

“Put the fuckin’ gun down,” said Larry. “He’s just a kid.”

“I don’t fucking know that,” said Pink. “He could be a thief, or a fucking rat.”

“He’s got a point,” said Vega, an amused smirk curling around his mouth. He took another drag from his cigarette, posture loose.

Larry glared at him. “Stop egging him on, you fuckin’ degenerate.”

“What’re we gonna do with him?” asked Brown. He was frowning at the kid from around Vega, but was making no threatening moves.

Larry turned back around. The kid was standing now, legs long and ungainly, a little awkward and looking ready to run with nowhere to go. The flashlight was hanging uselessly from his fingers now, the dim light that made it through the gaps in the leaves casting sharp shadows across his pale face. Larry thought, with little difficulty, that he was gorgeous.

“What’s your name, kid?” asked Larry.

The kid hesitated, then said, “Freddy.” The fear in his face had lessened a bit, fading into cautious intrigue.

“And what are you gonna do if we let you go, Freddy?” asked Larry.

Freddy shrugged casually. Larry was caught by the way his hands, long-fingered and elegant, flexed with the motion of his shoulders. “Go find a new house, I guess,” he said. He looked at all of them, eyeing the guns where they were visible. “Squatting isn’t exactly legal, even if it doesn’t ping on their radar next to whatever you did.”

“See?” Larry gestured at Freddy, shooting a smile his way when the kid started to fidget. “He’s not gonna do shit.”

“Oh gee,” said Vega, blandly, “do we really get to keep him?”

Larry rolled his eyes and started moving further into the house. The two doors on the right were bedrooms - one of which was suffering from a hole on the roof and a soggy mattress - and the doors on the left revealed an empty closet and a bathroom, respectively.

“There’s still running water,” said Freddy, “but no electricity. I think it’s from a well. Water comes out kind of red at first, but it seems all right. I wouldn’t drink it, but.” He shrugged. “Should be okay for bathing and cooking.”

Brown whooped, already undoing his tie. “You have no idea how much I need a shower, man.”

“There’s no curtain,” Freddy called down the hallway where Brown disappeared, “or towels, or soap. Try not to make a mess.”

Vega raised a cool eyebrow at Larry and cut his eyes to the kid before going outside to call Eddie and update him on their situation. Pink squinted at them all before disappearing into the back bedroom, whose mattress was dusty and a little moldy but not wet.

Larry sat on the couch beside where Freddy was resettled on the floor. It was dusty and ripped up, one cushion missing and the whole thing smelling of mildew. Freddy had put aside the sketchbook and turned off the flashlight, now sitting with his back against his bag.

“What’re you doing here, kid?”

Freddy sprawled out a little more, forced casual. “Foster system cut me loose,” he said.

Larry’s eyebrows shot up. The kid was probably freshly eighteen, then, really just a kid. “So you packed up and moved here?”

“No.” Freddy made eye contact, like a challenge. “What are you doing here?”

Larry met his challenge head on. “Hiding from the cops ‘til the heat dies down.”

Freddy nodded and turned to watch Vega swagger through the door. He turned back to Larry after staring after him contemplatively. “What’s your name?”

Larry hummed and turned away from those pretty green eyes. “Mr. White.”

...

Weird shit started happening the first night. Brown and Vega took the bed in the back room and Larry convinced Freddy (with surprising ease) to settle with him on the floor of the front bedroom, where it was dry and the broken window kept the hot air circulating. Pink was in the living room, on the floor and using one cushion as a pillow.

Freddy was laid out beside him, sleeping the sleep of the deeply exhausted but newly-freed. Dust motes were floating in the faint moonlight seeping in through the window. Larry was too wired to sleep, so he watched Freddy instead. He really was gorgeous, especially with the soft white light falling across his face, long eyelashes casting gentle shadows on his cheeks. Sometimes, when he shifted, he made sweet little noises that had Larry’s mouth twitching into a smile.

He was knocked from his thoughts by footsteps outside the door, but when he got up to check, the hallway was clear and all three of his guys were sleeping.

Larry turned back to his room to keep vigil over the kid, his gun resting on the pile of his clothes.

...

Larry was woken from his light sleep by screaming, and he was in the kitchen just behind Pink with Brown on his tail, Vega following from outside, all four of them dressed for sleep with guns leveled on the problem.

The problem was this: Freddy backed up against the counter opposite the bloody dead animal, looking like he’d had the life scared out of him.

Larry put his gun down and moved to Freddy, slipping an arm around his back to steady him. “You good, Freddo?”

The kid sucked in a deep breath then started coughing; the kitchen was starting to smell like the thing’s insides. “Shit, yeah,” he said eventually, “just scared me s’all.”

“Well you sure scared the shit outta me,” Pink groused. “I thought someone was dyin’.”

“Someone did,” said Vega. “What is that, some kinda raccoon?” He looked like he wanted to poke it, but all he had in reach was his gun and he treated his piece like his baby.

“Opossum,” said Brown. He wrinkled his nose. “Looks like it’s been dead for a while.”

Freddy let out another breath. “I didn’t see it when I first got in here,” he said. He was trembling gently under Larry’s hand, coming down from the sudden adrenaline spike.

“Probably killed itself trying to get in last night,” said Larry. “Caught on the glass or something.”

Freddy seemed to accept that easily and let Larry lead him out of the room. Larry didn’t add that there was no blood on the window. He did add: “Someone get that shit outta there, it’s disgusting.”

Behind them, the others started arguing about who was handling the mangled little body half hanging out of the sink and who was cleaning up the gore.

...

Freddy was alone in the front bedroom, laid out on the floor and staring at the ceiling. The others were outside, talking about something heist-related to which Freddy was supposed to be privy. He could hear their voices filtering in through the busted window, muffled baritones and distinct profanity. Beyond them, the leaves were rustling in the wind. The sun was high in the sky, the wood where he was lying pleasantly sun-warmed.

Despite being effectively homeless and entirely broke, Freddy felt like he was doing all right for himself. He had a roof over his head, even if that roof leaked, and he had friends, even if his friends were nameless and aloof. White, at least, seemed to genuinely like him, and Blonde liked to tease him. It was more than he’d had before, so that made every bit of this situation precious.

White told him earlier that they were waiting for Joe, whoever that was, to call the all clear. Freddy figured he was some sort of mob boss or something, which as cool as hell if a little scary. It’s not like his life was going anywhere but the ground, anyway, so getting involved wouldn’t necessarily be the worst thing he could do.

Outside, the voices were moving away, probably going to the cars parked around the other side of the house. Freddy strained to hear them, but eventually their voices faded into the nature sounds, so Freddy let his focus drift, and that’s when he heard the murmuring. It was indistinct, soft, almost sounded like insects, but the longer he listened the easier it got to make out the individual voices. They were all talking at once, from every direction, filling the room like a tangible being. Freddy thought of Venom, huge and amorphous and hissing, and felt excited before the sensation fled.

A voice broke through the clamour, a clink of glass among the crunch of gravel: a clear “come” whispered in surround sound that sent a shiver through Freddy. He sat up, staring into the open closet. It seemed darker than it was before, or was that the midday shadows?

Freddy clambered to his feet, cold sweat starting to gather on his face, and stumbled out of the room. He could hear the others on the front porch, anyway, there was no reason not to go greet them. No reason to linger in his terror.

...

“I had the weirdest fuckin’ dream last night,” said Brown during lunch. He was talking around a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “Dreamt I was a little kid again, and my dad was putting me to bed, but it was this house and he was covered in blood.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Larry, grimacing. Freddy grunted in agreement.

Pink groaned loudly. “Can’t I just eat my lunch in peace?” he demanded.

“No one needs to know about your daddy issues, Brown,” said Vega.

Brown made a face. “Who do you think I am, Madonna?”

“You talk about her enough,” said Larry.

“Fuckin’ ugliest Madonna I’ve ever seen,” said Pink.

“Listen assholes-” Brown was cut off by a crash in the back of the house. They were up and going before they were even done swallowing, guns at the ready. Freddy was slinking along behind them, curious but smart enough not to get in front of the action.

They found the the source of the crash in the bathroom. The curtain rod had fallen from above the bathtub, one side of it bent a little, the end broken in an ugly jagged edge like a broken bone. In the wall next to the mirror, the tile was shattered.

“The fuck?” said Pink. He swung around abruptly, sweeping into the back bedroom. The bathroom had no window and only the one door. The rod looked as if something heavy had been dropped from it, or pulled down on it.

He and Vega returned after a few tense moments. “No one’s here,” said Vega. He was cool as ever when he said, “Probably a ghost.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Larry snapped, but the way Freddy shifted beside him made his voice waver.

Vega grinned, smarmy as could be. “What,” he drawled, “little doggy scared of a few ghosts?”

Pink scoffed. “You believe in that shit?”

“Nah,” said Vega, “but our boy sure seems to.” He gestured to Freddy, who was looking a little pale-faced.

Freddy blew out a breath, flipping the bird at Vega. “This is just weird shit, man. Unsettling.”

Behind them, Brown nodded in agreement. “This place is straight outta Poltergeist.”

Freddy’s eyes got a little wider, so Larry told them to knock it the fuck off and pulled the kid out.

...

The day was rolling towards one and Larry and Freddy were settled in the ruins of the living room, Larry reclined on musty couch cushions and Freddy on the floor, leaning back on the couch and sitting on Pink’s makeshift pillow. A sketchbook was open in Freddy’s lap, the same one from the first day they met. They were silent, Larry smoking and staring at the ceiling and Freddy drawing with quiet concentration. The others were elsewhere in the house, occupying themselves as best they could. Somewhere outside, Brown was singing badly, a subpar soundtrack to a pleasant afternoon.

And it remained pleasant until Freddy nudged his leg gently and said, “Hey, look,” while shoving his sketchbook under Larry’s nose.

It was a bunch of figures walking as a loose group, swaggering across the page in comic book style. There were five of them, all decked out in black suits and sunglasses with ties acting as bright pops of color. It was highly stylized and made Larry grin; it was them, a bunch of fucking crooks done up in gel pen ink and thick paper. But he counted again and his grin falted.

“Kid,” he said, “who-?”

“That’s me,” said Freddy, goofy grin taking over his face. “Mr. Orange, fucking green as spring-”

“Kid,” Larry interrupted. “You aren’t one of us,” and god, watching that grin fall off his face was hard, but it needed to be said, “we aren’t some fucking Brady Bunch family, we’re a bunch of dirty thieves and you’re too fucking good to be a part of this. You deserve better than us.” Than me went unspoken.

The sparkle in those huge green eyes had disappeared halfway through his little lecture, his mouth set in a grim, disappointed line that looked too familiar on a face that sweet. Freddy’s eyebrows were drawn low, eyelids drooped, and his lean body held carefully relaxed where it was laying against the couch. “Y’know,” he said, casual as could be, “I don’t think you really get to decide what I deserve.”

Larry realized what was happening, then. He was taking cold for casual, hurt for apathy. The kid was a good actor, he though, better than anyone had ever probably given him credit for. A product of the system. And yeah, he realized he made a mistake right then, too.

...

That night was tense. Freddy laid with his back to Larry, curled into a ball like the last thing he wanted was Larry’s touch. Neither of them slept for most of the night, jumping at any little noise. Some time past midnight, something clattered in their room and Freddy made the most heartbreaking little noise. Larry wanted nothing more than to soothe him, but Freddy never turned to seek comfort, instead curling up tighter when Larry shifted. What little sleep Freddy did manage to get was plagued by nightmares that made him cry out. The one time Larry woke him up, he got a face full of scared green eyes and a weak scowl for his trouble.

The next morning, a hammer sat in the shade of the closet, something brown like rust smudging the handle and head. Freddy let out a puff of breath and shuffled out of the room as soon as he could.

Nice Guy Eddie showed up later that morning, Blue snoring in the passenger seat. Eddie swept into the house, zeroing in on Freddy immediately.

“Who the fuck is the kid?” he demanded, hand already reaching for the gun in the waistband of his fuckugly pants that went with his fuckugly windbreaker.

“Just a kid,” said Larry. “He don’t know nothin’.”

“Fuck’s he doing here?”

“Found him squatin’ when we got here,” said Vega. He was lazing against the kitchen counter. “He’s good company. Gets spooked easy.” Vega wiggled his fingers at Freddy, making half-assed ghost noises. Freddy made a face at him, which made Larry laugh under his breath.

Eddie glared at the kid, probably deciding whether to just kill him anyway, before he said, “Whatever. Keep your stupid mouth shut, kid.”

Freddy waved a hand, said, “Don’t have anyone to tell.” It was one of the saddest things Larry had ever heard, but no one else gave it another thought.

Blue brought in bags of food from the car, enough to last a couple days if someone shared rations with Freddy (even if the kid was an unexpected burden, Eddie wasn’t gonna make him starve). Eddie moved himself into the back bedroom, relegating Brown to the floor so he and Vega could share the bed. Blue put his bag next to the couch in the living room, picking the cushion up off the floor and putting it back in its place on the couch, claiming it for himself.

“Hey,” said Pink, “you can’t take that.”

Blue leveled Pink with a tired glare. “And why is that?”

“It’s mine!”

Blue sighed. “Son, I am sixty-eight years old. If I want the couch and all its cushions, I will fucking well have it.”

The group laughed, but Larry kept his eyes on Freddy. He was smiling faintly, but he was standing back, tucked between the doorway and the counter. He looked sad around the eyes, separated by a distance greater than whatever few feet he’d put between himself and the others.

Larry did that.

...

Eddie got the call at four in the morning. He was loud, greeting the other side with enthusiasm and saying goodbye with even more. “Home free!” he yelled, startling Freddy out of the last vestiges of sleep. The guys called out various exclamations of relief, White chiming in as well. Freddy curled closer to himself and buried his face in his jacket, his stomach churning. They would be leaving tomorrow.

They were ready to go by dawn, stuffed packed away in their three cars. The plan was to split up at the first major highway and meet up in a port city in South Carolina at staggered intervals. White and Pink would show up last after winding their way through Kentucky, up to West Virginia, and then down the coast.

Freddy was standing behind them as they went through the plan one last time, watching with detached interest. None of them had plans to bring him, though he saw White glancing back at him every few minutes. He wondered what White thought he was doing, looking back like he regretted leaving him here. Did he think he was making it easier on Freddy, making him think it was a choice out of his hands? Did he think the pity would make Freddy feel better once they were gone? He was either stupid or cruel.

Blonde slapped him on the back and called him a good pup before he left, a mean smirk on his face that was more familiar than offensive at this point. Brown gave his shoulder a squeeze, perhaps genuinely fond and perhaps patronizing. Pink cast him a suspicious glance on his way out and Blue and Eddie left without a second thought.

White waited until the others were gone before stepping up to Freddy and pulling him into a hug. Freddy stood stiff against him, head down to rest against White’s shoulder.

“Sorry, kid,” said White. Freddy sighed, sagging against him for a moment, letting his weight rest on his solid body. He pulled himself away, looking at White as he moved to stand closer to the ruined couch. They stood in silence, just watching each other. White left after that, wordless in the heavy silence.

The sun was hot on his face as he watched the cars pull away from the broken window. There was no breeze this morning, just hot sunlight and humid air.

Footsteps rang down the hall behind him. “Okay,” he said, “I’m coming.” Freddy turned away from the window, going further into the house.

...

“Shit,” said Larry before he pressed on the break and jerked the wheel around, doing a U-turn in the middle of the street. The two cars in front of them disappeared around a curve.

“What?” said Pink. “Did you fucking forget something?”

“Yeah,” said White, “Freddy.”

“We can’t go back to that fucking house,” protested Pink, “not for that goddamn kid.”

“The hell we can’t.” Larry sped back the way they came, urgency rising in his chest. He couldn’t stop thinking about the look on the kid’s face as they left. He’d seen that kind of hopeless resignation before, in criminals when a heist goes wrong, in cops when a heist goes all too right.

Pink huffed, glaring pissily at Larry. “Why the fuck do you care anyway? Just some kid.”

“He’s grown on me,” said Larry. He parked in the grass in front of the house, barely pausing to undo his seatbelt before exiting the car and running up to the house. He had a horrible feeling something bad was happening in that house.

He found Freddy bleeding from the gut in the front bedroom. It looked like something had tried to tear into him, but there was no weapon, nothing but Freddy’s hands, but the kid couldn’t do that to himself.

Against all odds, he was conscious and reaching for Larry when he appeared in the doorway. “Freddy,” said Larry, collapsing next to the kid and gathering him up as best he could. “Kid, fuck, what happened?”

“You came back,” Freddy croaked. His face crumbled then, in pain and fear and misery. “I don’t want to go anymore. I- bring me back.”

“Yeah,” breathed Larry, “yeah, yeah kiddo, I’m bringin’ you back with me.” He grabbed Freddy’s hands and put them over the wounds, pushing them down. “Put pressure on it, kid, c’mon Freddy.”

Freddy was groaning, no fucking tolerance for pain, when Pink showed up, gun drawn and panting. “I couldn’t find anyone,” he said. “Fuck, that’s a lot of blood. Fuck. Is it bad?”

Larry looked at him. “As opposed to good?”

Freddy cried out, one hand reaching for Larry. “White, bring me- bring me back, please.”

Pink tucked his gun into his pants and said, “What the fuck is he talking about? Bring him back from where?”

Larry paused, looking at Pink. He hadn’t thought of it like that. But that didn’t matter, not yet. “Help me,” said Larry. He lifted one of Freddy’s arms around his shoulder. Pink took his other, bending under Freddy’s weight. “Press on his wound,” he ordered. Pink reached around to Freddy’s belly, bitching the whole time.

They stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hall, out the door and down the ramshackle porch with footsteps from nowhere booming from behind. They staggered across the lawn of overlong grass to the car, Freddy wheezing and crying out Larry’s alias with every step.

Larry opened the back door of the Cadillac and dumped Freddy in, climbing in after him and tossing Pink the keys. “Get to Nashville,” said Larry, “I’ve got a contact there.”

Pink groaned. “You fucking owe me one, asshole.”

“Yeah yeah,” said Larry, “just fucking drive, fishface.”

Freddy’s breathing was labored and he was clutching at Larry’s hands, mumbling “White, White” under his breath. Larry pushed the kid’s hair out of his face, grimaced when all he did was smudged blood over his face. “My name is Larry, kiddo. Can you say it?”

“Larry,” said Freddy. He grinned tremulously, teeth streaked with his own blood. He tried to shift closer and screamed instead.

Larry hushed him, moving to support his head. “That’s it, Freddo. Rest now, we’ll take care of you.”

...

Six years into a life of crime and this was the first time Freddy was seeing the dogs again. Blue had long since retired, but the others were sat around the table like they’d been together all that time. Brown had shaved his awful goatee in the interim and Pink had gained a little weight to fill in his bug-eyed face, but otherwise things were mostly the same. Eddie brought a job from Joe (who was not a mob boss and was, in fact, Eddie’s dad) and, after delivering it, was laughing along with the lot of them at Freddy’s story.

He was telling the one about the ghost baby that haunted his and Larry’s apartment. It screamed and cried and banged on the walls at all hours of the day. Freddy knew it wasn’t actually a ghost; their neighbors had a kid about three years ago and he still cried like an infant, and the banging came from their loud fucking teenager. Still, it was a running joke between them that made for a good story during dinner with their friends, and who said the dogs couldn’t be friends, even if most of them didn’t know each other’s names?

Eddie slapped his hand on the table, still laughing. “You believe in that shit?”

Freddy sobered a little, still snickering but with a tinge of nerves. Beside him, Larry had gone still. Between the two of them, the incident six years ago was still rawest for Larry. “Yeah, I believe in it,” Freddy said, “Why wouldn’t I?”

Eddie snorted. “Because you’re a rational fucking human being?”

Freddy shrugged and leaned back to rest against Larry’s arm, which was stretched across the back of his chair. “I’ve got personal experience.”

Pink groaned. “And he got that personal experience all over my fucking car-”

“That wasn’t your goddamn car,” Freddy laughed, throwing a roll at him from across the table.

“Children, please,” said Blonde, unwrapping a toothpick. Beside him, Brown laughed loudly.

“Says the last guy on earth who still uses toothpicks-”

“What’s that got to do with anything-”

“Oh my god,” said Eddie, “shut the fuck up.” He leaned towards Freddy. “Anyone else seen your fuckin’ ghosties?”

“Yeah,” said Freddy. The table’s occupants nodded in varying degrees of enthusiasm. “Do you think I ripped myself open with a hammer claw?”

“His day’s over if he stubs his toe,” Larry added.

“That’s an exaggeration,” said Freddy. “But it doesn’t matter, ‘cause everyone else knows about the ghosts.”

“Always getcha when you’re alone,” said Brown, nodding sagely. “In your dreams.”

“Oh sure, Madonna,” said Blonde, sending the whole table into peals of laughter.

Freddy leaned into Larry’s side, hand coming to cover his scared abdomen as he laughed. It was the last visible reminder of those lonely few days. Larry always got this pinched look on his face when he saw it, but Freddy liked it. The texture was nice, moving his fingers from numb, rough scar tissue to smooth skin, and he liked remembering that he hadn’t been abandoned to the mercy of more than his share of ghosts.

Besides, he had his own Ghostbuster right here. He grinned at Larry and Larry smiled back, effusively warm.

“I’ll get the bill,” said Eddie when they started to quiet down. “You lot get to work.”

They all pitched in for the tip, though Pink bitched about it until Blonde offered to shoot him to the table at large. They shuffled outside, Blonde and Freddy lighting up the moment they got outside. “See you,” said Freddy, waving at the dogs as they drifted to their own vehicles.

“Later, Orange,” said Brown. He was swinging his keys around his finger on the way to his shitty old Chrysler, and when he got in they could here the strains of KBilly’s turned up too loud through the closed door.

“What a loser,” said Larry. Freddy laughed and followed him to their own car, rolling down the window to finish his cigarette and turning up their own radio.

“Just drive, old man,” he said, and they pulled away in a suffocating cloud of hot exhaust and dust, leaving behind Eddie and Blonde to their argument about whatever.

#reservoir dogs #freddy x larry #freddy newandyke #larry dimmick #mr orange #mr white #it's a haunted house #and a metaphor

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