unfinished mysims agents Deer In Headlights fic be upon ye
for the second time this week, Virgil has been gripped with terror the moment he's alone in the quiet.
it starts the same way every time: Junhwan retires for the night, and Virgil dims the lights and triple checks every exterior door and window. “the doors and windows are locked.” is whispered like a prayer to drown out the noise as he finds it in him to take a shower. he always shampoos twice, and scrubs himself raw from head to toe until the only thing he can smell is the safety and familiarity of rose and sandalwood. by the time he's moisturized and dusted, changed into matching pajamas, and settling down in bed with the dull tones of a white noise machine, the thoughts are already creeping back in. sinister little things, vignetting his psyche and sticking to him like a cobweb.
he's splashed his face with cold water. he’d stepped out barefoot in the snow, once. he's fallen asleep in bathtubs, he's prayed, he's let the thoughts wash over him, he's fought tooth and nail, paced until his feet hurt and picked his skin until it bled and nothing, absolutely nothing, could stop the terror from seeping into his bones.
the themes vary. sometimes, it's shame festering and rotting inside his ribs. other times it's the ghost of disgust brushing against his skin making him nauseous from how filthy he feels, despite no one ever getting that close to him. Virgil even vividly recalls one year as a teenager where he swore he could feel the crackling in his lungs like crushing cellophane in his hands, and he’d lay awake at night, checking every breath.
tonight, however, the terror is pressing in on all sides. it's peering through his windows, his mirrors and doors, the vents and the tv and the alarm clock. everything has eyes, which means that even enclosed in four walls and a locked door, he still feels like a deer standing on highway lines. all he can bring himself to do is clutch the fish shaped pendant around his neck, warm from being tucked under his collar, and run his thumb along the back inscription.
how did you deal with it all? he asks, and of course, he knows the answer will always be alcohol. after all, that's why she’s nothing more than ashes tucked safely around his neck. he doesn't have the luxury of addiction anymore, every last vice ripped out of his hands by one health issue or another. even when he's years clean, he still aches for nicotine, the burn in his lungs, the head rush.
“Mama,” he whispers to no one but the ceiling, his knuckles turning white. “Lord, please. please, just—make it stop. lemme know I'm gonna be alright. please, Mama I'm so scared, please just give me a break or make it swift, I don't care, I—”
a knock on the front door cuts off his racing thoughts, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the startled yelp that escapes him.
Virgil freezes, just for a second, long enough to listen for the creak of footfall that will never come to fruition, as well as to determine whether or not he was hallucinating. unfortunately, the knock came again—insistent, pressing, but not really firm in the way of determination, and certainly not someone of authority. still, it's never good when someone knocks on one’s door at… what time is it? the clock ticks. the hands are too blurry, every neuron in Virgil’s brain too honed in on the dread to be able to tell time.
the cane by the door should be heavy enough. he quickly ties his hair back into a loose mess, not wanting to give any potential intruders an avenue to harm him, as irrational as it may be. as well as tying a fluffy robe around himself and sliding on a pair of slippers before he makes his way towards the front door.
virgil’s steps are light, putting the weight near his toes, and he keeps his steps as close to the wall as possible. years of muscle memory, of creeping down the steps with a quickness and silence that continues to keep him safe even after the danger has been left to rot in his own misery. it all culminates to him creeping to his front door, one hand reaching for his cane, peering through the peephole and—
Martin blinks rapidly, and straightens himself out from the doorframe.
Maybe I made him self conscious of his habits? “It's the middle of the night.” Virgil clarifies. “And you're wearing jeans.”
“Is that really what you wanna focus on right now?” Martin asks, shifting his weight to one side and crossing his arms. Virgil’s gaze flicks downward, noting the movement, and he presses more weight into the hand on his side of the doorframe.
He's still in his jeans. He's about to lecture me on my sleeping habits, but he's still in his jeans. He hasn't changed into comfortable clothes, which means he probably hasn't been home yet… and he wants to lecture me?
“Why are you still in jeans?” Virgil presses. The less likely option is that he thought about me, decided to seek me out, and as a result changed clothes. Martin snorts.
“Rather it be my bathers?”
“yea, nah.” The best way Virgil could describe Martin’s tone was being akin to his mother's, when she’d catch him stealing a juice box in the middle of the night—but only during her good moods. “nah. alright. bedtime for you.”
bedtime. bedtime? what does he mean by…
“You’re dead on your feet, mate.” Now, it was Martin’s turn to press Virgil, leaning forward slightly. a cheating move. invading his personal space just enough to leave him floundering.
Why is he looking at me so intensely? Virgil averts his gaze. the eye contact feels like laying down in the grass and staring up at the sky, and he's not sure if the vertigo is from sleep deprivation, or… maybe it's just a blue eyed thing. unsettling.
he huffs, not realizing he looks less like a haggard agent and more like a kitten.
“I slept seven hours last night!”
“at this rate, you're gonna see the sunrise.”
“well that sounds like a delightful way to start my day.” Virgil retorts, crossing his arms.
“your day never ended!” Martin doesn't seem the least bit fazed by Virgil’s compelling argument. “I’m putting you to bed. lemme in.”
let him— oh, he's serious?
but he can't be, can he? it's Martin, for god’s sake. he calls a twelve pack of Dos Equis a slab of piss. He names his cars affectionate pet names and talks to them like they can hear him, and he swears they sense fear.
When Martin doesn't seem to break, doesn't laugh, doesn't nudge Virgil’s shoulder… when he just stands there expectantly, Virgil sighs, lightly bonking his head on the back of his hand that is leaning against the doorframe.
“martin, no, c'mon. y’ain't gotta—”
Martin barks out a laugh, which makes Virgil lift his head up, brow furrowed.
“I can't make a cuppa tea from your porch, so… c'mon. shoo.”
Virgil lets out his breath, his gaze drifting down to his slippers— I can't believe he's seen me like this— hair still damp, haphazardly clipped out of the way, smelling vaguely of flowery, woody soaps. then he snaps his eyes back to Martin, still looking as expectantly as ever.
the concept of letting Martin in right now was met with a strange apprehension that he couldn't quite place; a brief but intense flutter of something under his ribs that could easily be mistaken for nausea. I haven't mopped, haven't swept, haven't vacuumed. nothing has been dusted. god, and the baseboards are filthy. this place is a mess. I'm a mess.
“Hey.” Martin’s voice takes on a softness that Virgil is unfamiliar with, and it snaps the boy out of his thoughts. his gaze finally lands on Martin. he shuffles aside.
