Work Text
This room had to be some evil. The first time an evil that Habit conjured up that truly felt curated to me.
But only because it was simply so
normal.
Weeks and weeks of
nothing.
All the weeks that Habit had insisted I stay put. And by insisting, of course, I meant trapping me. Not that I needed to be trapped, I would have stayed wherever he told me to.
I keep my legs drawn up to my chest. It’s raining out today. I hated rain. And I could gaze out the window for hours, it wouldn’t make the rain go away. A year or so ago would have been a different story, I knew that much. I could influence the weather at least a… small bit. I never… knew how. But I’d done it once when it was raining out, really hard, and it’d ruined Evans plans. I think I’d simply been so upset for him it’d just…. Happened. I willed it to.
Not now. Now, I hoped Habit was drenched as fuck.
And by the sound of it, he was.
I
hear
the squelch of his… entire body, really, before he even opened up the door. He practically slams through it as usual, just barely missing completely tearing it off its hinges. He huffs, slamming the aforementioned door behind him and staring completely dead faced at me.
“Habit,” I’ve perked up, moving to sit on the edge of the bed instead of nearer to the window.
He doesn’t respond immediately, but his dead face becomes a wide, grotesque mock smile. The kind only stalking predators give their prey. But I wasn’t prey, was I? I didn’t fit into that box. Did I?
I don’t dwell on it, knowing dwelling on it will only make it harder. I bring my focus back to Habit.
He steps closer, shedding his coat and hat and hanging them onto the bed post. I instinctively reach up to tussle his wet hair. He’s let it get long, soon maybe it’ll touch his shoulders. A guy could dream.
“...Birdie.” His voice is its own tone, a tone I’ve learned to accept. Like a lot of things. I simply accept them.
His arms are wrapping around me very quickly, shoving me back down onto the bed as he
clings.
Parasitic freak. He’s still dripping wet, his jeans wringing themselves and getting water all over my bedding and my front. I don’t do anything about this, not to move or stop him. Because its nice. He’s an absolute brick wall, he’s basically doubling as a weighted blanket. My body, or the one that had basically been formed for me, had always been too light to me. It worked well for any celestial, heavenly plains but… not quite for earth. Always felt like I was fighting the atmosphere.
Not like this.
He could crush me, just right now, right like this, and I’d be okay with that. And it almost feels like he will, as he squeezes his arms tighter. But he doesn’t. He never does. Maybe he thinks he can’t.
He isn’t as sure of himself as he’d like to portray. It’s no soft spot, no weakness, because he’d still run face first into anything and everything and come out covered in the blood of the exact thing he needed to kill. Sometimes I think he just fucks with things. He just
does
things, not really sure if they’ll really go how he likes. Thats the fun of it, maybe. The thrill that gets him so hot and bothered beneath the collar. But sometimes, when he’s like this with me, I think he holds back on me.
And maybe when I was first met with him, with the horror that wracked through me, the violent illness that had overtaken me, I might have appreciated this. But now… I think I wished he’d get equally violent with me. Wish that tackling was more rough, wish that I’d maybe break a bone or break some skin or
something
. Even if it’d just heal up in less than an hour. I wanted something that didn’t set me so far apart from everyone else. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so desperately in love with him. It. This thing. This disgusting thing.
I run my hands through his hair and he grunts and laughs and makes all sorts of noises that feel
nice
on my ears. He feels nice. But maybe I’m still deluded by the fact that this is still Evans' body. I don’t think so, but it’s nice to pretend.
Habit finally releases me, pushing away from the bed and crossing the room. He throws off his shirt in this process, digging around in the drawers for something new to wear, beginning to unbuckle his jeans. This doesn’t feel like how it used to be, I don’t feel all weird, dont get all shy. I don’t feel like I shouldn’t be watching, or like somethings going to happen after. Not like I used to with Evan. No. This is just a regular occurrence. It feels normal, an everyday sort of thing. I feel nothing at all as he strips down bare and begins redressing.
He finally finishes, everything haphazardly thrown on, and whirs around to face me. Like he’s expecting something. And I know that he is. I’m not giving it to him.
I only sigh, motioning him closer. And he does, but just not close enough. Far enough that I need to grab his arm and yank him towards me. I know it’s on purpose. He snickers above me as I begin what I’d needed him so close for; fixing his belt. And anything else out of place on him. On his clothing, I mean. Everything all together would be quite the task.
He’s so quiet with me. I’m not a big fan of it. Sometimes I like listening to his big, long winded rants about nothing but morbidities and horrors. Sometimes I just want to hear
his
voice talk to me, about anything. And I know Habit knows this. That’s the whole reason he doesn’t talk. Because he knows that I’m not like Vinny or Jeff or anyone else. I’m not unnerved with Habit using Evans voice. Because it was different. In ways that not anyone else could hear, Habits voice wasn’t truly ever like Evans’. It was close, but only because they’re Evans’ chords. His tongue being used. But Habit would always twist them in ways that weren’t correct. He knows that I’m unnerved by the silence, not the speaking.
I finish fixing his attire, not that it really matters anymore, because he’s shoving me over and into the bed to crawl up with me. Any and all wrinkles I’d just smoothed out were popping back up like flowers after winter.
“How was your day, Birdie? How ya liking the new cage?” He says, ever mundanely. Like that was ever a normal sentence.
I shrug, finding a way for us to press against each other again. His big arms surround me, and it's almost overwhelming. On a small, little edge. Never quite, but almost. They’re insistent. Like they have a right to be there. And maybe they do.
“It's… fine. It was fine,” I huff, “It’s unnecessary, though. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know,” He cackles, “But it’s FUN, isn’t it?”
I didn’t really get it. I could pick him apart for hours, and yet he’d always have some new confusing concept. Usually pertaining to his idea of fun. Because really, what did that even mean? What part of this was fun? Even for him, this seemed real boring. He came in here occasionally, layed with me, spoke maybe a few words, and then left. The camera only ever saw me wake up, go to sleep, get changed maybe a few times a week, and stare out the window. Such an interesting show, I’m sure.
“Fun.” I repeat, “I’m sure”
I’ll wake up later, and he’ll be gone again. And we’ll repeat this. But for now, this is fine.