isn't even talking to you begging enough, where the hell else mai suppoeds to go *am i supposed to
if they find me dead and see that a sheriff's deputy refused to help me find shelter, you WILL look like a certified piece of shit fyi
begging by text all looks sarcastic anyway, tell me where you are, i'll beg in person
[ Give him another twenty minutes for his fingers to be too cold for texting, and the buzzing swells into a proper phone call. Hopefully he hears it over the near climax of the movie. ]
[ the phone is now buzzing as if there's a fucking phone call. gator leans up off of the floor, checking the bed, and nope. he growls in frustration, getting up, his heavy mind and limbs searching for the bzzt bzzt bzzt even if it's to throw it against the wall. when he sees that it's quentin and not his father, or anyone with even a mild significance to him, gator picks up and begins to lay into quentin in a low, hushed voice. he doesn't want to wake his sisters. ]
Motherfucker, what makes you think I owe you a goddamn thing? Here, here. Fuckin' here.
[ a location ping is sent to quentin's phone, his texts fully ignored. ]
Yes, if the barn is warmer than negative-five, I'm there. [ Gator can lay into him as much as he wants, Quentin has the location and the car revs to a start in the background of the call. His grin is audible over the line. ] You guys keep horses, right? A real country family?
Listen here, asshole, you fuck around with the horses and ain't nobody gonna stop my dad from curbstompin' your ass.
[ not that roy is there at the moment, but word travels fast. really fast. gator stands, pulling on a t-shirt, phone on the bed and ignored for a moment. when he's done, he sits on the edge, picking the phone up again. ]
[ He cackles, a little distracted as he pulls onto the road. ] I'm not gonna bother the horses, relax! I was just thinking that all that body heat has to help in the barn, you know? Buncha horses, buncha horseshit...where do the dogs sleep, though? Foot of your bed?
Stop fuckin' laughin', smartass. You think it's all funnin' until you piss the wrong people off around here. Wise the fuck up.
[ gator flicks ashes from his joint, picking it up from the ashtray and giving it another healthy drag. he blows the smoke, listening to quentin ramble the fuck on. it's irritating at best. ]
Shut the fuck up. You ain't sleepin' nowhere near me.
Aw. [ His voice sinks low, rumbling amused and as rough as the sound of gravel under his tires. ] If you don't come near me, how are you gonna hear me beg?
Not trying to get anything, just trying to show my gratitude. [ The smokiness in his voice dissipates with a chuckle, and at a more serious conversational volume: ] I'll be there in thirty. Anything I should know about the property? Turn my headlights off, come from a weird direction, anything?
[ gator rolls his eyes, taking another rip from the joint. he blows the smoke upward, listening, nodding his head. he's too stoned to give a real shit about where the fuck quentin sleeps. it's not like it matters once he gets here. ]
I gotta radio down. Those big men and their guns? Don't fuckin' talk back. I don't want you trackin' blood. The dogs'll smell it.
[ That was...more serious than he anticipated. Quentin is blessedly quiet for a beat, running the numbers on whether or not that freaks him out enough to try to find an alternative. Dogs? Blood? Guns? He shakes his head to himself. ]
Wouldn't dream of it. See you in a few.
[ Whether or not Gator wants to see him, he does have to radio down, which means he gets radio'd back up when a guest arrives on the compound. Sketchy looking kid with an obviously stolen ID, but he swears up and down that he was invited. They give him an escort to the barn (was that joke? Quentin wasn't joking when he accepted, but the Big Men are so serious about it that he wonders if he should have said he was heading to the house), and Quentin is waiting in his driver seat when Gator gets dragged out to get eyes on him.
[ His eyes are wide when he rolls down the window to greet Gator, smile a mile away. He glances back at the escort vehicle, puffs thick into the icy air: ] Holy shit. You weren't kidding.
[ gator's eyes are shining, half-stoned out of his mind, and he grins. he knocks on the windowsill of the door, then lets out a high whistle. passing through, gator walks behind quentin's car, the slow speed causing them all to ride up to the compound easy enough. bumps, bends. another whistle and the gates close, the next set opening out. when they finally arrive in front of the barn, gator whistles a third time. all of the suvs go dark, men climbing out with military-grade arms. quentin is then dragged out of the car by gator's second-in-command, put on his knees. ]
You wanted a place to stay, so I'm givin' you a choice. Barn or bedroom?
[ he leans down on his haunches, head tilted under that ballcap, the way he looks in the darkness - wolfish, hungry. maybe quentin should have mouthed off, the blood would've been worth it to see. gator's mouth twitches, and he taps quentin on the face with his palm - a little harder than it should be, a little more vicious. ]
And this ain't Jeopardy. You got to the count of three.
[ What the fuck has almost entirely lost its meaning by the time he's yanked out by his coat, for how often he repeats it over the slow drive. He's repeated it like a wheezed mantra as his sneakers skid over the gravel, eyes struggle to count men (guns, fucking guns, really?) in the dark. Frozen pebbles bite at his knees like cats' teeth, cold seeping up through his jeans like venom.
[ Gator, looking detached and unreal, asks him the strangest question he's heard aloud in a while, and Quentin gawps, a fish on a hook. ]
B-barn-- [ That's the choice, right? That's what he came here for, least inconvenient, nice and unassuming, a humble choice. But is it rude not to take the bedroom? Is he supposed to accept the hospitality? Surely it's too queer to stay with--it can't be Gator's bedroom, you fucking idiot, he's not inviting you home with him in front of all these guys, of course it's a spare room or something so--three seconds! ] Bedroom!
[ Can't say both, get it straight-- ] Bedroom. [ Repeated more surely, but more quietly. Quentin wiggles a little under the grip at the back of his neck, hands fisting over his knees. He peers back at Gator, more confused than scared...but plenty scared. ] But I'm not choosey.
[ oh, it's the fear gator likes best. he was raised that way, to see where humanity lies between fight-or-flight. the look in quentin's eyes is worth it, his stammering, the fact that he's cold and tired and scared. gator licks his fingers clean of it, like a fresh kill on tillman soil. quentin's mouth is open and when he finally gulps out that he wants a bedroom - gator's grin is sinister, and he stands up straight, nodding for his second to get quentin off the ground. ]
See, that's the right answer. We might just learn you yet.
[ the men laugh, gator laughs, glock now out of its holster on his thigh. he points the weapon at quentin, then nods to the house with a jerk of his chin. the lights are on, but it's clear that no one's inside. gator's the man of the compound tonight, tomorrow, and for a few more days. he happens to like it that way, but now that he has a guest, it's all the more fun. ]
[ The gun comes out and Quentin's hands jerk up automatically. The man behind him holds his neck firmer, only to shove him free when Gator gives the order. Quentin casts a look back at him and scrubs the back of his neck--throws a look around at anyone whose eyes he can see in the relief of headlights. One man pulls a face at him, a well, go on! kind of look. His guts feel liquid and wobbly, legs unsure underneath him as he stands--but a shower does sound good. He goes for his duffel bag (or flinches back towards the house if he's not allowed) and goes to make the walk. ]
Kinda feels like all of that could have been done without the--fucking guns. Ha.
[ The suggestion comes low and careful once he's inside and a low voice won't get lost in the wind. He doesn't know where the bathroom is, and he wants grounding. So he just watches Gator, for cues, for security. Tries a confidential, collegial tone as doors slam shut and headlights head back down the drive. ]
But I guess uh. That's how you do it up here. Thanksgiving must suck.
Don't like us bein' careful? Too fuckin' bad, shithead, march.
[ the gun is at quentin's back, nudging him forward, keeping him walking. it doesn't matter if it goes off, right? just another body on the pile, the ever-growing plots of tillman land. it's all buried on bones; those that roy tillman deems unlawful. gator just lends a hand in that, doesn't he? he helps, he kills, he does what he can to be just like his daddy. ]
Keep goin', go up the stairs.
[ the house is much warmer than outside, the snow flurries hitting the window softly. it'd be nice, it'd be a cute little christmas card, save for gator holstering his gun as he stomps up the stairs after quentin, watching him. substances don't normally add anything but sloppiness in other people's systems, but gator, he's sharp. vigilant. alert. he pushes quentin through one of the doors, yanking him, shoving. it's the one at the end of the hall, right near gator's bedroom, the door open. when he closes it behind him with his boot, he reaches back and locks it from the inside. ]
Strip. You ain't sleepin' here 'til you're clean. Got it?
Okay, okay! I'm not gonna complain about a fucking shower, take it easy! [ Maybe it isn't far, but there's a huge sense of relief when the gun is put away. Quentin takes the inch given to elbow and slap back at Gator, even while he bumbles into the bathroom. He's got more than half a mind to turn the showerhead on and start peeking through cabinets--
[ But then Gator shuts them both in. One hand reaching for the shower knobs, Quentin pauses to scowl at him. ]
[ he sits on the edge of the sink, legs open, head tilted. it's as if he's watching to make sure it's done correctly, but there's a meaner edge to it. it's humiliation, plain and simple, and gator gets off on knowing that choices are limited. they always are, way out here, where no one would care if another corpse was laid to rest. ]
Strip. Take a shower. I ain't gonna say it again.
[ and just like that, gator reaches forward. he smacks quentin at the back of his head, near his spine, a quick slap. a laugh follows, and it's hard to tell which is worse - the sound of skin on skin harshly, or the bark that comes from gator's throat. ]
[ Quentin swats back at that with an muted cut it out! and, despite precedent suggestion that pausing is a bad idea, holds his glare at Gator for another few seconds. Words stop up against the front of his mouth, shuffle out dully: ] I don't--
[ But then he bites his lips shut. Mad. Pouting, like a kid. He cranks the water on.
[ The thing is, he may be easy, but Quentin still has his forms of privacy that he clings too. As he sheds out of his coat and shoes, letting them pile on the floor haphazardly, he's painfully aware that he can think of the last person that saw him naked. Half naked, sure, clothes askew in the dark. But he doesn't let people see him like this.
[ As the steam builds, at least there's a good chance that it obscures the scars. The little ones inside his thighs, over his sides, that he usually forgets about. He's out of his pants easily enough. The sweatshirt and shirt underneath are more awkward; as he peels out of them, he tries to angle his eyes away and his good shoulder towards Gator to hide the thick strips of scar tissue slashed over the left side of his chest--stabbed all the way through his shoulder on the back.
[ His clothes look muddy gray on the floor, flushed skin too pink in the tidy little bathroom. Just get it done. He doesn't spare Gator a look before slipping under the steaming water. ]
[ gator wants to rear back and hit him again, wants to show him what respect looks like, but instead he merely watches with cold eyes as quentin steps under the water. he looks him over, unimpressed, gun now on his lap as he pulls the safety. he checks the clip, reloads, then pulls back the hammer. ]
Listen, now. You're gonna wash up, then you're comin' to bed. With me. That's the only way I know you won't steal anythin'.
[ gator's lips purse, and he lifts the gun, the barrel pointed upward. he taps it to his forehead, his temple, then points it at quentin. ]
Yeah, I got it. [ The shower curtain is not going to protect him from a bullet, but it's incredible what a thin membrane will do for a mouth's confidence. He's soaking himself down despite the lip. The heat of the water does wonders for the steadiness in his body, the scent of multi-use wash in his palm tickling some pleasant locker room memory. Jesus.
[ He spares a glance out at Gator as he soaps through his hair. The shitty product carves the grease out of his curls in seconds. ]
No, you didn't, and you rolled out the...paramilitary welcome wagon too. [ Scoff away. Quentin scrubs the suds out of his hair, rubs the lather over the scars that Gator blessedly hadn't remarked on, lets his hands rinse clean before turning his face into the stream. Yeah, that's...good. Brisk, but good.
[ He's just as brisk lathering up again to clean the crooks if him--his pits, his crack, course and quick around his dick. ] I guess I'm just trying to calculate the cost of all this kindness.
Oh yeah? Think that's bad, huh? You scared of freedom?
[ guns and god bless america. not that gator has ever given two fucks about his father's religious bullshit, but he knows better than to speak on it to fucking quentin. instead, he keeps the military attitude, hoping that is threat enough alone. the gun is just a plus, isn't it? ]
What, you think I'm just gonna toss you out? Oh, baby, you ain't got a clue.
No, I'm pretty sure you're gonna get your due one way or another.
[ He turns off the water with a low thunk, pushes the curtain all the way to the side and holds his arms up for inspection. Turns to the back. About face again, lifting his junk up for the whole review. How's that for military? ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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yourek idding me
youre serious?
isn't even talking to you begging enough, where the hell else mai suppoeds to go
*am i supposed to
if they find me dead and see that a sheriff's deputy refused to help me find shelter, you WILL look like a certified piece of shit fyi
begging by text all looks sarcastic anyway, tell me where you are, i'll beg in person
[ Give him another twenty minutes for his fingers to be too cold for texting, and the buzzing swells into a proper phone call. Hopefully he hears it over the near climax of the movie. ]
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Motherfucker, what makes you think I owe you a goddamn thing? Here, here. Fuckin' here.
[ a location ping is sent to quentin's phone, his texts fully ignored. ]
You wanna sleep in the fuckin' barn?
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[ not that roy is there at the moment, but word travels fast. really fast. gator stands, pulling on a t-shirt, phone on the bed and ignored for a moment. when he's done, he sits on the edge, picking the phone up again. ]
Maybe I'll let you sleep with the goddamn dogs.
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[ gator flicks ashes from his joint, picking it up from the ashtray and giving it another healthy drag. he blows the smoke, listening to quentin ramble the fuck on. it's irritating at best. ]
Shut the fuck up. You ain't sleepin' nowhere near me.
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[ tit for tat, bad for badder. gator whispers, annoyed, but it comes out just as silky as he can manage. ]
You ain't never gettin' this.
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[ gator rolls his eyes, taking another rip from the joint. he blows the smoke upward, listening, nodding his head. he's too stoned to give a real shit about where the fuck quentin sleeps. it's not like it matters once he gets here. ]
I gotta radio down. Those big men and their guns? Don't fuckin' talk back. I don't want you trackin' blood. The dogs'll smell it.
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Wouldn't dream of it. See you in a few.
[ Whether or not Gator wants to see him, he does have to radio down, which means he gets radio'd back up when a guest arrives on the compound. Sketchy looking kid with an obviously stolen ID, but he swears up and down that he was invited. They give him an escort to the barn (was that joke? Quentin wasn't joking when he accepted, but the Big Men are so serious about it that he wonders if he should have said he was heading to the house), and Quentin is waiting in his driver seat when Gator gets dragged out to get eyes on him.
[ His eyes are wide when he rolls down the window to greet Gator, smile a mile away. He glances back at the escort vehicle, puffs thick into the icy air: ] Holy shit. You weren't kidding.
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[ gator's eyes are shining, half-stoned out of his mind, and he grins. he knocks on the windowsill of the door, then lets out a high whistle. passing through, gator walks behind quentin's car, the slow speed causing them all to ride up to the compound easy enough. bumps, bends. another whistle and the gates close, the next set opening out. when they finally arrive in front of the barn, gator whistles a third time. all of the suvs go dark, men climbing out with military-grade arms. quentin is then dragged out of the car by gator's second-in-command, put on his knees. ]
You wanted a place to stay, so I'm givin' you a choice. Barn or bedroom?
[ he leans down on his haunches, head tilted under that ballcap, the way he looks in the darkness - wolfish, hungry. maybe quentin should have mouthed off, the blood would've been worth it to see. gator's mouth twitches, and he taps quentin on the face with his palm - a little harder than it should be, a little more vicious. ]
And this ain't Jeopardy. You got to the count of three.
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[ Gator, looking detached and unreal, asks him the strangest question he's heard aloud in a while, and Quentin gawps, a fish on a hook. ]
B-barn-- [ That's the choice, right? That's what he came here for, least inconvenient, nice and unassuming, a humble choice. But is it rude not to take the bedroom? Is he supposed to accept the hospitality? Surely it's too queer to stay with--it can't be Gator's bedroom, you fucking idiot, he's not inviting you home with him in front of all these guys, of course it's a spare room or something so--three seconds! ] Bedroom!
[ Can't say both, get it straight-- ] Bedroom. [ Repeated more surely, but more quietly. Quentin wiggles a little under the grip at the back of his neck, hands fisting over his knees. He peers back at Gator, more confused than scared...but plenty scared. ] But I'm not choosey.
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See, that's the right answer. We might just learn you yet.
[ the men laugh, gator laughs, glock now out of its holster on his thigh. he points the weapon at quentin, then nods to the house with a jerk of his chin. the lights are on, but it's clear that no one's inside. gator's the man of the compound tonight, tomorrow, and for a few more days. he happens to like it that way, but now that he has a guest, it's all the more fun. ]
Walk up to the house. You're gonna take a shower.
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Kinda feels like all of that could have been done without the--fucking guns. Ha.
[ The suggestion comes low and careful once he's inside and a low voice won't get lost in the wind. He doesn't know where the bathroom is, and he wants grounding. So he just watches Gator, for cues, for security. Tries a confidential, collegial tone as doors slam shut and headlights head back down the drive. ]
But I guess uh. That's how you do it up here. Thanksgiving must suck.
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[ the gun is at quentin's back, nudging him forward, keeping him walking. it doesn't matter if it goes off, right? just another body on the pile, the ever-growing plots of tillman land. it's all buried on bones; those that roy tillman deems unlawful. gator just lends a hand in that, doesn't he? he helps, he kills, he does what he can to be just like his daddy. ]
Keep goin', go up the stairs.
[ the house is much warmer than outside, the snow flurries hitting the window softly. it'd be nice, it'd be a cute little christmas card, save for gator holstering his gun as he stomps up the stairs after quentin, watching him. substances don't normally add anything but sloppiness in other people's systems, but gator, he's sharp. vigilant. alert. he pushes quentin through one of the doors, yanking him, shoving. it's the one at the end of the hall, right near gator's bedroom, the door open. when he closes it behind him with his boot, he reaches back and locks it from the inside. ]
Strip. You ain't sleepin' here 'til you're clean. Got it?
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[ But then Gator shuts them both in. One hand reaching for the shower knobs, Quentin pauses to scowl at him. ]
...I can do it myself.
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[ he sits on the edge of the sink, legs open, head tilted. it's as if he's watching to make sure it's done correctly, but there's a meaner edge to it. it's humiliation, plain and simple, and gator gets off on knowing that choices are limited. they always are, way out here, where no one would care if another corpse was laid to rest. ]
Strip. Take a shower. I ain't gonna say it again.
[ and just like that, gator reaches forward. he smacks quentin at the back of his head, near his spine, a quick slap. a laugh follows, and it's hard to tell which is worse - the sound of skin on skin harshly, or the bark that comes from gator's throat. ]
Move it.
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[ But then he bites his lips shut. Mad. Pouting, like a kid. He cranks the water on.
[ The thing is, he may be easy, but Quentin still has his forms of privacy that he clings too. As he sheds out of his coat and shoes, letting them pile on the floor haphazardly, he's painfully aware that he can think of the last person that saw him naked. Half naked, sure, clothes askew in the dark. But he doesn't let people see him like this.
[ As the steam builds, at least there's a good chance that it obscures the scars. The little ones inside his thighs, over his sides, that he usually forgets about. He's out of his pants easily enough. The sweatshirt and shirt underneath are more awkward; as he peels out of them, he tries to angle his eyes away and his good shoulder towards Gator to hide the thick strips of scar tissue slashed over the left side of his chest--stabbed all the way through his shoulder on the back.
[ His clothes look muddy gray on the floor, flushed skin too pink in the tidy little bathroom. Just get it done. He doesn't spare Gator a look before slipping under the steaming water. ]
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[ gator wants to rear back and hit him again, wants to show him what respect looks like, but instead he merely watches with cold eyes as quentin steps under the water. he looks him over, unimpressed, gun now on his lap as he pulls the safety. he checks the clip, reloads, then pulls back the hammer. ]
Listen, now. You're gonna wash up, then you're comin' to bed. With me. That's the only way I know you won't steal anythin'.
[ gator's lips purse, and he lifts the gun, the barrel pointed upward. he taps it to his forehead, his temple, then points it at quentin. ]
Do you understand that, shit-streak?
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[ He spares a glance out at Gator as he soaps through his hair. The shitty product carves the grease out of his curls in seconds. ]
What, you're not gonna jack off about this?
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[ he plays with the safety, on and off with his thumb. his face twists, sarcasm, chin nodding upward with a roll of his eyes. ]
You asked for a place to stay, remember? Did I put you out? Nah, I didn't.
[ out of the kindness of his heart, of course. ]
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[ He's just as brisk lathering up again to clean the crooks if him--his pits, his crack, course and quick around his dick. ] I guess I'm just trying to calculate the cost of all this kindness.
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[ guns and god bless america. not that gator has ever given two fucks about his father's religious bullshit, but he knows better than to speak on it to fucking quentin. instead, he keeps the military attitude, hoping that is threat enough alone. the gun is just a plus, isn't it? ]
What, you think I'm just gonna toss you out? Oh, baby, you ain't got a clue.
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[ He turns off the water with a low thunk, pushes the curtain all the way to the side and holds his arms up for inspection. Turns to the back. About face again, lifting his junk up for the whole review. How's that for military? ]
Happy? Can I get a towel?
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