Work Text:
He's slow, methodical. Takes his time. Each careful stripe down Wake's face is smooth, without hesitating, like he's done this all his fucked up life. It'd be impressive if it weren't so terrifying. The blade is sharp enough that he'd bleed out before he noticed the cut, and tied to this chair, with Scratch sitting on his lap, it's not like he has any recourse for what's happening. Scratch's other hand is buried in his hair, using it like a handle to move his head ever so slightly when he needs a new angle. His scalp hurts; his arms ache, from the handcuffs keeping them behind this chair he's on; his head throbs, from whatever Scratch hit him with to get him here.
And Scratch is so close, sitting here on his lap. He can smell Casey's aftershave, feel the heat of his body. He knows Scratch isn't wearing the suit jacket, knows he's rolled up the sleeves on the shirt underneath, only because he saw the man walking towards him earlier; now, he can't exactly move his head and notice all the little details. The only noise between them is that slow, subtle scrape of blade on skin.
Between each cut, Scratch wipes the blade clean on a towel over his shoulder. He steadies the blade back over Wake's face and readies himself for another swipe. Wake swallows.
"Careful now, Alan," Scratch says quietly. "You don't want me to cut you now, do you?"
Wake's not sure, honestly. Maybe he does. Maybe he'd prefer it, to die so quickly and painlessly, even if it's humiliating to be tied to a chair like this, in his fucking pajama pants and nothing else, Scratch sitting on his lap and squirming around in his quest for the perfect shave. Maybe it would be better than going back out there to face the Deerfest throng, again and again and again. The shiny veneer of the first few times has long since faded. He doesn't know how many Deerfests it's been now, how many days upon days have been lost in Scratch's technicolor dream, but he can't say he cares for the experience.
People have started to disappear. Faces he noticed in the crowd, lost. He doesn't know how or why. The first few were some of the elderly, naked Norman and that woman with the bloody hands, knitting obsessively, though now he can't remember her name. Was she Donna? He supposes it doesn't matter. When he first noticed their absences he assumed it was- well. From old age. But then some of the younger people started disappearing too. People who didn't fit the image as well, maybe? That woman who couldn't stop crying, shuddering over speaking to him when she came to get her book signed, trying so hard to keep smiling through the tears.
He wonders what happens to them, but he hasn't found the courage to ask. He knows he doesn't want to know. He knows he's not going to like the answer, knows there's nothing he's going to be able to say to stop Scratch from doing- whatever the fuck it is he's done.
Scratch pulls his hair again, angling his face for a long, steady swipe up Wake's jawline, and he has to force himself not to tense his jaw, not to clench his teeth and accidentally move. He forgets to breathe for a moment, and the moment the blade flicks off his skin he gasps.
"Relax, bestseller. I know what I'm doing."
"Sure."
"Casey's the kind of guy who has this shit down pat." Scratch uses the blade to clean up around Wake's jaw just a bit, quick movements that Wake can barely feel. "Funny, huh? If you asked me what I thought Alex Casey did to shave, I'd guess ... Uses the same rusty disposable he's had for four years, just goes everywhere with four or five little spots of toilet paper stuck to his face." Scratch snorts and turns Wake's head again for the other side of his jaw. "Heh. Or drink bourbon cheap enough to make the hair fall out." He flicks the blade off Wake's jaw and wipes it on the towel again, chuckling. "Ooh, I know. He burns off the hair with his handgun after he takes a few shots-"
"Stop," Wake says softly. Guilt grips his stomach like a fist, threatening to choke him. Casey's blue eyes, devoid of any light, flicker up to meet his gaze, and Scratch hums.
"Fine, fine. We're getting to the hard part anyways." Scratch releases his hair for a moment, gets a better grip on it and pulls Wake's head back, baring his throat. "Now, Alan, I need you to be good and not move, huh buddy?" The blade presses against Wake's neck.
An image occurs to him, then: jerking forward, pulled hair be damned, and the blade slices into him like his flesh is warm butter before Scratch can even shout. Staring down this rotten angle into Scratch's eyes. Blood pouring out of his gaping throat, down his front, down Casey's shirt, across Casey's arms. Gasping for air he can't taste anymore, choking on blood, gurgling softly. Scratch - or Casey? - staring, grim, watching him die, the warm flood between them dripping weakly onto the floor once it's saturated their clothes and bodies. Gruesome, but fast. He'd never feel the pain.
"You wish," Scratch mutters in his ear. Snaps him back to this reality, to the blade skirting up his delicate throat without issue. "Like I'd let you get away that easy." Wake gasps for air, feeling woozy, still dizzy on the ideas. Maybe Scratch would lean forward and kiss his throat, kiss the inside of him, mouth opening for a taste, pink tongue lost in all the red- "Tempting," Scratch interrupts, "but I think I'd just..." Scratch's teeth on his windpipe, tearing out his throat. Slower, more painful, so much more pain. The sound of snapping veins and muscles rattling in his skull, pulling at the restraints, Scratch tearing chunks of flesh off-
Another sharp hair pull. Here again, on this chair, in this moment. Scratch tuts.
"You know, that'd make a hell of a short story." The blade touches Wake's throat, somewhere it's already shaved, and Scratch toys with it for a moment. Something in his eyes changes, becomes hauntingly familiar, something violent, something true. Closer to the furious cloud he remembers, the anger, the violence, that need to destroy, and Wake gets light-headed, breathless with anticipation, ready, ready for the cut, prepared to be free from this place, released from his prison, do it, do it- but no. The blade is removed, and Scratch mutters something about writing it down, distracted. Yanks Wake's head back again, a silent warning, a useless threat. Wake swallows and it feels tight. "Just relax. We're almost done."
Almost feels impossibly long. He can't help but focus on the blade, sliding up his throat again and again, baring naked skin to the air. Scratch works his way inward and then switches sides, leaving the center for last, humming tunelessly as he works.
"Home stretch, Al." Scratch keeps pace, keeps the pressure, but Wake can't help feeling every second drag on forever as the blade glides up the center of his throat. Delicately, delicately, around the adam's apple; quick flicks to clean up the missed points. He's overwhelmed with the sense he needs to swallow or scream and it starts to build, hot and fast, to a breaking point-
And then it's done. Scratch releases his hair, lets his head go. Wipes the blade clean and flicks it closed with a practiced hand, before pocketing it and pulling the towel off his shoulder. He folds it the opposite direction and pushes it to Wake's face, gently cleaning off the residual shaving cream and hair, lovingly looking over his work.
"There," he says, when it's done. "Don't you look better."
"This wasn't fucking necessary," Wake gasps out, barely audible.
"Yes it was. You looked like the murder hobo in the back end of a bad noir novel." Scratch looks him over, smiles softly, the sort of smile Casey would have reserved for someone he loved. "Now. Let's get you dressed. It's Deerfest today. They're waiting for us, Alan."