disproof | [tfln/meme overflow]

birds singing to calm us down

As it turns out, Richard is a passable cook. He can cook anything simple, provided that exact measurements aren't a necessity. He doesn't bake, despite--as Eddie will notice only in the way he takes his coffee, in his regular purchase of little desserts and sugary things--having a pronounced sweet tooth. For their first few days together, he keeps to distinct breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. But even with this company, pretense fades eventually: Richard eats at irregular hours, picking throughout the day, relieving boredom or antsiness or a mental block by slipping down to the kitchen to rattling the packaging on something.

A lot of things go this way: tight and predictable initially, then slowly relaxing as they begin to feel each other's edge. Richard moves around the house as if holding his breath for the first week, a little jumpy and a lot attentive. It isn't as if he starts to feel safe--
Maybe he starts to feel safe.

Not safe enough to unlock the door while he sleeps, but enough that he sleeps. In his teenage bedroom at first, leaving the master bedroom to Eddie who, for all intents and purposes, is sleeping for two. Once two weeks has slowly passed, however, he fall asleep over his computer in the office from time to time. In the arm chair by the bookshelf, office door open on the somewhat chaotic workspace he's made for himself. He keeps the kitchen and the living room tidy out of a roommate's respect, the bedroom clean out of having very little to mess with in the way of wardrobe--but if Eddie peeks in on his process, he'll see a whirlwind of books, papers, electronic devices of all ages and kinds.

Richard's favorite, it seems, are USB drives with videos, and voice recorders. Eddie isn't subjected to the first, but he won't miss that they seem to drop out of Strand's pockets, out of his jacket, out of his bag or out of his hands when he comes in from his trips out. Submissions, he explains if asked. Cases he's asked to work on.

(If Eddie takes a closer look, or if the swarm takes an interest, they'll find that the videos run a huge range of subjects, none of them savory: murders and hauntings, possessions and stalkings, conspiracy theorists and kidnappers. Strand keeps a library of the mystical and macabre on hand at any time, his very particular investigative specialty.)

What Eddie will see, nearly daily, is the voice recorder. A little digital number, powered by AAA batteries, it sits on the table or counter or porch rail any time Richard asks hims questions. There's no hiding the difference between regular conversation and professional inquiries; Strand takes the same tone, but he makes a show of taking out the recorder when the real talk starts. He wants to know about Eddie's thoughts on cooking

how he keeps the house
where he goes when he wanders the miles out of the house on warmer days
what he's thinking about at any given moment in the morning, in the afternoon, at sundown

It's tempting to think he can lull Eddie into a sense of security and start planting recorders around secretly, but Strand has no illusions about avoiding the attention of the Walrider. He sticks to transparency. The last few days, his questions have probed closer and closer to real topics, not just small talk: what does this music remind you of? do you think about reaching out to your relatives? do you think about having a family? why? He doesn't push when he's deflected, no matter how much he wants to. This is a game of patience, at the end of the day. He has to wait Eddie out.

After all, Strand shares very little about himself in return. He doesn't trust Eddie with any of it, even in isolation out here. If this goes belly-up, he won't put anything precious at risk. He takes work calls, though, in the office upstairs. He counsels university students and detectives and FBI agents and secretaries for conferences that he can no longer attend. He discusses workloads with his assistant in Seattle at length once a week. But nothing he lets Eddie see reveals much about his personal life; if anything, he has a distinct lack of meaningful relationships.

It allows him to be less afraid than some, once the dust settles from moving back in. Not that he's without his nerves. Today, for example: it's been raining for days. The darkness would be enough to drive anyone crazy, nevermind practically being under house arrest. When the weather persists for the third day, Richard starts taking more frequent trips out of the office, laps around the house to make sure all is well. It's harder to sleep in the evenings, worrying whether Eddie is coalescing under the great noise of the rain on the roof. There's a leak in the basement by the fifth day, nothing structurally damning, but just enough extra stress to set him on edge.
When he emerges from his office in the dark of the late afternoon, he doesn't see Eddie anywhere. Not pacing the master bedroom, nor reclining on the sofa, nor standing at the kitchen window, hands folded neatly behind his back. Strand reminds himself not to be jumpy (it doesn't work) and sets a pot of coffee on before he starts calling.

"Eddie?" He opens the basement door to hear the benign drip of water and closes it again, easing towards the main stairs. "Ed? You awake?"

Eddie himself is surprisingly domestic, at least in the beginning. His cooking leaves something to be desired until he spends a few days determinedly brushing up, relearning skills he hasn't used in several years. It's not a chore he has strong feelings about but there is something about having real, non-institutional food whenever he wants that makes him eager to try just about any recipe he finds. If asked he claims to barely remember his own preferences but he notes Richard's and is quick to try and cater to them as best he can.

He at no point shares his host's caution, as confident and self-assured as usual and clearly finds considerable amusement in Richard's initial jumpiness. The gradual relaxation is even better though and he's pleased the first time he finds the man asleep in the office with the door open. Those occasions he does find Strand asleep without a locked door between them, Eddie makes sure he's comfortable - a blanket if needed, a book nudged out of the way - and takes the opportunity to watch him for a while. Always leaving before he sees any signs of Strand waking but making no attempt to hide his presence - and the fact that no harm befell the man as a result of it.

He's far more careful about his own sleeping arrangements no matter how much time passes, similarly keeping the door to master bedroom locked of a night and on the rare instances he's caught dozing elsewhere, the hazy cloud of the swarm circles about him like a warning sign.

The various materials Strand works on garner some attention and he's mildly curious about the more outlandish materials, digging for what details Strand is willing to share but easily dissuaded from pursuing them. For the most part, Eddie himself is fastidiously clean and tidy, helped in no small part by his lack of personal possessions. His free time is spent sketching once he acquires the materials - mostly clothing designs though there are occasional rough images of Strand produced as well - exploring the surrounding areas, exercising. He repairs his own clothes and anything Richard or the house needs fixed, happy to spend hours sitting mending while they converse or the radio plays in the background.

And he watches. He takes in every detail, every piece of information he can about Richard, somewhere between avid pupil and predator.

That it to some extent goes both ways with all the recordings.... he can't decide how he feels about that. On one hand, Eddie loves the attention. He's more than willing to share his thoughts and feelings on every little inconsequential topic, to turn those questions back on Richard when he can get away with it and collect every scrap of information he can. He's openly unhappy with the scant details Strand provides but he keeps his expressions of displeasure civil. He gleans enough information from the other aspects of their living arrangement to satisfy. Eddie's answers are honest when the questions are easy, gushing over the idea of a family of his own, of romance, idealised fantasies that have little to do with reality. The harder questions - the family he does have, elements of his past - he spins cozy lies to answer, when he doesn't just outright change the subject and Strand's acceptance of these strategies means those questions never garner more than a flash of anger that quickly fades. Questions about the Walrider fall somewhere in the middle, occasionally answered freely, occasionally avoided with no discernable pattern.

Overall, he's surprisingly lucid and stable, given his history. Once or twice Richard might see his eyes start to glaze over, a certain distance entering his expression but these are the times he quickly disappears into the surrounding woodlands with the Walrider swirling about him, reappearing hours later calm and collected once again.

The swarm itself is an inconsistent presence, sometimes shadowing Eddie about as a swirling, chaotic mass that reflects his mental state. Other times it stay within its host, out of sight and passive until it emerges. And still other times it drifts about independently, a faintly visible, human shape that drifts through walls and the surrounding area.

It's all very... pleasant as far as Eddie is concerned, a comfortable little retreat, a chance to remember what life used to be like. That carries its own danger though.

The suffocating sense of being trapped has been building since the rain started and they were unable to leave the house. He tries going out in it once on the third day, but the battering cold of the downpour drives him back inside all too quickly. His attempts at sketching to pass the time... don't turned out well, designs scored by jagged lines and descending into rough, disfigured shapes before he tears them to pieces and abandons the attempt. There are things seething under his skin by the fifth day and the swarm is the least of them. It's a dark haze presently, moving around and through him, pin-pricks of discomfort as it dives in and out of his flesh, expressing its own restlessness.

They're prowling the upper floor of the house, stalking through the rooms as though searching for something he can't identify when he hears his name. It pulls his attention down, to the lower level and the other presence in the house. Slowly, Eddie makes his way to the stairs, appearing silently at the top. His eyes are wide and empty and when he sees Richard he tilts his head, silently studying him. The swarm writhes wildly an equally silent counterpoint to Eddie's own stillness.

That’s definitively no good, Richard decided quickly at the sight of Eddie. He knows that look—from the footage he’s committed to memory, from a few days over the last few weeks. But Eddie doesn’t have the luxury of slipping the house to blow off steam in this storm, and Strand doesn’t have the luxury of a pause button.

He desperately wants his recorder before he opens his mouth but it feels—rude. Richard slips his hands into his pockets slowly, moves completely into sight before speaking. “Coffee’s on. I’m taking a short break.”

A beat, breathless. “You with me, Eddie?”

He blinks slowly, still staring at Strand motionless for several long moments, before that familiar smile splits his face. "Darling." Eddie's gaze stays fixed on Richard as he starts down the stairs, the swarm continuing to writhe, reaching out eagerly for the figure below him. "Where else would I be, hm?"

He reaches out towards Richard's face as he gets closer, the quiet chuckle he looses doing nothing to change the blankness of his eyes. "You are a silly girl, aren't you?"

The swarm stretching for him down the bottom step captures Richard's attention, and he doesn't catch Eddie reaching out for him under fingers brush his cheek. His hand comes up quick, as careful and stern as his voice when his eyes cut up to Eddie's again. "Not quite. How are you feeling?"

Fey, Richard knows. They knew they'd hit this point eventually. It would be nice to say that he didn't forget, that he hasn't been soothed and charmed and made hopeful by the blithe, helpful person he's been living with. It would be nice to insist that he didn't forget who he was sharing space with. But as Richard holds onto Eddie's wrist and eases it down, he fumbles for the scripts he practiced, the things he was going to say. "It's been a long week, hasn't it?"

"Hmm?" Eddie's answering hum is distracted as he twists his wrist free of Richard's grip to interlace their fingers instead. Using that hold he tugs him closer, free hand coming up to rest possessively on Strand's hip. The tendrils of the swarm curl around them both in hazy mass, surrounding Strand without yet touching him. Eddie himself is entirely indifferent to its presence as he continues to smile down at his captive.

"I suppose it has. Are you feeling tired, my dear?" He peers at the face in front of him, tutting in concern at what he perceives there. "You have been so busy. I worry about you overworking yourself. Too much stress isn't good for a woman, you know."

No good. No good. No good. It’s everything he can manage not to shove at Eddie as he’s dragged in, but mice that run get hunted. He won’t make this a game.

Keep it calm, Richard reminds him, even though it’s hard to breathe. Keep it peaceful. “I am. Tired. But fine. It’s fine. I—you don’t trust women for much, do you?” His fingers twitch in Eddie’s grip, eyes snap to the encroaching swarm. “What are you worried is going to happen?”

He wants his recorder.

That gets a momentary pause, the concerned mask slipping to reveal something dark and angry and now the Walrider closes that distance, reaching out to whip against and through whatever flesh is closest in a hundred tiny pinpricks. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Eddie visibly collects himself, smiling once again as his hand slides around to press against the small of Richard's back, pulling him closer still. The dark tendrils retreat with the change and he lifts Strand's captured hand to press an adoring kiss to the back. "I'm just worried about you darling. You shouldn't tire yourself out so. Why don't you let me take care of you?"

“Eddie—Eddie, the sw—“ But it isn’t the swarm that drags him in. Strand’s jaw winds shut as he’s wound closer. Hand wills loose under Eddie’s mouth. Don’t flinch, don’t jerk, don’t make yourself a game. Think.

His free hand hooks in the crook of Eddie’s elbow, as loose (or as tense) as if they were dancing. “What did you have in mind?”

He's at a momentary loss, not having expected such an easy capitulation - he'd been readying himself for another rejection - but brightens quickly. Another kiss is pressed to Richard's inner wrist, his lips lingering against the delicate skin there, the pulse beating underneath. Finally Eddie draws back, eyes skittering over Richard's face before he comes to a decision.

"Well, if you are feeling tired, I think I should put you to bed, no?" This smile is clearly meant to be roguish and charming, for all that it falls short by several miles. "I wouldn't be a very good husband if I let you exhaust yourself, would I?"

"It's early." He corrects, just a split second before considering exactly how long it is till real nightfall, with no sunrise in sight until tomorrow afternoon. It falls behind in importance to the delusional rhetoric, to more physical contact than Strand has been subjected to for--

"Let's--why don't we just sit in the den for now." Not too forcefully, but surely nonetheless, he pushes at the arm around his waist. "I'd like to make my coffee. Do you mind getting a blanket from upstairs? The throw blankets are in the, um--in the hope chest." His mother's hope chest. "At the foot of the bed."

"So long as you don't bring any work with you," Eddie allows, his arm beginning to slide from around Richard's waist before it's back, large hand splayed over the small of his back. He presses a kiss to one cheek then removes himself with a long-suffering sigh. "Go. Make your coffee. I'll fetch a blanket so you don't get cold."

With that Eddie disappears upstairs to find the chest in question - one that he knows he remembers his wife bringing with her when they moved in together after their wedding. His movements are easy to track through the upper floor of the house as he alternates between humming and singing to himself, unerringly making his way to the master bedroom.

Richard stays frozen at the foot of the stairs for several long seconds after Eddie drifts away from him. He has to wait until the Walrider gives him room enough to move--and he's not sure where he's moving besides.

Every lizard brain instinct tells him that he should simply, calmly, get in the car and drive. But he'd be caught, of course, or if he escaped, they'd be back at square one. He should put something in Eddie's coffee, the frightened bit of his brain insists. But he promised: no drugs. Even if he wasn't going to honor the promise, they don't have anything stronger than Advil in the kitchen. So he makes his coffee, then Eddie's, and stands at the counter, hands on the rounded edge, and listens to Eddie walk and serenade a path above him.

Every way out of this leads to disaster. Richard runs his hands under cold water and reminds himself of the fact. Focus on the facts.

When Eddie comes back down, he'll find Richard already folded into the corner of the sofa, his own mug in his hands. The other sits on the low-set coffee table, next to a digital recorder.

The promised blanket tucked in his arms, Eddie makes his way to the den, coming to an abrupt halt in the doorway on arrival. He levels a glare at the recorder before turning the look on Richard. "I thought I said no work." His voice is hard, the warmth and affection of before - however false - gone. He expects to be obeyed in his own home, by his own wife and that she chose to ignore such a simple command made with her best interests in mind-

The Walrider begins to draw away from him, assembling itself in the air above, the movements of that haze seeming almost eager. Eddie himself stalks closer, fingers twisting in the material of the blanket like he's trying to wring a neck. He's still glaring, lips peeled back as he snarls. "Why? Why do none of you ever just listen?"

"...Ah." He's good at cold, even if annoyance buzzes at the top of his skull, or if fear hooks burrs into his jaw and lungs. Strand simple raises his eyebrows and stays cool. His eyes stay away from the swarm or the strained color of Eddie's knuckles around the blanket. They move from Eddie's face to the recorder, back again as he reaches for it. "I thought it was more of suggestion. I don't need this. Look--"

With his thumb, he slides the battery cover off and lets it fall to the table. Strand pinches his mug between his knees to free up both hands. The batteries come out of the recorder, along with the tiny storage card in the side. Both go in the drawer of the coffee table, and he offers the device to Eddie over the back of the couch. "--here. I don't need it."

Eddie pauses, eyes flicking between the drawer, Richard and the recorder before he snatches the proffered device. As soon as he's confirmed it's non-functional it's immediately discarded, tumbling to the floor at his feet while he steps around the couch. His smile is back in place, fingers smoothing over the wrinkled surface of the blanket before he shakes it out.

"This was a good idea," he says approvingly, wrapping one end of the blanket around Richard's shoulders. Eddie settles in the seat next to him, tucking the other end around himself and raising his arm expectantly, waiting for his wife to settle against him. He's entirely oblivious to the humanoid shape hovering above them, giving the distinct impression of something watching and hungry. "A pity we don't have a fire to make it more romantic but it's enough to be here with you."

For a damning moment, Richard just stares at him. He's never been a snuggler. Not as a child, not as a dating teen, not even during the abbreviated course of his marriage. So he stares, until the realization sets in that he's being invited, and then the weight in his stomach drops.

"This--this house used to have a fireplace." The explanation is quiet, as controlled and nearly as awkward as the way Richard scoots in. He keeps the mug in one hand, tugging the blanket under his arm with the other, and leans into Eddie's side gingerly. When he points up to the corner of the room where the ceiling is stained and coarsely plastered, he has to gesture around the dark figure in the air. "There. Before we owned the place, they removed it. But it would leak in bad weather for a long time."

He fixed it when he was a teenager. His dad wasn't around to do it. Strand sighs tightly, jaw winds closed as his eyes follow the Walrider. "Do you see this? What is it doing?"

That moment stretches, the see-saw of Eddie's mood beginning to dip in the opposite direction, his smile fading, eyes narrowing until he gets what he's after and Richard tucks in against his side. A heavy arm is immediately wrapped around his shoulders, bulldozing over any awkwardness as Eddie pulls him in with a pleased sound. His eyes follow the gesture, taking in the disfigured patch of ceiling with mild interest. A pity it was gone - he could just picture perfect winter evenings spent sitting by the fire, reading to their children-

He's pulled from that particular fantasy by Richard's voice, looking at him in puzzlement before following his gaze toward the ceiling again. There's a furrow between his brows as he frowns up at the ceiling, looking straight at and then through the dark shape there. "What is what doing, darling? I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific." He's winding tight against Richard, growing tension belying his stated obliviousness.

"Honesty," Richard murmurs, eyes turning up towards him, "needs to go both ways, Eddie."

Eddie slowly turns to meet Richard's eyes, his own flickering over the other's features. He looks away briefly, grimacing and tense. It's not right for a wife to be so demanding - she should be obedient - but. Relationships need honesty. Not lies. His father used to lie and Eddie's nothing like him.

Reluctantly, he turns back, clearly unhappy as he opens his mouth. "I- It thinks it might get to have you, darling." Like the other whores before. Another bloody sacrifice.

"I won't let that happen," he assures, holding Richard tightly against himself. Not if he doesn't make him.

Not like the others. His mouth presses flat, body yields to Eddie’s by inches—better here than there—till Eddie’s arm rests across his chest, his head back against Eddie’s shoulder to watch the swarm. The rain starts to feel like it’s just a soundtrack for the cloud.

“How do you keep it away?” No recorder, but he’s curious. The questions wander out on their own, past the sticky, phlegmy nerves in his throat. “Does it talk to you?”

Far more contented with the contact than Richard, Eddie rests his head against his wife's, soaking up the closeness. His contentment is soured somewhat by the persistent questions and he sifts irritably in place. "Why does it matter? You don't have anything to worry about so just ignore it."

He's hoping there's no danger anyway. Hoping his own will is enough to keep the Walrider from tearing Richard apart like so many others. He's never had to worry about it before, he hasn't been around others long enough to test it.... But no, he must be able to control it. Otherwise how could they have had a proper courtship and wedding? How could they have lasted long enough to make a home together?

"You should be used to it after all this time, my darling." His voice is changing again, coldness creeping in, the swarm seeming to react to it by creeping closer. "Why should it be a problem, unless you don't trust me to keep you safe?"

It comes to him honestly, slips out of his mouth while he struggles to strike a balance between stiffening with worry or indulging in his own ego and fighting. Neither fearing nor defending, Richard admits honestly, “I’m not doubting you, Eddie. I’m just trying to understand you. This is—“

A stutter as the swarm gets closer, where his arm comes up as if to shove it away. “—this is all new territory.”

Increasingly irritated with them both, Eddie scowls. His arm tightens around Richard, becoming less affectionate and more imprisoning. "How can it be new? We've been married for.... Long enough." He can't remember how long - not enough to have children yet but that can take time.

His glare switches to the Walrider, almost petulant as he declares, "She's my wife, not some whore. You can't." Instead of withdrawing like he wants it to, it almost seems to snarl at him and he squeezes Richard tighter in response.

[tfln/meme overflow]

Eddie Gluskin | themandownstairs

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god bless this post

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short post but eDD orz

why you gotta be like that? just swallow his bs ok?

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