interpretthis: (read this face)
[personal profile] interpretthis
Title: Intended
Author: interpretthis
Fandom: Reservoir Dogs
Pairing: Mr. Orange/Mr. White
Rating: R
Summary: Freddy’s got it all figured out.

Freddy knows exactly why he’s doing this. He knows the other guys think he’s got shit for brains, but this is the best way he can contribute – the best way he can keep people from getting hurt – and he’s going to do whatever it is he needs to do to make sure that happens.


When the older guy in the red shirt ruffles his hair and drapes an arm around his shoulders as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, he wants to be annoyed.


When he catches the guy from Milwaukee, Mr. White, with his those smiling eyes on him, he can’t help but feel them deep in his gut.


He tells himself the kisses are all part of the act – for the greater good and all that – but by the time he’s got his knuckles stuffed in his mouth, brain searing with white heat, hips jerking wildly against the other man’s hand, he’s having a fuck of a lot of trouble believing his own lies.


Freddy tries to hide the fact that his face is collapsing in devastation as White goes off on the cops. He knows these men – all three of them – and the fact that life’s printed them onto opposite sides of the same coin – two dying and one killing – is cleaving him apart.


When a marble-sized fraction of his gut implodes like a supernova, he feels his finger jerk the trigger, feels himself land on the asphalt, feels the woman’s shout like it’s magnified by a thousand, the weight of those two irrevocable seconds slamming into him like a pendulum. Then there’s the blaze of the sun in his eyes and White behind him, lifting him up, cradling him to his side, trying to walk him away from the moment.


He’s writhing in the back of the car, eyes wide, chin to his chest, just enough clarity left to think that Cabot went a shade too light when he dubbed him Mr. Orange. He’s squeezing the fuck out of Larry’s hand and everything’s turning to shit. He tried to play life like a game but failed to consider the fact that its next move’s impossible to anticipate, and everything’s possible.


He’s painted in blood, Larry’s arms around him, Larry’s comb raking through his hair as if he’s going to need to look presentable for whatever’s next, Larry’s whispers warm in his ear. The pain in his gut is almost negligible beside the pain in his chest.


The floor is a bath of crimson and his face is a sickly, pearly white. He’s screaming at Eddie, and Larry’s stroking a hand along his side, his body positioned protectively between the two.


There’s a smattering of gunshots and then Larry’s groaning, dragging himself along the floor towards him. Freddy squeezes his eyes shut and scours a breath from the air, the inevitability of the truth – the point where Mr. Orange meets Freddy Newandyke – creeping up on him. Larry’s going to wish the bullet killed him.


Freddy rolls his eyes skyward as the cool butt of the gun juts into his cheek, a warm hand running all over his head. Larry sounds like a dying animal.

“I’m. sorry.” Freddy forces out between clenched teeth, voice ragged and wheezy.

The gun’s biting into his cheek. Larry’s caressing his head as if he’s trying to rub the blood back in.

Freddy drags in a breath, his final thought blooming out of the darkness, his last feeling relief. He’s not going to be able to hurt anyone anymore.

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