[fic: tonight i'll burn the lyrics, durham county, mike sweeney/pen verrity, rated ma]
Fandom: Durham County
Pairing: Mike Sweeney/Pen Verrity
Warnings: Gunplay, suicide. Darkfic, please be advised.
Spoilers Season 2 of Durham County, esp. the finale.
Word Count: 2050
Summary: . . . by showing mercy I have often been the loser. Even now I know that I am making a mistake.
AN: For the lovely akamine_chan, who is awesome because I told her I wrote her fic with the above warnings, and her response was gleeful twirling of my person via email. *giggles* ILU, Aka! *smishes* This is also written for the c6d_universe Mortal Sins challenge, specifically wrath and envy. Thanks to waltzforanight and inlovewithnight for the beta. Title from the Avett Brothers song Laundry Room, and the Summary/Pen's quote is from Euripedes' Medea (right before Jason realizes Medea has killed their children.) Incidentally, I really did read that article in graduate school that Pen references about suicide methods based on gender in classical drama, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was called.
I CERTAINLY KNOW HOW TO BRING IN THE FUN.
tonight i'll burn the lyrics
Two days before she kills herself, Pen Verrity kneels in front of Mike while he fucks her mouth with his SIG Sauer 9 mm service weapon.
Pen comes into the bedroom when he's putting the gun away in the lockbox he keeps in his dresser. She watches him from the doorway, her dark eyes wide as she asks him out of nowhere, "Do you think about what Prager said at the trial? About what he did to Sadie with his gun?"
Mike feels it all rush back with her words, Sadie's voice in his head--
He took the gun and he caressed my face with it, put it between my legs.
"Yeah, I fucking think about it," Mike growls, each word ripped out of him, dragging like shards of glass up his throat. "Every goddamned day."
Pen nods, makes a soft mmm noise and walks into the room, her eyes touching briefly on the gun before she raises her gaze back to his. "How afraid are you right now?" she asks him softly, and she's trying for the voice he remembers from their therapy sessions after Prager's arrest last year; competent and compassionate, yet cool enough to be professional.
Mike levels an unfriendly stare at her. She's got some fucking nerve. "I'm not."
"It's all right, Mike," Pen says soothingly, stepping closer. Her smile has that same mad tilt as the night she'd told him it was all right if he'd murdered Lyssie, that she wouldn't hold it against him if he were a goddamned murderer. "I can help you." She reaches out and draws her fingers over the barrel of the SIG, thumb rubbing against the cold metal.
Mike watches, feels himself get hard and hates himself a little bit more. You can't fucking help me. "Yeah, well, you're a good therapist, Pen," he tells her, and there's enough truth in that to sound believable. Even after everything Sadie has learned about Pen, she still says that. I know she's crazy, and I hate what she tried to do to Mom--and to me--but she really helped me, Dad. She did. It's something, at least.
His daughter, so much like him but still able to find light where Mike sees only darkness.
"The gun is a powerful symbol of violence, you know. It's like the sword in ancient Greek literature--did you know that when men killed themselves, the did so by falling on their sword? It was considered noble, honorable, to die that way." Pen smells like chocolate and dish soap, and now her other hand is on his belt. "You have to fall on the sword for it to kill you, so that it pierces your heart. It's messy, but...active, external. Women, however--they always used poison. Because it works from inside and it's slow, but there's no bloody mess to clean up afterwards. You fall asleep and that's it, it's over." Her face screws up. "I think that's so...passive. Don't you?"
He has no fucking clue what she's talking about, but it fills him with rage to hear her talk about poison considering what she tried to do to Audrey and Sadie both. In silence he presses the release on the SIG and ejects the magazine, pulling the gun away from her while roughly racking the slide to check the chamber. He shoves the magazine in the lockbox without counting the bullets.
Mike doesn't want to put the gun away, but he doesn't trust himself not to shoot her in the fucking head if it's still loaded.
Suddenly she's on her knees in front of him, fingers wrapped tight around his wrist, and Mike feels his stomach twist in desire and revulsion as she touches him. She tips her head back, eyes falling closed, dark hair a slick shine behind her. She tugs his hand up and presses the barrel of the gun against her cheek, rubs against it and makes a soft, small sound. "When I die, I don't want poison. I want the sword."
So do I, you fucking bitch.
Mike's breathing is fucked up, and he's as close as he's come yet to shaking her, hitting her, forcing her to confess so he can get the fuck away from her. He doesn't do it. He strokes her face with the gun instead; slow, watching the tip of the muzzle as it drags across her cheek. When she opens her mouth, he slides the muzzle in and chokes back a groan as she takes it without protest.
"I want to kill him," Mike says softly. "He wanted to wait long enough for me to get there so I could watch him kill her, the sick fuck." Mike pulls the gun out, slides the wet muzzle beneath her chin and tilts her head up so he can see her face.
"He's a sick man," Pen says, and Mike wants to laugh. What the fuck does that make him, getting off on fucking her mouth with a gun?
Take the shot, Mikey. You're just like me.
Mike slaps her across the cheek with the barrel. It's not hard enough to bruise, but Pen's head falls back anyway, baring the smooth line of her throat to him. Mike feels a rush of pure self-loathing for finding her beautiful, when he knows what she is and what she's done. But her eyes open and he stares at her while he fucks her mouth, and he sees so plainly that darkness he's always feared in himself--it's there in the shine of her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the languid lines of her body as she kneels willingly before him.
Mike reaches down and hauls her up, tossing her bodily on the bed and following her with predatory intent. She goes willingly, makes no protest when he strips her or when he puts his hand between her legs. He wants to watch her fall apart, wants to see her break, and this is as close as he's going to get to seeing it. Mike presses the muzzle against her temple and orders her in a harsh voice to come, and she does it in seconds. He shifts the gun so the muzzle digs cruelly beneath her chin, moving his fingers steadily over wet flesh while his thumb presses high on her clit. He's not done, and neither is she.
Again. Right fucking now, Pen.
The last time he makes her come, he uses the gun instead of his hand. He slides the barrel between her legs and rubs her fast and hard, panting as she writhes all spread out and desperate for it. Mike draws it out, gets her to the edge and backs off, laughs and tells her say please like a good girl and doesn't let her come until she says exactly what he wants to hear. He shoves his wrist in her mouth to bite so she won't make too much noise. Mike swallows his own groan at the bright splash of pain, shudders from the electric rush up his spine that settles hot in his stomach and makes him ache.
Mike thinks about fucking her with the gun when she finally stills, but he throws it to the floor and fumbles for his belt instead. She sits up and helps him, and he allows it because he can't get the goddamned thing undone without help, can't make his fingers undo the button and work the zipper because they're shaking so hard. The quiet of the room is broken by their harsh breathing, and Mike pulls and shoves her roughly until she's on her hands and knees in front of him. He moves behind her, wraps a hand in her hair for balance and puts the other on her hip. He pulls her head back as he thrusts inside, fucks her as hard as he can, biting his lip hard so he doesn't make a single sound.
She's moving with him in seconds, pushing back against him as he thrusts forward so hard they move up the bed and cause the headboard to bang against the wall. Pen's making soft whimpering noises that he knows means she's close, and Mike goes for it rougher and faster, blinking as the sweat stings his eyes. He's irrationally angry when she comes again--I didn't say you could--but her cunt tightens so fucking good around his cock so he doesn't care. She's loud when she comes, louder than she should be with Mark awake watching television in the living room, but he doesn't care about that, either.
Enjoy it, bitch, because that's the last goddamned time.
Mike roughly shoves her head down so she can't look back at him, then stares down at the gun on the floor as he finally comes inside her. Contrarily he stays silent, not wanting her to know he feels anything at all. He bites his lip hard enough that his mouth fills with blood. His blood, the price he's paying for her confession. It could be worse. It could be someone else's blood instead of his.
After it's over, Mike gets up and gets the gun off the floor. He feels dull, not so much satisfied as just...empty. He looks over at Pen, lying naked and disheveled on the comforter, and sees her watching him. They look at each other and Mike knows she's not fooled, she doesn't believe this fucking charade, that she'll tell him what he wants to know when she's goddamned ready and not a moment before.
Fine. I can wait. Mike's not really sure if he believes this, or if it's just one more lie to add with all the others he tells himself. "I--won't be here for dinner. Audrey's--she's working late, so I--I'll be back before Mark goes to bed." It's so transparent, he wonders why they're even bothering. But he can't stay here a second longer, he has to get out of this goddamned room before he does something even crazier, fuck.
Pen sits up and rakes a hand through the tangled mass of her hair. She surprises him by smiling at him, a sad, crooked smile he's never seen before. "Go thou, and lay thy bride to sleep," she says, and the words aren't hers but he doesn't know whose they are. "That's fine, Mike. Mark and I will be fine."
Mike just nods and tucks the gun in his waistband, turning away from her as he fixes his clothes. He feels her eyes on him as he does it, but he won't give her the satisfaction of looking back. "Bye," he says, voice rough, because he feels he needs to say something or the silence will drive him fucking mad.
"Goodbye, Mike," she says, voice all low and hushed it's a promise, or a prayer.
Or a threat.