Title: Altered States 1/1
Author: Edzel2
Genre: Mad Dogs (spoilers for Episodes 1 and 2), introspection
Rating: Adult for (remembered) violent scenes
Summary: Baxter is having trouble sleeping...
The sound of the gunshot sends Baxter upright and panting amid the sweaty, tangled sheets he’d draped around himself earlier, in spite of the heat. He’d recognised the onset of shock, of course and had briefly considered seeking out one of the others –Quinn, probably- before coming to his senses. They’d all be having their own nightmares no doubt, and he hadn’t wanted to be seen as weak or needy. He doesn’t think he is either of those things; but the undercurrents of the evening already tell him that his carefully constructed version of his life is doubted by at least some of the group. Rick’s little dig on the way into the restaurant had stung, and as for Alvo... he swallows nausea as the memory of Alvo’s brains splattering all over the table rises large in his mind’s eye, and realises that the gunshot had been in his head; the house is quiet, the only sound the incessant insect noise coming from beyond his window. He groans quietly and impatiently pulls the tangled sheets from around his legs before padding to the bathroom to dunk his head under the taps.
What the fuck are they going to do? Who was the man in the mask, the killer? It has to be something to do with the theft of the boat, of that he is in no doubt; what the hell had Alvo got mixed up in? And what are they now caught up in? He can still feel the cold metal of the pistol as the killer had rubbed it against his face, smell the stink of the latex as the man had leaned over him and instructed him to spit into the napkin. His stomach rolls and he lurches desperately to the en-suite and drops to his knees over the bowl. But his stomach is empty, as he’d known it would be; only the bitterness of bile burns his throat. He gags and spits. He needs a drink.
He stumbles to his feet and rinses his mouth out with tepid tap water. He should probably boil that first but frankly it’s the least of his worries right now. Suddenly he wants to go home, to grey skies and bills and teenage daughters who think its funny – ‘cool’- to mock him in front of their friends. Had he been like that with his parents? He supposes he might have been, he can’t really remember, doesn’t want to remember. And he really does need that drink, whether it’s a good idea or not; his head feels tight and dry, a headache growing even as he thinks about it; every muscle aches – whether from the over-energetic dancing, over-exposure to the sun or the tension of the last few hours he can’t tell – and he feels like shit. Suddenly cold, he grabs a robe from the hook on the door and pads silently out into the hallway.
The kitchen is dark and as he flicks the light on Baxter flinches, half expecting to see Alvo’s body on the table, blood and brain matter splattered everywhere; but the table is bare, the floor clean and smelling of faintly of antiseptic. But as he looks around, trying to remember which cupboard Alvo had gone to for the wine, all he can smell is the sharp coppery tang of their hosts’ blood. It’s funny how flat thinking about it makes him feel now – as if all his emotion has been used up, sucked dry by the horror of Alvo’s murder. He’s never seen anyone die violently like that before, and suspects that none of the others have either. He’d been the only one to freak out though, and feels humiliated by the knowledge that they had done most of the clearing up after he’d bolted to throw up, and then fallen asleep in the tub. No-one has said anything but he knows someone will, eventually. It’ll start with one casual remark, as it always does, and the next thing it’ll be open season on Baxter. He sniffs and realises to his shame that he’s crying. So he still has some feeling left, then...
‘No!’ he mutters angrily, and yanks open the nearest cupboard door, heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of at least two dozen bottles of scotch and numerous other variants of oblivion in a bottle. He envies Woody his openness about his alcoholism; Baxter isn’t an alcoholic, at least not yet. He’s well on the way to it, he knows. But at the moment it’s the least of his worries.
He takes a bottle, hesitates as he ponders over grabbing a tumbler, finally shakes his aching head and trudges wearily back up the stairs, snapping the light off as he goes. He has the feeling that they’re all about to go to hell in a handcart, and he’s worrying about drinking from the bottle?
He shuts the bedroom door quietly behind him and leans back against it for a moment as his head spins. When his legs begin to shake under him, only then does he move, staggering to the bed and dropping heavily onto it. Tremors seize him and he puts the bottle down on the floor and sinks back onto the bed, grabbing for the sweat-damp sheets and pulling them around himself as the excess adrenalin still in his system makes him tremble violently. Teeth chattering, his need for a drink forgotten, Baxter curls into a foetal position and waits for morning.
End
What the fuck are they going to do? Who was the man in the mask, the killer? It has to be something to do with the theft of the boat, of that he is in no doubt; what the hell had Alvo got mixed up in? And what are they now caught up in? He can still feel the cold metal of the pistol as the killer had rubbed it against his face, smell the stink of the latex as the man had leaned over him and instructed him to spit into the napkin. His stomach rolls and he lurches desperately to the en-suite and drops to his knees over the bowl. But his stomach is empty, as he’d known it would be; only the bitterness of bile burns his throat. He gags and spits. He needs a drink.
He stumbles to his feet and rinses his mouth out with tepid tap water. He should probably boil that first but frankly it’s the least of his worries right now. Suddenly he wants to go home, to grey skies and bills and teenage daughters who think its funny – ‘cool’- to mock him in front of their friends. Had he been like that with his parents? He supposes he might have been, he can’t really remember, doesn’t want to remember. And he really does need that drink, whether it’s a good idea or not; his head feels tight and dry, a headache growing even as he thinks about it; every muscle aches – whether from the over-energetic dancing, over-exposure to the sun or the tension of the last few hours he can’t tell – and he feels like shit. Suddenly cold, he grabs a robe from the hook on the door and pads silently out into the hallway.
The kitchen is dark and as he flicks the light on Baxter flinches, half expecting to see Alvo’s body on the table, blood and brain matter splattered everywhere; but the table is bare, the floor clean and smelling of faintly of antiseptic. But as he looks around, trying to remember which cupboard Alvo had gone to for the wine, all he can smell is the sharp coppery tang of their hosts’ blood. It’s funny how flat thinking about it makes him feel now – as if all his emotion has been used up, sucked dry by the horror of Alvo’s murder. He’s never seen anyone die violently like that before, and suspects that none of the others have either. He’d been the only one to freak out though, and feels humiliated by the knowledge that they had done most of the clearing up after he’d bolted to throw up, and then fallen asleep in the tub. No-one has said anything but he knows someone will, eventually. It’ll start with one casual remark, as it always does, and the next thing it’ll be open season on Baxter. He sniffs and realises to his shame that he’s crying. So he still has some feeling left, then...
‘No!’ he mutters angrily, and yanks open the nearest cupboard door, heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of at least two dozen bottles of scotch and numerous other variants of oblivion in a bottle. He envies Woody his openness about his alcoholism; Baxter isn’t an alcoholic, at least not yet. He’s well on the way to it, he knows. But at the moment it’s the least of his worries.
He takes a bottle, hesitates as he ponders over grabbing a tumbler, finally shakes his aching head and trudges wearily back up the stairs, snapping the light off as he goes. He has the feeling that they’re all about to go to hell in a handcart, and he’s worrying about drinking from the bottle?
He shuts the bedroom door quietly behind him and leans back against it for a moment as his head spins. When his legs begin to shake under him, only then does he move, staggering to the bed and dropping heavily onto it. Tremors seize him and he puts the bottle down on the floor and sinks back onto the bed, grabbing for the sweat-damp sheets and pulling them around himself as the excess adrenalin still in his system makes him tremble violently. Teeth chattering, his need for a drink forgotten, Baxter curls into a foetal position and waits for morning.
End
