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A Brief Interlude.

title: A Brief Interlude
word count: 1,000
rating: R
warnings: violence and gore, disturbing imagery
pairing/fandom: Joe Pitt/Dexter Predo (Joe Pitt casebooks)
summary: Thinking about where to go from here. Predo POV
notes: I wrote this for smash_desperado, who was interested in seeing this pairing. but truthfully, I just wrote it for myself :3 but actually, I'm really proud of this piece. Predo's head was not easy to get into, if you know what I mean. this was supposed to be a drabble; of course I can not write a drabble to save my life, but it's still pretty short for me. it takes place during the period of time where Joe was passed out while Predo was torturing him.

Three knuckles. I can’t help but sigh a little in disappointment. Only three knuckles in, after all, and he’s already passed out. Somehow, I’d thought he would be made of sterner stuff; he was once.

I set my shears down on the cement next to a few bits of finger. Then, carefully, so as not to smear any blood on myself, I tug the soft leather glove off my right hand, holding it by the inside to remove the other from my left. I place them gently down next to me on the ground. I sweep a stray lock of hair from my eyes and neatly back into place before plucking the square of silk from the front pocket of my jacket, which is being thoughtfully held out to me by the Enforcer at my side, to dab a sheen of sweat from my upper lip.

I smile to myself.

Pitt is out still, breathing shallowly; I can feel his chest expand under me. I must admit he looks rather worse for the wear. Down two fingers, with more to go if this interrogation continues the way I predict it will, knowing Pitt as I do. That vulgar eyepatch covering what I can only assume must be a very maimed eye socket, courtesy of the good Lady Vandewater I’m told, though the lack of one eye certainly doesn’t lessen any the intensity of the loathing he shows me in every glare. Some things, of course, never are going to change. And it would seem that being the chew toy for every vampyre big and small between Union City and Brooklyn has not humbled him any - another one of those things that will never change; not that I would wish it to, as doing things the hard way is so much more fun for me than the alternative.

I retrieve my gloves and pull them back on, gently, first the right and then the left. I pick the shears back up, fold the silk handkerchief in half, and punctiliously wipe the blades clean, picking a stringy piece of skin from the hinge, and thoroughly inspecting the tool for any other missed bits of gore before I get back to work. Such a precision instrument as my shears, they must be kept in good repair in order to function properly and at maximum capacity, and I wouldn’t want to deprive Pitt of the chance to experience just what kind of pain a well-maintained instrument can provide. I fold the handkerchief carefully so that the bloodstains are contained, and pass it off to someone at my side.

I smile to myself.

Thinking about where to go from here. There’s another thumb, of course, but I’m already feeling a tinge of regret having clipped the first one off so cleanly and swiftly, so perhaps I’ll save the second one for later. Eight fingers left. Seven and a half, really. But fingers become redundant so quickly, and I’m on a schedule; it will be nearly dawn if I have to cripple him knuckle by knuckle to get what I want out of him. Not that Pitt and I don’t both know that he can’t tell me anything I don’t already know; it’s the principle of the thing, you see. This exercise in brutality, rather, is more of a test on my part to see how much fight Pitt has left in him, and whether or not I overestimated him.

He stirs.

I smile to myself.

Hoping I didn’t overestimate him. Hoping that this encounter will be every bit as satisfying as I have endlessly imagined it to be over the years.

He does not wake. I creep toward impatience. I admit I am unaccustomed to waiting, and Pitt is one of the only people who has ever dared to make me wait. Even now, in unconsciousness, he defies me; the idea is somehow gratifying. I lean forward over him. Wondering to myself what to work on next. I could trim that one intact ear of his to match the other. If I didn’t so enjoy our verbal skirmishes, I would go for the tongue, but I know for a fact that he’ll bring more pain on himself with that stupid mouth of his than I could give by cutting his tongue out, so I’d just as soon let him keep it if only for that satisfaction. The man has an amazing aptitude for self-incrimination.

I smile to myself.

He certainly doesn’t have much left to give by way of body parts; so many others got him before I did that the pickings are exceedingly slim. A disappointment. I would so have loved to have first pick, but it is to be expected that demand for Pitt’s suffering would be quite higher than supply, given his rather remarkable talent for making people hate him. I lean forward a bit more, a bit closer. My hips pressing down, his chest compressing under me. Sweat runs down my neck.

My hips pressing down. A bit closer.

I smile to myself.

He stirs.

I sit back. He groans as he comes awake, not the least bit confused, as though he knows exactly where he is and what to expect upon regaining consciousness. He doesn’t attempt to move the two arms that are still being pinned down by my Enforcers, but he twists under me ever so slightly, bones in his chest grinding; I feel the muscles of his torso twisting between my thighs. I wipe the dampness from my forehead with the back of my arm while his gaze flits around to take in his surroundings, as though he might have forgotten them since he passed out some minutes ago.

I brandish my shears, one gloved finger tracing the keen V of the blades, and his wandering attention is finally brought to me. His eye lands on the instrument, and I snap it once for demonstration.

I smile at him. “Ah, there you are, Pitt. Welcome back.”

it occurs to me (after the fact, as it were,) that the first couple lines of this fic could be seriously misleading. :p



( 4 âmes — sell )
Jan. 27th, 2010 12:27 pm (UTC)
wow. mr. predo is kind of creepy, isn't he? really really good piece, of course, but there's a part of me that wishes I hadn't read it after all..
Jan. 27th, 2010 01:23 pm (UTC)
what the. you are such a dink. only you would request a fic of me and not even want to read it. >:P no, I know what you meant, and I'm glad the inherent creepiness got through - that was my aim. the other part of Predo's character that I was shooting for and I'm not sure I really hit 100% was the gentlemanliness. because he's such a classy dick that you have to love him for that. did that come through at all, do you think?
Jan. 27th, 2010 01:31 pm (UTC)
a classy dick. yes, i think that's exactly what he is.

now i've read it over a second time, predo seems less of a creeper and more... how do i say it... refined. and i can't tell if he's turned on by joe, or by power, or by inflicting pain... or if he's not turned on at all and I'm just reading too much into it. but it's kind of sexy in a creepy way.
Jan. 27th, 2010 01:34 pm (UTC)
well, fuck, I wrote the thing, and I can't even figure that out!
( 4 âmes — sell )