Lex Parsimoniae (1/6)
Nov. 6th, 2010 07:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
myths_by_kynxTitle: Lex Parsimoniae
Fandom: 30 Seconds to Mars
Pairing: Jared Leto/Tim Kelleher
Word Count: 55,839
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Light angst (flangst?), possible sexual-coercion if you tilt your head the right way but not really dub-con, enforced drugging (sleeping tablets).
Summary: Something, or someone is hunting Jared, either that or his paranoia and sleep deprivation are so out of control he's hallucinating a stalker. It's not quite a halluciation because he can see those, when they happen, this he can only feel. He's sick of the whole fucking thing; it followed him through the tour and all the way home, in his house. If he's insane, he wants to fucking know. It's ending tonight, and if it ends with a strait jacket and padded walls...well, shit happens.
Notes: Many thanks to Queencheeze, LisaRoquin and Guiltyoftreason. Cut text is from Egypt Central's 'Leap of Faith'. Written for thewerewolfbigbang on Live Journal.
Art Post by the fabulouslisaroquin *adores*
Lex Parsimoniae
Human scent. Predator and prey, wrapped up, mixed up and covered with acrid artificial fake. Tickles his nose and tries to mislead him. Huffs, snorts out a breath to clear it.
The grass is too short to hide in, leaves him vulnerable. Scratches his empty belly as he hunkers lower, tail straight and watching. Can't let his guard down. Human scent is thicker, stronger than wolf and makes his hackles rise. Has to stay close, alert, can't run. His territory, right here, not theirs and he's not leaving.
Gets close enough to scent himself, trail cold and faint. The wind changes, blowing into his face. He raises his nose. Nostrils flare and saliva pools in his mouth as he smells him.
* * *
Invisible fingers reach inside Jared and yank him into consciousness. Every instinctive response to danger slams him awake and alert, heart lurching into his throat before he knows why. A biting chill climbs the ridges of his spine and if it doesn't stop, it's going to get inside his brain. It leaves frigid tension behind as he lies still, eyes wide and searching blindly. The soft hair on the back of his neck and arms prickles stiff beyond recognition, feels like it could cut right through his skin if he so much as moves the wrong way against the sheets. There's a dull thud from outside, closer than it's been in weeks and there's no doubt in his mind what woke him. He's being watched. Again. Except watched isn't quite the right word, it's more like a presence, an interloper in his reality that he can feel and never see.
He has no memory of how he felt before it began, when it didn't exist, or wasn't noticeable by its absence. The it in his head has shape and form, never stabilising. Hides in shadows and around corners, always out of sight, out of touch, but it's always there. The intensity varies up and down, some days better, some days a paranoid spiral, but normal? Whatever the fuck that is, no, never that.
He's shivering before he realizes it, skin clammy with sweat, sheets sticking to him uncomfortably. He should be too hot, the bus is too hot, air still and heavy from all of them breathing into it. He doesn’t dare breath right now, he has to listen. His ears strain for something, anything, to solidify his fear. He wants it to be real so he'll know he’s not losing what little of his mind he has left. There. A rustle, soft and barely audible, and if he wasn’t so on edge, he'd miss it. He knows it might've come from inside, Shannon, Tomo, Tim or any of the roadies moving in their sleep, but paranoia nips the outskirts of his consciousness and overlays every rational thought. Fuck, he wants to believe the noise came from inside, but his brain won't let him.
Rational thoughts, those are...few and far between. He flips the sheet over so that the cooler, dry side is closest to his skin and rolls onto his back. He half-expects to see a looming shape at the end of his bunk, and he’s silently thankful he can scratch that off his list. Darkness stretches into endless nothing around him, opening the privacy curtain helps not at all; no streetlights, reflections, nothing. His eyes adjust gradually, but it's as much the memory of how he knows the inside of the bus should look as actually seeing it.
Jared’s certain he's the only one awake, but unexpected random noises, especially on the bus are...normal. Should be so normal that they don’t register. He's spent months not noticing shit, spent pretty much every tour barring the first one not noticing shit, but since...when the fuck ever, he can’t stop. Metal creaking as it cools, bodies shuffling, snoring, grinding teeth, the odd thump against the side of the bus when someone dreams they have more space than they actually do. Things on top of the bunks being kicked onto the floor, tinny strains of an iPod left on, and about a hundred other small, innocuous sounds that he should be able to tune out completely. Should being the operative word, because should hasn't happened in...long enough for him to forget when it started.
Shannon tried to make him wear ear-plugs, more than once, says it’ll help him sleep, but Jared knows that not being able to hear will be so much worse. Even after a gig when the buzzing in his ears is so bad it rattles his skull, he can’t bear to block any of it out just in case.
There are nights when he can’t sleep at all, is constantly on edge, hidden eyes boring holes in his spine. Certain it’s right behind him, or a step sideways, or...anywhere. No matter how fast he turns, he never sees anything. There are nights when he wakes up in a cold sweat, convinced he's not alone, doesn’t matter where he is, hotel, bus, home, when they've managed a few days break, something loitering, circling and stalking outside. Jared doesn’t know who―what―is responsible. Doesn't matter how many times he blames his imagination, or admits he has no proof, he can’t dismiss the way he feels. Something is outside, or hidden inside, and it scares the living fucking shit out of him.
He needs to move. Lying in his bunk twitching at every-fucking-thing, skin trying to crawl off his bones and no way to get comfortable is only increasing his agitation. Sleep may as well be a myth for all the hope he has of reclaiming it. Jared drags the blanket with him as he sits up and twists around, reluctant to give up the small amount of heat, or the illusion of protection. He hesitates, nerves fluttering in his chest and he can’t even pin them on any one thing, it’s everything. Logically he knows that being scared to put his feet on the floor is utterly stupid, but his mind is races with possibilities. Could be anything waiting in the darkness. Could be nothing but his imagination. Could be a bottomless pit and he'll fall forever, gaping maw and snapping teeth to cut him to shreds. He’s not sure which option sends the small tremble through him but hates it all the same. He clenches his jaw and tells himself to stop being such a fucking child. It’s ridiculous, thoughts and behaviors that he grew out of as a kid returning at thirty-eight, twice as real and four times more terrifying.
Jared takes a deep breath and holds it, the resulting tightness in his chest gives him something concrete to focus on, something he can control. He swings both legs out of the bunk before he can change his mind. Bare feet hit the floor at the same time, tense and ready, practically daring someone to grab his ankles. Nothing―no one―does and he feels twice as stupid for considering it. He keeps his blanket with him and flicks on the light-switch as soon as he’s away from the sleeping area, which makes him feel a little more at ease. At least he can see the inside of the bus now, odds and ends strewn about; hoodies, t-shirts, Styrofoam cup, crushed can of Coke Zero that has to be Tim's, empty, crumpled up pack of smokes, coffee cups waiting to be put away, nothing unusual. It settles something inside him that he can’t see anything that shouldn't be there, even if he doesn’t completely believe it.
The curtains are closed, but that doesn’t lessen the itch in the middle of his shoulders, makes it even worse because at the forefront of his mind is the certainty that he’ll pull them back to find someone staring at him. Eyes wide, face against the glass and condensation obscuring their mouth. Hasn't happened yet, which means shit as far as he’s concerned. Fuck, he wishes they were still moving, but Tim gets travel sick like fuck, crystallized ginger, home remedies and travel meds only staving off the worst of it for a couple of days, week at the most. Parking every few nights is preferable to any combination of Tim bitching because he’s nauseous or puking his guts up in their one and only bathroom. They've only left it that long once, and no, isn’t something any of them want to repeat. The tours, dates, are spaced out and planned so far in advance that so long as they remember, it’s barely an issue.
It always feels worse when they’re stationary. Maybe it's just that, worry at the complete lack of security of the bus, but since he's having to force the thought, he knows it's not. He really has to struggle to think of any kind rational explanation and he's fucking sick of it, sick of being so mentally off-balance without knowing why. He's felt it when they've been moving, more than once. Freaks him out when he thinks back, because it's beyond impossible and means that all arrows are pointing towards it being all in his head. The possibility that he's doing this to himself, creating these feelings all on his own scares him more than any physical threat. At least he has a chance to fight something physical, hitting back and hurting. If it's a paranoid delusion, all he has to fight against is a strait jacket and Shannon shipping him off to the nut house. Possibly even in that order.
He grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and holds onto it tightly as he pads along the narrow corridor, too agitated to sit down right away. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders and holds it close so that it doesn't drag. Yeah, despite what the rest of the band thinks, he can be quiet when he wants to be.
Even though his mind―body, every goddamn sense he has―screams that there's someone―something―inside, or outside wanting in, two full lengths of the bus prove him wrong. There's nothing out of place, no one hiding inside. So that means the threat is outside, and it's not as comforting as he thinks it should be. Jared flicks off the light when he reaches the lounge area for the third time, worry eclipsed by the knowledge that whoever is outside can see him, see exactly where he is and what he's doing. It's ritualistic almost, not completely unconscious, but his thoughts follow the exact same path they took the night before, and the one before that, one set of fears being replaced by another in an uncomfortably familiar order.
Lights off, Jared curls up on the longer sofa. Feet flat on the cushion and knees against his chest. He tries to keep his breathing steady as he waits for his eyes to make sense of the darkness. The shadows seem thicker now, moving and growing while he stares straight ahead. A gleam of movement to the right has him whipping his head around; heart beat spiking, eyes wide and alert. A dull shine from the LCD clock reflects and fractures on a can and he tells himself that's all it is. His mind twisting it into something else, sleep deprived hallucinations sneaking in where they can. None of it helps.
Jared turns his head and huffs out the breath he's holding. If he can't see the reflecting light, his mind can't fuck with it. That leaves him facing the window and he focuses on the place where the curtains don't quite join, maybe an inch of space between them. Fuck it, he may as well look now, either that or let his imagination scare him half to death before he has to look. Shannon's gonna find him one morning, curled up in the corner in the middle of a fucking breakdown and insane with fear.
He tilts his head and leans closer, scanning as far as he can see, which...isn't far. Nothing outside but macabre shadows that could be anything, hundreds of places for someone to hide in plain sight. Doesn't matter how hard he looks for proof someone is there, he's never found anything. Disappointment and frustration sit heavily in his stomach and that's familiar too, because it's...beyond frustrating, knowing and feeling, but never seeing. He keeps trying though, eyes straining in the dark, distrusting and dissecting every shadow.
"Hey."
Shannon's sleep-rough voice startles him out of his don't-blink-challenge with the dark. He swallows a bubble of hysterical laughter because it's only gonna show how rattled he is. The glare from the LCD clock seems brighter somehow than it was before and it highlights Shannon's silhouette. "Did I wake you?"
"Nah, iPod did that. Fucking Stone Sour, goddamn Corey Taylor," Shannon grumbles and a smile tugs Jared's lips as he rolls his eyes. It's a comforting slice of normality, Shannon falling asleep listening to something mellow, only to be woken hours later when his playlist reaches the heavier tracks. "Can't sleep?"
He shakes his head before remembering that Shannon likely can't see it, "Woke up in a cold sweat again."
"Same feeling? Someone outside watching?" Shannon sounds more awake now, certainly more than he usually manages at ass-fuck o'clock in the morning.
"Yeah." 'Watching' had been the easiest way to explain it to Shannon when he'd had to, the least crazy. He'd hated admitting it, bad enough inside his head without Shannon being involved in his delusional-paranoia. He's aware that he's probably over-reacting, but fuck, he's too sure of this, and Shannon has always been too perceptive for him to think he can deal with it on his own. "Can't see anything, though." And yeah, he hates that too.
Shannon's leaning over him in less than two strides, peering out between the curtains. Jared worries his bottom lip, torn between wanting Shannon to see something and not. Neither option will make him feel better, not now that his fears have taken hold.
This close, he can make out Shannon's features in greyscape. The deep shadows under his eyes are more pronounced than in the harsher light of day, and Jared adds guilt to his collection of spinning emotions. Between whatever the fuck he's feeling and the relentless touring schedule, Shannon looking like shit is mostly his fault. Shannon reaches across him, fingertips skimming the edge of one of the curtains before Jared darts forward―moving faster than he has all day―and wraps his fingers around Shannon's wrist to hold him back. Hisses in a breath as he tries to suppress the initial panic, "Christ, Shannon, don't let them know we're onto them."
"Just want to make sure. Can't see anything out there."
There's no more more light now than before and Jared can't read Shannon's expression, but he picks up the tone fine; concern and worry, with a slight edge of back-the-fuck-away-from-the-crazy that's as reassuring as a punch in the face. He lets go of Shannon's wrist reluctantly, only now realizing how much he craves contact. He needs touch to ground him in reality, and if he was seven, he'd already have crept into Shannon's bed and hidden under the covers, let his big brother chase all the nightmares and fear away. He isn't seven anymore, and he doubts Shannon would put up with sharing his bunk for very long, or at all, come to think of it.
"Hey," Shannon says softly, hand on Jared's shoulder, "Gotta stop freaking yourself out, it's been months and you've seen nothing. When was the last time you slept more'n a few hours?"
Jared shrugs, doesn't know the answer and doesn't care to think on it, but it feels like forever ago. "You think I'm crazy?"
"Pretty sure you're certifiable, but not 'cause of this. Be home in a week or so, you'll feel better then." Shannon sounds so absolutely sure, Jared can't not believe him.
Goddamn, he hopes like fuck that he'll be better at home. Hopes that this whole fucking thing is stress and lack of sleep, his body rebelling against the way he pushes it non-stop night after night. An outlet for his over-active imagination because he's not using it almost constantly like he did when they were in the studio, recording.
"Thanks, bro...that helps a lot." It doesn't, at all. Never does, no matter how many times Shannon says it, but it isn't worth dragging out.
"Hey, you asked." Shannon grins and the light reflects off of his teeth, makes him look almost feral for a heartbeat or two. Panic grips and squeezes his chest, before he remembers that it's Shannon beside him. It takes him a couple of seconds to shake it off, which is verging on ridiculous.
"Still got plenty of sleeping pills?” Shannon's voice is quiet and steady, helps bring Jared back to himself.
"Yeah. Not taking them, though. Not 'til I can't not, you know how I get on them." And likely not even when he's well past the point of having to take them. Half the prescribed dose knocks out his motor function scary-fast. Leaves him feeling worse than catatonic the morning after; lethargic and thoughts slow, dazed to the point of can’t-do-anything,
Shannon yawns, mouth wide, "Want me to stay up with you?"
"No point both of us being sleep deprived zombies in the morning. Get some sleep while you can, I'll be ok." Jared tries to feel it as he says it, but there's a chill in his bones, lingering fear, that he's never going to be fine again. He smiles, hoping it's enough to convince Shannon, but it's forced and empty. Maybe Shannon's too tired to notice that he's talking out of his ass.
"Ok, don't say I didn't offer...night." Another yawn and Shannon ruffles Jared's hair before shuffling away to his bunk.
Jared turns back to the window, he needs to face facts; there's nothing outside. Months, Shannon said, and that's only counting since he's known. There's at least another six weeks on top of that, maybe seven or eight, Jared's not sure of the exact number. Ignoring the feeling as much as he can, Jared pushes himself up from the sofa, stilted and jerky in his need to fake normal. He's going to bed, and dammit, he'll lay there until he falls asleep even if it takes hours.
He's using his hands to map the wall on his way to hid bunk, when it hits him suddenly that he's missing more than his possible sanity. It's times like this, too fucking wound up to sleep, that he wishes Tim hadn't pulled back from their...arrangement. Handjob or head every now and then when he's stressed―if Tim suffers from stress he's better at hiding it than Jared―when the road got too long or lonely, when either of them were horny. Hell of a lot more satisfying than jerking off, or picking up groupies, although admittedly, that'd gotten old years ago.
It's never been anything more than that, hell, they've never kissed even. Regardless, it'd been kind of perfect while it lasted. There when he wanted it without complications, only now it's not, but it's now that he really kind of needs it most. He misses it―Tim―which is...not something he'd foreseen, misses it more than the physical relief which makes it harder to admit, even to himself.
Tim got...weird. Pulling back. First he stopped initiating, although he never said no when Jared made the first move. Right now though, he's sort of...pulled back and held off, avoided―and is avoiding―Jared completely. His timing is downright perfect for not being there when Jared wants him. Tim hasn't said anything, hasn't told him to fuck off or given him an outright no, but he's dropped enough hints for Jared to get the message.
Whether Tim really is only in the mood for pussy, like he's indicated, or it's just to make Jared back off, he's not sure. Jared can't argue with the scratch marks on Tim's back and shoulders, irrefutable proof he's getting laid. The stolen glimpses he's caught backstage, and one time Tim came out of the shower wearing nothing but a towel―obviously unintentional because he nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw Jared standing there, and all Jared could think about was licking the drops of water off Tim's chest―changing left him...curious and annoyingly turned on. Tim didn't ever seem masochistic when he got off with Jared, but maybe it's part of the reason for pulling back. Fucked up, because if Tim wants rough, Jareds got no problem with that.
Even casual monogamy has never come up between them and Jared's positive that it's no kind of possible now, so yeah, he's keeping his mouth shut. Not that he's spent much time thinking about what he wants from Tim, if he even wants monogamy no matter how casual, or if maybe he wants to take 'casual' out of the equation completely. Up until now, he hasn't thought he needed to, but he should have, maybe he wouldn't feel this bad.
He knows he could push, crawl into Tim's bunk―fuck knows he wants to―and try his luck, but Tim hinted at no, and Jared doesn't want to put either of them in a situation where Tim says it outright. It's Murphy's fucking law that the more Tim pulls back, the more Jared wants him, the lonelier he feels without him and the more jealous he is over the women Tim's picking up, whoever they are.
Jared tries not to think about wanting Tim. It's doomed before he even starts, so he needs to fucking stop. It's only sex, not even full sex, just getting off, hands or mouth and not even that often. It's been that way since they started and Jared has no fucking business asking anything of Tim that isn't work related. He rests his hand lightly on the edge of Tim's bunk and tries to convince himself that everything―the stalking-that's-likely-all-in-his-head and whatever he is or isn't doing and feeling for Tim―is down to lack of sleep. Stress, too long on the road, too old to do this shit, just fucked up tricks his imagination is playing on him.
His bedding is cold now. He pulls his blanket tighter, draws his knees up as far as he can and doesn't believe a fucking word of it.
* * *
He watches. Waits. Tracks the shadow moving inside and licks his muzzle. Backs further into the dark at the sudden bright light from inside.
Shadows move and he follows them back and forth. Flicks his ears as the light disappears with a soft click. Hunkers lower as his eyes adjust to the darkness, still watching.
There.
Found you.
There's another shadow, getting closer to the first, becomes one for a moment or two. Blur of shape. Can't tell them apart. Break, repeat. Skin itches under his fur until they move apart again.
His eyes meet curious ones, staring right at him without seeing. The face pulls back, and he snorts out a breath.
Keeps watching. Keeps waiting.
* * *
It doesn't stop, never fucking stops. Didn't for the last week they were on tour, not their first night at home when, by all rights, Jared should have slept for a good fourteen or sixteen hours straight. Usually did, but nothing about the last few months has been in any way normal or usual. It didn't stop the next night, or the night after that, and it certainly hasn't stopped now. It should have, but it hasn't.
The last decent sleep he remembers was on the plane home, all of two hours tops and over a week ago. Nights when he manages to get something resembling sleep―which are next to non-existent―it feels like he's slept with one eye open, waiting for it to return. He knew it wasn't going to leave, followed him across the whole damn country so he'd be stupid to think being at home would make a difference.
When he's feeling marginally more rested, Jared double checks the security system, updates it where he can and stops just short of 'round the clock CCTV. Shannon would notice that, bitch and moan about it, worry even more than he already does, and...no, Jared's not so far gone that he doesn't care about Shannon. Yet. If he doesn't figure something out soon, though, he doesn't know what he's going to do. It can't go on like this, that's for damn sure.
There's no let up, either he's in the middle of feeling it or he's spiralling in paranoia waiting for it to return, catch-fucking-twenty-two and he hates every damn second.
The tour ended over a week ago, and Shannon's gone to stay with friends. Jared's had two nights without sleep barring an hour or so in the afternoon, waiting for it to start again, and now it actually has. It's back full force, and he's sure it hasn't ever felt this bad, it feels too...sudden almost, too...something he can't even name, or maybe doesn't want to because the idea scares the shit out of him. Months of itching, prickling, watched, has nothing on what he's feeling now.
It takes him almost ten minutes before he scrapes together the courage to get out of bed. Ten minutes of clenching his jaw shut until his teeth hurt, ten minutes of talking himself out of the belief that there's someone in his room before he can get out of bed to turn on the light. Squints into the sudden brightness of his bedroom as he searches for...the same fucking thing he searches for every damn time and never finds.
Jared picks up yesterday's jeans from where they're hanging over the back of his chair, pulls them on and maybe it's his imagination, but it's a little easier to breath. Yeah, naked is so not the way to go stalking through his house looking for intruders. Hoodie next and he carefully doesn't think about how much of the protection they afford him is an illusion. Picking up his Blackberry is second nature, just as much as it is something else to do to put off what he's planning to do next.
Can't put it off forever, and he yanks open his bedroom door as fast as he can, definitely before he's ready to face...whoever. His heart pounds in his chest as he searches the hallway, light from behind him making it both easier to see and easier to not see things lurking in the shadows. It takes him longer than he thinks it should to settle the conviction that there's nothing hiding in the hallway.
Every step he takes freaks him out a little more, panic building the longer he finds nothing. Shannon's words, stress and lack of sleep, ring dully in his ears as he creeps through the dark house. It's possible, or at least, it isn't impossible, but his sleep-deprived hallucinations have never felt so malevolent before. Fucking fuck, though. It―he―is pissing himself off, freaked out and frustration increasing like for like, snowballing and gaining speed as they feed off each other.
He's working himself up, because he can't stop the spiral his mind's sent him on. Helps exactly not at all that he's letting his imagination run, full blown effect of months of anger and frustration driving him on. Fuck it, fuck whoever is out there because he doesn't want to hold back or hide right now, wants to beat the living shit out of them until he splits his knuckles to the bone because this waiting around and doing nothing is pure fucking bullshit.
Creeping through the house has never been this scary before, Jared's sure of that. Turning on the lights will help, for a bit, but Jared knows that it'll only make it worse because then whoever is outside―and he's mostly sure they're outside―will be able to see in and it'll take his eyes a while to readjust to the dark. So yeah, lights off is a better plan. The house isn't quite pitch black, bright moonlight streams through the open blinds, small glowing lights from electronics do the rest; TV, DVD player, stereos, all on stand-by and power save mode but it's just enough to allow him to see more than smoky shadows.
Once he's done a sweep of the whole house, mostly satisfied that he's at least alone inside, there's only one thing for it. It's easier to see out of the windows with the house in darkness, but doesn't matter how hard he looks, there's nothing to see. The kitchen is his best bet, Jared decides, spans a whole side of the house, front to back, if there's anyone outside, he has more chance of seeing them from there.
A full ten minutes of glaring into the dark proves nothing except whoever is outside is both hiding, and still watching. He can feel it under his skin and inside his bones; evil see-all eyes on the house, on him. There's a sound above him and he freezes stock still, blood running cold, nose almost touching the window pane. It's two-three-four heartbeats later that his pulse slows down enough for him to realize what caused it. Creaks of the house resettling, normal, should-be-used-to sounds that have reverberated through the walls since the day he and Shannon moved in. It's the bus all over again. Reason and logic don't get a look in as he strains his ears for something, anything; footstep, brush of cloth, cough, sneeze, fucking breathing that isn't his own.
His heart is racing too fast to be normal and panic fuelled adrenaline sets his nerves on edge. He still manages to feel like a goddamn fucking idiot for getting so worked up. The fear, the feeling someone is watching, it's as real as a living person breathing down the back of his neck, only he can't beat the hell out of it. He wants to, wants something to hit, to fight, something he can fucking face.
Fuck this. Fuck feeling like this, trapped in his own goddamn home, fear constantly keeping him awake and on edge. Fuck the feeling to fucking hell and back, this is his home, he should feel safe. Hasn't felt safe in...he can't remember when and he hates it. It's not fair, isn't right, and it needs to end. He's going to have to do something because it's not going away. Now is as good a time as any, emotions bubbling over and he's angry enough to do something really fucking stupid. Nothing to lose, right? Right.
The decision brings a measure of relief, not a lot, but enough to make him stand a little straighter. It's ending tonight, one way or another, he'll make sure of it. He's not a pussy, he's never backed down in his life and he should have remembered that before now. Kicks himself for letting it get this far but even that only adds to his new-found determination. It's. Ending. Tonight. It has to.
Mind made up, Jared turns on his heel and strides through the house. He flicks on the light in the spare room that doubles as a haven for accumulated junk they have no use for, but don't want to get rid of. He starts opening boxes, actions jerky, frenzied almost, as he tries to remember what they have in here that'll double up as a weapon. He hits jackpot in a box of left-over-shit from Shannon and his teenage years, fingers touching solid wood before curling around the handle. Their old baseball bat, gotta be. Yanks it out from underneath everything else and hell the fuck yes, it'll do. Big enough to look intimidating and heavy enough to follow through and enforce that.
He swings it a couple of times, testing the weight and balance, until he's satisfied with his initial thoughts. Going downstairs is easier now he's armed, determination being reinforced with every step. He only hesitates after shoving his feet into his sneakers by the back door. This is a bad idea, every bone in his body is telling him it is, screaming at him not to do this because it's fucking scary. Yeah, the fear is still there, cloying, heavy, fucking with his mind and getting under his skin in a way that he can't shake.
He has to do this though. It's not going away. It's not backing off or easing up, so he either learns to live with it, or he goes out and confronts it. His mind spirals, how many months more of this can he stand, because that's what it comes down to. No more. Can't stand another second of feeling like this. Whatever's out there, he needs to know even if there's nothing out there.
It's fucked up. Even Jared can admit that Shannon might be right, this whole thing could be in his own mind, a hallucination or facet of his paranoia, stress, overactive imagination running riot. He's got fuck all evidence to prove anything else, so yeah, it's possible. He's still going, confront...whatever. Best case scenario? There's nothing there and he'll scare himself shitless for nothing, but at least he'll know.
And if he's right...well, he has the bat with him for a reason.
Feels good to have something solid to hold on to and he grips the bat tighter. He's about as psyched and ready as he's going to get, show time.
Jared's fingers hover over the door handle before he twists and pulls it, slowly. The sudden temperature drop in the air makes him shiver, at least, he's doing a fucking good job pretending it's the temperature. No pussying out because of the weather, or the dark, or fucking anything, it's ending tonight and that's that. End. Period. Done and fucking dusted.
It's dark―no shit, right?―but maybe not as dark as it could be. The moon's high and bright, reflects on the surface of the pool, but that's the only real light and the yard is too sheltered for any artificial light to reach it. His eyes are as adjusted as they're going to get. Not turning on the lights inside helped, even though it's a different kind of darkness out here, heavier somehow, like it's settling around him and weighing on his skin.
He stops, heart jumping into his throat after his fourth―fifth maybe―step and fuck, it's only his sneakers scuffing on the patio. He's scaring himself as much as anything else could, maybe more.
"I know you're out here," he raises his voice, tries to keep his tone calm, reasonable. Sounds way more confident than he feels, and his fingers clench around the bat, waiting.
Something moves to his left, peripheral vision and in the trees. He spins 'round trying to follow it. He can't see anything, at least nothing that shouldn't be there, but the leaves rustle like they did before. Could've been the wind, but it's too much like footsteps on dry leaves, maybe...there, a twig snaps like it's been stepped on, and it's impossible to believe it's anything but his stalker.
Fear makes him want to retreat, feel something solid against his back so he can't be attacked from behind, but it's also fear that fuels his resolve to stay where he is, confront whoever the fuck it is, stalking him, fucking watching. He's staying right where he is, stubbornly refusing to give the bastard any hint of how scared he is, "I want you out of my fucking yard."
Another rustle of movement, same side and heart-stoppingly closer this time. Jared lifts the bat higher, tilts it back and widens his stance, preparing to...fuck, preparing for anything; hit, run, block, parry, who the fuck knows. There's something out here, can't not be, the movements are too coincidental. A small, logical, but comforting voice in the back of his mind tells him that he's going to feel like a complete fucking idiot if it turns out to be a cat or a possum.
"This stops or I'm calling the fucking cops."
Chokes down the way every inch of him is screaming to go back inside. Jared takes another step towards the tree line, and another after, past the pool and patio and onto the grass. Can't hold back the half-groaned-mostly-scared sound as he stares at their yard, really taking in what's here rather than looking for someone. Cusses under his breath, suddenly regretting living so far out of the city and fuck both him and Shannon for letting the yard get so overgrown. It's near enough a damn forest past the first ten feet from the house. What the fuck do they even need the rest of the yard for? Except now he can't see for shit, and it's easier for fucked up, fucking stalking motherfuckers to hide in.
First thing tomorrow, he's so calling a landscape gardener, screw the fucking expense. That's assuming he makes it through tonight, he adds, as there's another...sound of movement.
And shit, doesn't stop this time, quick, short bursts back and forth over dry leaves and twigs, indecisive almost. Jared hefts the bat, ready to swing, and ignores the burn in his arm from being tense and outstretched so long.
"I'm not fucking joking." As confident as he sounds, even to his own ears, he can't manage to raise his voice more than a whisper.
It's useless, he realizes, and dread sinks a little deeper. There's at least five feet of bushes and thicker trees to his left, even more towards the back of the yard, even the moonlights not helping. Going into the trees will leave him completely blind.
"Right," he takes a step back, unwilling to tear his gaze away from where he's sure the last sound came from. "That's it. I'm fucking calling the cops." Forces the last word to be louder than the rest to make sure he's heard. Takes another step back and can't stop after that, sneakers scuffing on the patio again as he tries to at least slow down. Eyes wide and unblinking, he scans the yard for...fuck, doesn't even know who or what.
Darker shadow darts across his peripheral vision and disappears, leaving him with nothing but an impression of size, and holy fucking hell, his brain can't make sense of what his eyes are seeing. Fucking huge is obvious, built like a redneck brick-shit-house and twice as deformed, if he can believe his own eyes and the jury is out on that one. It's wrong, though. Fear runs cold in his blood. He can't begin to fathom the whys and wherefores behind the bone-deep feeling of wrongness. He's fighting the instinctive desire to run away, and fucking fuck, is that his heartbeat pounding in his ears? Maybe something moving closer and shit, shit, shit, this is so bad.
He can't get to the house fast enough, he's terrified to even blink, forces himself to keep his eyes open, searching desperately for any sign of the half-seen...something. Yelps in shock-fear as his heel hits solid, hard enough that he registers pain, takes him a long moment before he realizes it's the goddamn house and thank fuck for that. Didn't expect it for a good few paces yet and he hurries to get inside. Seen enough horror movies to know the monster always jumps at the last possible minute, and he side-steps towards the door, back to the wall and fingers scrape the painted brickwork until he finds the screen handle. Near enough bolts inside, throwing his weight against the main door as soon as he's able, stumbling before he scrambles to slam and lock it, without dropping the bat.
Heart racing, breath coming in short, shallow pants, fingers so tight around the bat that his knuckles are bleached white, Jared stares out of the kitchen window. He can't see a fucking thing, even though this time, he actually expects to. Really, actually fucking does. The feeling's stronger, surer, than ever, and god-fucking-damn, he saw someone. Fucking quick, probably ugly as hell, but very definitely there. In his yard. Still in his yard because he's damn sure that he didn't scare them off.
It's even creepier now that he's been outside, heavy darkness of the night sky clinging to his skin, working its way under, deeper. He'd been wide open outside, anyone―anything―could've come after him, but he's back inside and unscathed, and that's gotta be a good thing. There's even less motive now than before, no reason he can find or figure out...except to scare the crap out of him.
His hand shakes reaching for his phone, he's got no other idea what to do but he needs someone to talk to, some kind of human contact, reassurance that he's not in this on his own. He said he'd call the cops but it's a dumb move, doesn't want to do that. Flashing lights may well scare the guy―and he's mostly convinced it's a guy―away for tonight, but Jared's sure he'll be back. The cops will want a description, and Jared has nothing to give them other than a half-seen shadow and a guess at size. Direction his luck is going in, he'll end up on a charge for wasting police time and giving a false report, and just...no. He's not keen on the idea in the first place, too many run-ins with the cops in general to ever want to call them unless he absolutely has to.
Shannon's with friends, too far away for there to be anything he can do except maybe talk Jared around from going crazy. Still debates calling Shannon, because it's an ingrained response, he always calls Shannon if he's in trouble, but....he hesitates. Shannon sounded beat when Jared called him earlier, looking forward to a good night's sleep at least, and even if Jared doesn't need an hour or two conversation to calm down, Shannon will only worry. He'll be pissed because Jared said everything was fine before he left. Jared said he was all better, even agreed that his paranoia must've been a symptom of sleep-deprivation.
Worry and anger and Shannon tend to end in sleepless nights, worse than usual because he won't be able to do anything and Jared knows he hates feeling helpless, unable to do anything to help, and certainly unable to fix it from the other end of a phone call. He'll call Shannon in the morning, less pressure and ample time for Shannon to get his ass back home, isn't fair to worry him sick in the middle of the night when he really can't do anything about it.
Shannon out of the question, he runs down his mental list of people he can call and count on, scratching most of them off as soon as he thinks of them. Most will be asleep, and the only person Jared knows who'll be ok with being woken up is Tomo, but he'll likely wake Vicky with the call, and no, Jared doesn't want to do that. He's sure Vicky thinks he's enough of a fuck up already without this. Anyone who'll be awake at this time...the majority of them will be drunk and partying, which leaves Brent and Tim. Brent...if he's awake, which is debatable, he'll only tell Jared to call the cops and that's downright fact. Tim's possibly next to useless but Jared knows his sleeping patterns aren't exactly regular or normal. There's still the...arrangement that they're not talking about though, and it makes him hesitate over calling.
He wants to call. Wants Tim to rush in and save him or some shit, but he doesn't think that has anything to do with him needing saving so much as just plain wanting Tim. He types out a quick text regardless, asking if either of them are awake before sending it to Tim and Brent, knowing he'll have half a chance of hearing back from them at this time of night, morning technically, fucking gray area time, too late to be night and too early to be morning. So long as one of them is awake, least he'll have someone to talk to, some half-assed connection out of this nightmare.
There's still nothing outside that he can see, not clearly, and the shadows that do move, he can't tell if it's from not blinking for so long or if something is actually there.
Next
Fandom: 30 Seconds to Mars
Pairing: Jared Leto/Tim Kelleher
Word Count: 55,839
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Light angst (flangst?), possible sexual-coercion if you tilt your head the right way but not really dub-con, enforced drugging (sleeping tablets).
Summary: Something, or someone is hunting Jared, either that or his paranoia and sleep deprivation are so out of control he's hallucinating a stalker. It's not quite a halluciation because he can see those, when they happen, this he can only feel. He's sick of the whole fucking thing; it followed him through the tour and all the way home, in his house. If he's insane, he wants to fucking know. It's ending tonight, and if it ends with a strait jacket and padded walls...well, shit happens.
Notes: Many thanks to Queencheeze, LisaRoquin and Guiltyoftreason. Cut text is from Egypt Central's 'Leap of Faith'. Written for the
werewolfbigbang on Live Journal.Art Post by the fabulous
lisaroquin *adores*Human scent. Predator and prey, wrapped up, mixed up and covered with acrid artificial fake. Tickles his nose and tries to mislead him. Huffs, snorts out a breath to clear it.
The grass is too short to hide in, leaves him vulnerable. Scratches his empty belly as he hunkers lower, tail straight and watching. Can't let his guard down. Human scent is thicker, stronger than wolf and makes his hackles rise. Has to stay close, alert, can't run. His territory, right here, not theirs and he's not leaving.
Gets close enough to scent himself, trail cold and faint. The wind changes, blowing into his face. He raises his nose. Nostrils flare and saliva pools in his mouth as he smells him.
Invisible fingers reach inside Jared and yank him into consciousness. Every instinctive response to danger slams him awake and alert, heart lurching into his throat before he knows why. A biting chill climbs the ridges of his spine and if it doesn't stop, it's going to get inside his brain. It leaves frigid tension behind as he lies still, eyes wide and searching blindly. The soft hair on the back of his neck and arms prickles stiff beyond recognition, feels like it could cut right through his skin if he so much as moves the wrong way against the sheets. There's a dull thud from outside, closer than it's been in weeks and there's no doubt in his mind what woke him. He's being watched. Again. Except watched isn't quite the right word, it's more like a presence, an interloper in his reality that he can feel and never see.
He has no memory of how he felt before it began, when it didn't exist, or wasn't noticeable by its absence. The it in his head has shape and form, never stabilising. Hides in shadows and around corners, always out of sight, out of touch, but it's always there. The intensity varies up and down, some days better, some days a paranoid spiral, but normal? Whatever the fuck that is, no, never that.
He's shivering before he realizes it, skin clammy with sweat, sheets sticking to him uncomfortably. He should be too hot, the bus is too hot, air still and heavy from all of them breathing into it. He doesn’t dare breath right now, he has to listen. His ears strain for something, anything, to solidify his fear. He wants it to be real so he'll know he’s not losing what little of his mind he has left. There. A rustle, soft and barely audible, and if he wasn’t so on edge, he'd miss it. He knows it might've come from inside, Shannon, Tomo, Tim or any of the roadies moving in their sleep, but paranoia nips the outskirts of his consciousness and overlays every rational thought. Fuck, he wants to believe the noise came from inside, but his brain won't let him.
Rational thoughts, those are...few and far between. He flips the sheet over so that the cooler, dry side is closest to his skin and rolls onto his back. He half-expects to see a looming shape at the end of his bunk, and he’s silently thankful he can scratch that off his list. Darkness stretches into endless nothing around him, opening the privacy curtain helps not at all; no streetlights, reflections, nothing. His eyes adjust gradually, but it's as much the memory of how he knows the inside of the bus should look as actually seeing it.
Jared’s certain he's the only one awake, but unexpected random noises, especially on the bus are...normal. Should be so normal that they don’t register. He's spent months not noticing shit, spent pretty much every tour barring the first one not noticing shit, but since...when the fuck ever, he can’t stop. Metal creaking as it cools, bodies shuffling, snoring, grinding teeth, the odd thump against the side of the bus when someone dreams they have more space than they actually do. Things on top of the bunks being kicked onto the floor, tinny strains of an iPod left on, and about a hundred other small, innocuous sounds that he should be able to tune out completely. Should being the operative word, because should hasn't happened in...long enough for him to forget when it started.
Shannon tried to make him wear ear-plugs, more than once, says it’ll help him sleep, but Jared knows that not being able to hear will be so much worse. Even after a gig when the buzzing in his ears is so bad it rattles his skull, he can’t bear to block any of it out just in case.
There are nights when he can’t sleep at all, is constantly on edge, hidden eyes boring holes in his spine. Certain it’s right behind him, or a step sideways, or...anywhere. No matter how fast he turns, he never sees anything. There are nights when he wakes up in a cold sweat, convinced he's not alone, doesn’t matter where he is, hotel, bus, home, when they've managed a few days break, something loitering, circling and stalking outside. Jared doesn’t know who―what―is responsible. Doesn't matter how many times he blames his imagination, or admits he has no proof, he can’t dismiss the way he feels. Something is outside, or hidden inside, and it scares the living fucking shit out of him.
He needs to move. Lying in his bunk twitching at every-fucking-thing, skin trying to crawl off his bones and no way to get comfortable is only increasing his agitation. Sleep may as well be a myth for all the hope he has of reclaiming it. Jared drags the blanket with him as he sits up and twists around, reluctant to give up the small amount of heat, or the illusion of protection. He hesitates, nerves fluttering in his chest and he can’t even pin them on any one thing, it’s everything. Logically he knows that being scared to put his feet on the floor is utterly stupid, but his mind is races with possibilities. Could be anything waiting in the darkness. Could be nothing but his imagination. Could be a bottomless pit and he'll fall forever, gaping maw and snapping teeth to cut him to shreds. He’s not sure which option sends the small tremble through him but hates it all the same. He clenches his jaw and tells himself to stop being such a fucking child. It’s ridiculous, thoughts and behaviors that he grew out of as a kid returning at thirty-eight, twice as real and four times more terrifying.
Jared takes a deep breath and holds it, the resulting tightness in his chest gives him something concrete to focus on, something he can control. He swings both legs out of the bunk before he can change his mind. Bare feet hit the floor at the same time, tense and ready, practically daring someone to grab his ankles. Nothing―no one―does and he feels twice as stupid for considering it. He keeps his blanket with him and flicks on the light-switch as soon as he’s away from the sleeping area, which makes him feel a little more at ease. At least he can see the inside of the bus now, odds and ends strewn about; hoodies, t-shirts, Styrofoam cup, crushed can of Coke Zero that has to be Tim's, empty, crumpled up pack of smokes, coffee cups waiting to be put away, nothing unusual. It settles something inside him that he can’t see anything that shouldn't be there, even if he doesn’t completely believe it.
The curtains are closed, but that doesn’t lessen the itch in the middle of his shoulders, makes it even worse because at the forefront of his mind is the certainty that he’ll pull them back to find someone staring at him. Eyes wide, face against the glass and condensation obscuring their mouth. Hasn't happened yet, which means shit as far as he’s concerned. Fuck, he wishes they were still moving, but Tim gets travel sick like fuck, crystallized ginger, home remedies and travel meds only staving off the worst of it for a couple of days, week at the most. Parking every few nights is preferable to any combination of Tim bitching because he’s nauseous or puking his guts up in their one and only bathroom. They've only left it that long once, and no, isn’t something any of them want to repeat. The tours, dates, are spaced out and planned so far in advance that so long as they remember, it’s barely an issue.
It always feels worse when they’re stationary. Maybe it's just that, worry at the complete lack of security of the bus, but since he's having to force the thought, he knows it's not. He really has to struggle to think of any kind rational explanation and he's fucking sick of it, sick of being so mentally off-balance without knowing why. He's felt it when they've been moving, more than once. Freaks him out when he thinks back, because it's beyond impossible and means that all arrows are pointing towards it being all in his head. The possibility that he's doing this to himself, creating these feelings all on his own scares him more than any physical threat. At least he has a chance to fight something physical, hitting back and hurting. If it's a paranoid delusion, all he has to fight against is a strait jacket and Shannon shipping him off to the nut house. Possibly even in that order.
He grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and holds onto it tightly as he pads along the narrow corridor, too agitated to sit down right away. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders and holds it close so that it doesn't drag. Yeah, despite what the rest of the band thinks, he can be quiet when he wants to be.
Even though his mind―body, every goddamn sense he has―screams that there's someone―something―inside, or outside wanting in, two full lengths of the bus prove him wrong. There's nothing out of place, no one hiding inside. So that means the threat is outside, and it's not as comforting as he thinks it should be. Jared flicks off the light when he reaches the lounge area for the third time, worry eclipsed by the knowledge that whoever is outside can see him, see exactly where he is and what he's doing. It's ritualistic almost, not completely unconscious, but his thoughts follow the exact same path they took the night before, and the one before that, one set of fears being replaced by another in an uncomfortably familiar order.
Lights off, Jared curls up on the longer sofa. Feet flat on the cushion and knees against his chest. He tries to keep his breathing steady as he waits for his eyes to make sense of the darkness. The shadows seem thicker now, moving and growing while he stares straight ahead. A gleam of movement to the right has him whipping his head around; heart beat spiking, eyes wide and alert. A dull shine from the LCD clock reflects and fractures on a can and he tells himself that's all it is. His mind twisting it into something else, sleep deprived hallucinations sneaking in where they can. None of it helps.
Jared turns his head and huffs out the breath he's holding. If he can't see the reflecting light, his mind can't fuck with it. That leaves him facing the window and he focuses on the place where the curtains don't quite join, maybe an inch of space between them. Fuck it, he may as well look now, either that or let his imagination scare him half to death before he has to look. Shannon's gonna find him one morning, curled up in the corner in the middle of a fucking breakdown and insane with fear.
He tilts his head and leans closer, scanning as far as he can see, which...isn't far. Nothing outside but macabre shadows that could be anything, hundreds of places for someone to hide in plain sight. Doesn't matter how hard he looks for proof someone is there, he's never found anything. Disappointment and frustration sit heavily in his stomach and that's familiar too, because it's...beyond frustrating, knowing and feeling, but never seeing. He keeps trying though, eyes straining in the dark, distrusting and dissecting every shadow.
"Hey."
Shannon's sleep-rough voice startles him out of his don't-blink-challenge with the dark. He swallows a bubble of hysterical laughter because it's only gonna show how rattled he is. The glare from the LCD clock seems brighter somehow than it was before and it highlights Shannon's silhouette. "Did I wake you?"
"Nah, iPod did that. Fucking Stone Sour, goddamn Corey Taylor," Shannon grumbles and a smile tugs Jared's lips as he rolls his eyes. It's a comforting slice of normality, Shannon falling asleep listening to something mellow, only to be woken hours later when his playlist reaches the heavier tracks. "Can't sleep?"
He shakes his head before remembering that Shannon likely can't see it, "Woke up in a cold sweat again."
"Same feeling? Someone outside watching?" Shannon sounds more awake now, certainly more than he usually manages at ass-fuck o'clock in the morning.
"Yeah." 'Watching' had been the easiest way to explain it to Shannon when he'd had to, the least crazy. He'd hated admitting it, bad enough inside his head without Shannon being involved in his delusional-paranoia. He's aware that he's probably over-reacting, but fuck, he's too sure of this, and Shannon has always been too perceptive for him to think he can deal with it on his own. "Can't see anything, though." And yeah, he hates that too.
Shannon's leaning over him in less than two strides, peering out between the curtains. Jared worries his bottom lip, torn between wanting Shannon to see something and not. Neither option will make him feel better, not now that his fears have taken hold.
This close, he can make out Shannon's features in greyscape. The deep shadows under his eyes are more pronounced than in the harsher light of day, and Jared adds guilt to his collection of spinning emotions. Between whatever the fuck he's feeling and the relentless touring schedule, Shannon looking like shit is mostly his fault. Shannon reaches across him, fingertips skimming the edge of one of the curtains before Jared darts forward―moving faster than he has all day―and wraps his fingers around Shannon's wrist to hold him back. Hisses in a breath as he tries to suppress the initial panic, "Christ, Shannon, don't let them know we're onto them."
"Just want to make sure. Can't see anything out there."
There's no more more light now than before and Jared can't read Shannon's expression, but he picks up the tone fine; concern and worry, with a slight edge of back-the-fuck-away-from-the-crazy that's as reassuring as a punch in the face. He lets go of Shannon's wrist reluctantly, only now realizing how much he craves contact. He needs touch to ground him in reality, and if he was seven, he'd already have crept into Shannon's bed and hidden under the covers, let his big brother chase all the nightmares and fear away. He isn't seven anymore, and he doubts Shannon would put up with sharing his bunk for very long, or at all, come to think of it.
"Hey," Shannon says softly, hand on Jared's shoulder, "Gotta stop freaking yourself out, it's been months and you've seen nothing. When was the last time you slept more'n a few hours?"
Jared shrugs, doesn't know the answer and doesn't care to think on it, but it feels like forever ago. "You think I'm crazy?"
"Pretty sure you're certifiable, but not 'cause of this. Be home in a week or so, you'll feel better then." Shannon sounds so absolutely sure, Jared can't not believe him.
Goddamn, he hopes like fuck that he'll be better at home. Hopes that this whole fucking thing is stress and lack of sleep, his body rebelling against the way he pushes it non-stop night after night. An outlet for his over-active imagination because he's not using it almost constantly like he did when they were in the studio, recording.
"Thanks, bro...that helps a lot." It doesn't, at all. Never does, no matter how many times Shannon says it, but it isn't worth dragging out.
"Hey, you asked." Shannon grins and the light reflects off of his teeth, makes him look almost feral for a heartbeat or two. Panic grips and squeezes his chest, before he remembers that it's Shannon beside him. It takes him a couple of seconds to shake it off, which is verging on ridiculous.
"Still got plenty of sleeping pills?” Shannon's voice is quiet and steady, helps bring Jared back to himself.
"Yeah. Not taking them, though. Not 'til I can't not, you know how I get on them." And likely not even when he's well past the point of having to take them. Half the prescribed dose knocks out his motor function scary-fast. Leaves him feeling worse than catatonic the morning after; lethargic and thoughts slow, dazed to the point of can’t-do-anything,
Shannon yawns, mouth wide, "Want me to stay up with you?"
"No point both of us being sleep deprived zombies in the morning. Get some sleep while you can, I'll be ok." Jared tries to feel it as he says it, but there's a chill in his bones, lingering fear, that he's never going to be fine again. He smiles, hoping it's enough to convince Shannon, but it's forced and empty. Maybe Shannon's too tired to notice that he's talking out of his ass.
"Ok, don't say I didn't offer...night." Another yawn and Shannon ruffles Jared's hair before shuffling away to his bunk.
Jared turns back to the window, he needs to face facts; there's nothing outside. Months, Shannon said, and that's only counting since he's known. There's at least another six weeks on top of that, maybe seven or eight, Jared's not sure of the exact number. Ignoring the feeling as much as he can, Jared pushes himself up from the sofa, stilted and jerky in his need to fake normal. He's going to bed, and dammit, he'll lay there until he falls asleep even if it takes hours.
He's using his hands to map the wall on his way to hid bunk, when it hits him suddenly that he's missing more than his possible sanity. It's times like this, too fucking wound up to sleep, that he wishes Tim hadn't pulled back from their...arrangement. Handjob or head every now and then when he's stressed―if Tim suffers from stress he's better at hiding it than Jared―when the road got too long or lonely, when either of them were horny. Hell of a lot more satisfying than jerking off, or picking up groupies, although admittedly, that'd gotten old years ago.
It's never been anything more than that, hell, they've never kissed even. Regardless, it'd been kind of perfect while it lasted. There when he wanted it without complications, only now it's not, but it's now that he really kind of needs it most. He misses it―Tim―which is...not something he'd foreseen, misses it more than the physical relief which makes it harder to admit, even to himself.
Tim got...weird. Pulling back. First he stopped initiating, although he never said no when Jared made the first move. Right now though, he's sort of...pulled back and held off, avoided―and is avoiding―Jared completely. His timing is downright perfect for not being there when Jared wants him. Tim hasn't said anything, hasn't told him to fuck off or given him an outright no, but he's dropped enough hints for Jared to get the message.
Whether Tim really is only in the mood for pussy, like he's indicated, or it's just to make Jared back off, he's not sure. Jared can't argue with the scratch marks on Tim's back and shoulders, irrefutable proof he's getting laid. The stolen glimpses he's caught backstage, and one time Tim came out of the shower wearing nothing but a towel―obviously unintentional because he nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw Jared standing there, and all Jared could think about was licking the drops of water off Tim's chest―changing left him...curious and annoyingly turned on. Tim didn't ever seem masochistic when he got off with Jared, but maybe it's part of the reason for pulling back. Fucked up, because if Tim wants rough, Jareds got no problem with that.
Even casual monogamy has never come up between them and Jared's positive that it's no kind of possible now, so yeah, he's keeping his mouth shut. Not that he's spent much time thinking about what he wants from Tim, if he even wants monogamy no matter how casual, or if maybe he wants to take 'casual' out of the equation completely. Up until now, he hasn't thought he needed to, but he should have, maybe he wouldn't feel this bad.
He knows he could push, crawl into Tim's bunk―fuck knows he wants to―and try his luck, but Tim hinted at no, and Jared doesn't want to put either of them in a situation where Tim says it outright. It's Murphy's fucking law that the more Tim pulls back, the more Jared wants him, the lonelier he feels without him and the more jealous he is over the women Tim's picking up, whoever they are.
Jared tries not to think about wanting Tim. It's doomed before he even starts, so he needs to fucking stop. It's only sex, not even full sex, just getting off, hands or mouth and not even that often. It's been that way since they started and Jared has no fucking business asking anything of Tim that isn't work related. He rests his hand lightly on the edge of Tim's bunk and tries to convince himself that everything―the stalking-that's-likely-all-in-his-head and whatever he is or isn't doing and feeling for Tim―is down to lack of sleep. Stress, too long on the road, too old to do this shit, just fucked up tricks his imagination is playing on him.
His bedding is cold now. He pulls his blanket tighter, draws his knees up as far as he can and doesn't believe a fucking word of it.
He watches. Waits. Tracks the shadow moving inside and licks his muzzle. Backs further into the dark at the sudden bright light from inside.
Shadows move and he follows them back and forth. Flicks his ears as the light disappears with a soft click. Hunkers lower as his eyes adjust to the darkness, still watching.
There.
Found you.
There's another shadow, getting closer to the first, becomes one for a moment or two. Blur of shape. Can't tell them apart. Break, repeat. Skin itches under his fur until they move apart again.
His eyes meet curious ones, staring right at him without seeing. The face pulls back, and he snorts out a breath.
Keeps watching. Keeps waiting.
It doesn't stop, never fucking stops. Didn't for the last week they were on tour, not their first night at home when, by all rights, Jared should have slept for a good fourteen or sixteen hours straight. Usually did, but nothing about the last few months has been in any way normal or usual. It didn't stop the next night, or the night after that, and it certainly hasn't stopped now. It should have, but it hasn't.
The last decent sleep he remembers was on the plane home, all of two hours tops and over a week ago. Nights when he manages to get something resembling sleep―which are next to non-existent―it feels like he's slept with one eye open, waiting for it to return. He knew it wasn't going to leave, followed him across the whole damn country so he'd be stupid to think being at home would make a difference.
When he's feeling marginally more rested, Jared double checks the security system, updates it where he can and stops just short of 'round the clock CCTV. Shannon would notice that, bitch and moan about it, worry even more than he already does, and...no, Jared's not so far gone that he doesn't care about Shannon. Yet. If he doesn't figure something out soon, though, he doesn't know what he's going to do. It can't go on like this, that's for damn sure.
There's no let up, either he's in the middle of feeling it or he's spiralling in paranoia waiting for it to return, catch-fucking-twenty-two and he hates every damn second.
The tour ended over a week ago, and Shannon's gone to stay with friends. Jared's had two nights without sleep barring an hour or so in the afternoon, waiting for it to start again, and now it actually has. It's back full force, and he's sure it hasn't ever felt this bad, it feels too...sudden almost, too...something he can't even name, or maybe doesn't want to because the idea scares the shit out of him. Months of itching, prickling, watched, has nothing on what he's feeling now.
It takes him almost ten minutes before he scrapes together the courage to get out of bed. Ten minutes of clenching his jaw shut until his teeth hurt, ten minutes of talking himself out of the belief that there's someone in his room before he can get out of bed to turn on the light. Squints into the sudden brightness of his bedroom as he searches for...the same fucking thing he searches for every damn time and never finds.
Jared picks up yesterday's jeans from where they're hanging over the back of his chair, pulls them on and maybe it's his imagination, but it's a little easier to breath. Yeah, naked is so not the way to go stalking through his house looking for intruders. Hoodie next and he carefully doesn't think about how much of the protection they afford him is an illusion. Picking up his Blackberry is second nature, just as much as it is something else to do to put off what he's planning to do next.
Can't put it off forever, and he yanks open his bedroom door as fast as he can, definitely before he's ready to face...whoever. His heart pounds in his chest as he searches the hallway, light from behind him making it both easier to see and easier to not see things lurking in the shadows. It takes him longer than he thinks it should to settle the conviction that there's nothing hiding in the hallway.
Every step he takes freaks him out a little more, panic building the longer he finds nothing. Shannon's words, stress and lack of sleep, ring dully in his ears as he creeps through the dark house. It's possible, or at least, it isn't impossible, but his sleep-deprived hallucinations have never felt so malevolent before. Fucking fuck, though. It―he―is pissing himself off, freaked out and frustration increasing like for like, snowballing and gaining speed as they feed off each other.
He's working himself up, because he can't stop the spiral his mind's sent him on. Helps exactly not at all that he's letting his imagination run, full blown effect of months of anger and frustration driving him on. Fuck it, fuck whoever is out there because he doesn't want to hold back or hide right now, wants to beat the living shit out of them until he splits his knuckles to the bone because this waiting around and doing nothing is pure fucking bullshit.
Creeping through the house has never been this scary before, Jared's sure of that. Turning on the lights will help, for a bit, but Jared knows that it'll only make it worse because then whoever is outside―and he's mostly sure they're outside―will be able to see in and it'll take his eyes a while to readjust to the dark. So yeah, lights off is a better plan. The house isn't quite pitch black, bright moonlight streams through the open blinds, small glowing lights from electronics do the rest; TV, DVD player, stereos, all on stand-by and power save mode but it's just enough to allow him to see more than smoky shadows.
Once he's done a sweep of the whole house, mostly satisfied that he's at least alone inside, there's only one thing for it. It's easier to see out of the windows with the house in darkness, but doesn't matter how hard he looks, there's nothing to see. The kitchen is his best bet, Jared decides, spans a whole side of the house, front to back, if there's anyone outside, he has more chance of seeing them from there.
A full ten minutes of glaring into the dark proves nothing except whoever is outside is both hiding, and still watching. He can feel it under his skin and inside his bones; evil see-all eyes on the house, on him. There's a sound above him and he freezes stock still, blood running cold, nose almost touching the window pane. It's two-three-four heartbeats later that his pulse slows down enough for him to realize what caused it. Creaks of the house resettling, normal, should-be-used-to sounds that have reverberated through the walls since the day he and Shannon moved in. It's the bus all over again. Reason and logic don't get a look in as he strains his ears for something, anything; footstep, brush of cloth, cough, sneeze, fucking breathing that isn't his own.
His heart is racing too fast to be normal and panic fuelled adrenaline sets his nerves on edge. He still manages to feel like a goddamn fucking idiot for getting so worked up. The fear, the feeling someone is watching, it's as real as a living person breathing down the back of his neck, only he can't beat the hell out of it. He wants to, wants something to hit, to fight, something he can fucking face.
Fuck this. Fuck feeling like this, trapped in his own goddamn home, fear constantly keeping him awake and on edge. Fuck the feeling to fucking hell and back, this is his home, he should feel safe. Hasn't felt safe in...he can't remember when and he hates it. It's not fair, isn't right, and it needs to end. He's going to have to do something because it's not going away. Now is as good a time as any, emotions bubbling over and he's angry enough to do something really fucking stupid. Nothing to lose, right? Right.
The decision brings a measure of relief, not a lot, but enough to make him stand a little straighter. It's ending tonight, one way or another, he'll make sure of it. He's not a pussy, he's never backed down in his life and he should have remembered that before now. Kicks himself for letting it get this far but even that only adds to his new-found determination. It's. Ending. Tonight. It has to.
Mind made up, Jared turns on his heel and strides through the house. He flicks on the light in the spare room that doubles as a haven for accumulated junk they have no use for, but don't want to get rid of. He starts opening boxes, actions jerky, frenzied almost, as he tries to remember what they have in here that'll double up as a weapon. He hits jackpot in a box of left-over-shit from Shannon and his teenage years, fingers touching solid wood before curling around the handle. Their old baseball bat, gotta be. Yanks it out from underneath everything else and hell the fuck yes, it'll do. Big enough to look intimidating and heavy enough to follow through and enforce that.
He swings it a couple of times, testing the weight and balance, until he's satisfied with his initial thoughts. Going downstairs is easier now he's armed, determination being reinforced with every step. He only hesitates after shoving his feet into his sneakers by the back door. This is a bad idea, every bone in his body is telling him it is, screaming at him not to do this because it's fucking scary. Yeah, the fear is still there, cloying, heavy, fucking with his mind and getting under his skin in a way that he can't shake.
He has to do this though. It's not going away. It's not backing off or easing up, so he either learns to live with it, or he goes out and confronts it. His mind spirals, how many months more of this can he stand, because that's what it comes down to. No more. Can't stand another second of feeling like this. Whatever's out there, he needs to know even if there's nothing out there.
It's fucked up. Even Jared can admit that Shannon might be right, this whole thing could be in his own mind, a hallucination or facet of his paranoia, stress, overactive imagination running riot. He's got fuck all evidence to prove anything else, so yeah, it's possible. He's still going, confront...whatever. Best case scenario? There's nothing there and he'll scare himself shitless for nothing, but at least he'll know.
And if he's right...well, he has the bat with him for a reason.
Feels good to have something solid to hold on to and he grips the bat tighter. He's about as psyched and ready as he's going to get, show time.
Jared's fingers hover over the door handle before he twists and pulls it, slowly. The sudden temperature drop in the air makes him shiver, at least, he's doing a fucking good job pretending it's the temperature. No pussying out because of the weather, or the dark, or fucking anything, it's ending tonight and that's that. End. Period. Done and fucking dusted.
It's dark―no shit, right?―but maybe not as dark as it could be. The moon's high and bright, reflects on the surface of the pool, but that's the only real light and the yard is too sheltered for any artificial light to reach it. His eyes are as adjusted as they're going to get. Not turning on the lights inside helped, even though it's a different kind of darkness out here, heavier somehow, like it's settling around him and weighing on his skin.
He stops, heart jumping into his throat after his fourth―fifth maybe―step and fuck, it's only his sneakers scuffing on the patio. He's scaring himself as much as anything else could, maybe more.
"I know you're out here," he raises his voice, tries to keep his tone calm, reasonable. Sounds way more confident than he feels, and his fingers clench around the bat, waiting.
Something moves to his left, peripheral vision and in the trees. He spins 'round trying to follow it. He can't see anything, at least nothing that shouldn't be there, but the leaves rustle like they did before. Could've been the wind, but it's too much like footsteps on dry leaves, maybe...there, a twig snaps like it's been stepped on, and it's impossible to believe it's anything but his stalker.
Fear makes him want to retreat, feel something solid against his back so he can't be attacked from behind, but it's also fear that fuels his resolve to stay where he is, confront whoever the fuck it is, stalking him, fucking watching. He's staying right where he is, stubbornly refusing to give the bastard any hint of how scared he is, "I want you out of my fucking yard."
Another rustle of movement, same side and heart-stoppingly closer this time. Jared lifts the bat higher, tilts it back and widens his stance, preparing to...fuck, preparing for anything; hit, run, block, parry, who the fuck knows. There's something out here, can't not be, the movements are too coincidental. A small, logical, but comforting voice in the back of his mind tells him that he's going to feel like a complete fucking idiot if it turns out to be a cat or a possum.
"This stops or I'm calling the fucking cops."
Chokes down the way every inch of him is screaming to go back inside. Jared takes another step towards the tree line, and another after, past the pool and patio and onto the grass. Can't hold back the half-groaned-mostly-scared sound as he stares at their yard, really taking in what's here rather than looking for someone. Cusses under his breath, suddenly regretting living so far out of the city and fuck both him and Shannon for letting the yard get so overgrown. It's near enough a damn forest past the first ten feet from the house. What the fuck do they even need the rest of the yard for? Except now he can't see for shit, and it's easier for fucked up, fucking stalking motherfuckers to hide in.
First thing tomorrow, he's so calling a landscape gardener, screw the fucking expense. That's assuming he makes it through tonight, he adds, as there's another...sound of movement.
And shit, doesn't stop this time, quick, short bursts back and forth over dry leaves and twigs, indecisive almost. Jared hefts the bat, ready to swing, and ignores the burn in his arm from being tense and outstretched so long.
"I'm not fucking joking." As confident as he sounds, even to his own ears, he can't manage to raise his voice more than a whisper.
It's useless, he realizes, and dread sinks a little deeper. There's at least five feet of bushes and thicker trees to his left, even more towards the back of the yard, even the moonlights not helping. Going into the trees will leave him completely blind.
"Right," he takes a step back, unwilling to tear his gaze away from where he's sure the last sound came from. "That's it. I'm fucking calling the cops." Forces the last word to be louder than the rest to make sure he's heard. Takes another step back and can't stop after that, sneakers scuffing on the patio again as he tries to at least slow down. Eyes wide and unblinking, he scans the yard for...fuck, doesn't even know who or what.
Darker shadow darts across his peripheral vision and disappears, leaving him with nothing but an impression of size, and holy fucking hell, his brain can't make sense of what his eyes are seeing. Fucking huge is obvious, built like a redneck brick-shit-house and twice as deformed, if he can believe his own eyes and the jury is out on that one. It's wrong, though. Fear runs cold in his blood. He can't begin to fathom the whys and wherefores behind the bone-deep feeling of wrongness. He's fighting the instinctive desire to run away, and fucking fuck, is that his heartbeat pounding in his ears? Maybe something moving closer and shit, shit, shit, this is so bad.
He can't get to the house fast enough, he's terrified to even blink, forces himself to keep his eyes open, searching desperately for any sign of the half-seen...something. Yelps in shock-fear as his heel hits solid, hard enough that he registers pain, takes him a long moment before he realizes it's the goddamn house and thank fuck for that. Didn't expect it for a good few paces yet and he hurries to get inside. Seen enough horror movies to know the monster always jumps at the last possible minute, and he side-steps towards the door, back to the wall and fingers scrape the painted brickwork until he finds the screen handle. Near enough bolts inside, throwing his weight against the main door as soon as he's able, stumbling before he scrambles to slam and lock it, without dropping the bat.
Heart racing, breath coming in short, shallow pants, fingers so tight around the bat that his knuckles are bleached white, Jared stares out of the kitchen window. He can't see a fucking thing, even though this time, he actually expects to. Really, actually fucking does. The feeling's stronger, surer, than ever, and god-fucking-damn, he saw someone. Fucking quick, probably ugly as hell, but very definitely there. In his yard. Still in his yard because he's damn sure that he didn't scare them off.
It's even creepier now that he's been outside, heavy darkness of the night sky clinging to his skin, working its way under, deeper. He'd been wide open outside, anyone―anything―could've come after him, but he's back inside and unscathed, and that's gotta be a good thing. There's even less motive now than before, no reason he can find or figure out...except to scare the crap out of him.
His hand shakes reaching for his phone, he's got no other idea what to do but he needs someone to talk to, some kind of human contact, reassurance that he's not in this on his own. He said he'd call the cops but it's a dumb move, doesn't want to do that. Flashing lights may well scare the guy―and he's mostly convinced it's a guy―away for tonight, but Jared's sure he'll be back. The cops will want a description, and Jared has nothing to give them other than a half-seen shadow and a guess at size. Direction his luck is going in, he'll end up on a charge for wasting police time and giving a false report, and just...no. He's not keen on the idea in the first place, too many run-ins with the cops in general to ever want to call them unless he absolutely has to.
Shannon's with friends, too far away for there to be anything he can do except maybe talk Jared around from going crazy. Still debates calling Shannon, because it's an ingrained response, he always calls Shannon if he's in trouble, but....he hesitates. Shannon sounded beat when Jared called him earlier, looking forward to a good night's sleep at least, and even if Jared doesn't need an hour or two conversation to calm down, Shannon will only worry. He'll be pissed because Jared said everything was fine before he left. Jared said he was all better, even agreed that his paranoia must've been a symptom of sleep-deprivation.
Worry and anger and Shannon tend to end in sleepless nights, worse than usual because he won't be able to do anything and Jared knows he hates feeling helpless, unable to do anything to help, and certainly unable to fix it from the other end of a phone call. He'll call Shannon in the morning, less pressure and ample time for Shannon to get his ass back home, isn't fair to worry him sick in the middle of the night when he really can't do anything about it.
Shannon out of the question, he runs down his mental list of people he can call and count on, scratching most of them off as soon as he thinks of them. Most will be asleep, and the only person Jared knows who'll be ok with being woken up is Tomo, but he'll likely wake Vicky with the call, and no, Jared doesn't want to do that. He's sure Vicky thinks he's enough of a fuck up already without this. Anyone who'll be awake at this time...the majority of them will be drunk and partying, which leaves Brent and Tim. Brent...if he's awake, which is debatable, he'll only tell Jared to call the cops and that's downright fact. Tim's possibly next to useless but Jared knows his sleeping patterns aren't exactly regular or normal. There's still the...arrangement that they're not talking about though, and it makes him hesitate over calling.
He wants to call. Wants Tim to rush in and save him or some shit, but he doesn't think that has anything to do with him needing saving so much as just plain wanting Tim. He types out a quick text regardless, asking if either of them are awake before sending it to Tim and Brent, knowing he'll have half a chance of hearing back from them at this time of night, morning technically, fucking gray area time, too late to be night and too early to be morning. So long as one of them is awake, least he'll have someone to talk to, some half-assed connection out of this nightmare.
There's still nothing outside that he can see, not clearly, and the shadows that do move, he can't tell if it's from not blinking for so long or if something is actually there.
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Date: 2010-11-13 01:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-11-13 01:30 am (UTC)