ice cold sweat - karl heisenberg / reader

part three- pain and rapture

a/n: I'm not a fan of this chapter but I wanted to post one bc it had been a while- I hope you like it anyway!

You are not awoken by any soft caress of daylight, but by cacophonous noise; the incessant chatter of the other waking servants of the castle, the sounds of loud footsteps against stone floors, the harsh, metallic clashes of pots and pants banging together in the nearby kitchen. Opening your eyes is a momentous chore in itself; they feel heavy and tired, the coaxing pull of drowsiness still heavy in your bones and threatening to lull you back to sleep, back to your dreams. Last night was not sleepless, but you do not feel rested. Your mind is fragmented, piecing together shards of nonsensical dreams- between rapid blinks, you see smoke, shattered mirrors, a cigarette crushed on a wooden floor, a pile of scrap metal, crumpled paper and a leatherbound book. Meaningless, mostly; concepts, drawn from a hat of idle, subconscious thoughts, formed into a shallow portmanteau dream.

The motions of rising from bed feel like the continuing of a hazy dream- all sluggish arms, half-lidded eyes, and without even realising it you've made your way to the kitchen, where the noise heard from the living quarters have risen to an almost unbearable level- the noise of metal on metal and quick footsteps and clinking glass is jarring, so early in the morning, and you weave between a few of the servants, glancing at faces as you pass, making a mental note of those present and those whose faces are fresh and fearful. The turnover was fast and it did well to not make friends- get attached- form bonds; everyone kept their head down, a small smile was often all that could be spared in integrity. Reaching a small window in the corner of the room, away from the majority of the bustle, you peer outside, drinking in the trace of sunshine through the heavy, grey clouds blanketing the sky, promising an unforgiving rainstorm ahead.

Despite the general chaos of your morning, you find it invigorating to look outside, breathe in and savour the fresh air in your lungs that seeps in through the only slightly ajar window. It floods over and drowns the general scent of blood and metal that curls around the castle, and for just a moment you taste an almost alien sample of freedom. It doesn't last long- someone barges past you to reach a broom propped up in the corner and you step sideways awkwardly, smoothing yourself down and regaining composure, having regained some sense of invigoration- today would not be a day of looking at your feet, stumbling over your words and spending valuable time thinking about things above your station, and ultimately unhelpful, even a hindrance, to your future survival.

The passage from the basement is a steep, cold stone staircase, lit by sad little lanterns, some shattered, warning for the shards of broken glass littering the steps and glinting slightly in the firelight. You're late to leave the servants' quarters- there's noise upstairs, but only faint; the sounds of footsteps and newly hushed voices in the presence of the nobles of the castle. All you can hear on the staircase is a faint and steady drip of water from the ceiling, and the sound of your own even breathing. In some strange way, it's peaceful, and you pause in front of the wooden door that opens up into the main castle, reaching a hand out to hold onto the brass doorknob and just resting it there, savouring the cool soothe of the metal against your calloused palm.

"Fucking... Useless bitches. Why do you keep so many of them around? It's not like you need them, Alcina, huh?"

Heisenberg's voice- it's instantly recognisable, even through a door. You consider hiding, or even retreating to the cellar- you don't. Instead, you turn the doorknob gently and slowly open the door, stepping out, and turning fully around to close the door softly behind you, or as softly as a heavy wooden door can be closed. This door opens out into one of many long hallways sprawling throughout Castle Dimitrescu- it's lined with wall sconces and glass display cases containing jewellery and sinister-looking miscellany. This particular one offshoots  the main entrance hall of the castle, which in turn connects to a large but scarcely used dining room, which is naturally connected to a  kitchen...

Essentially, this wing of the castle is not frequented heavily by Lady Dimitrescu, her daughters, or even guests- those that visit tend to either not be treasured guests, or stay in the upper sanctums of the castle, close to the Lady's personal quarters- to keep an eye on them, you consider idly. This was why it was unusual to hear a voice not belonging to a nondescript maiden or servant down here- and why hearing Heisenberg's voice was alarming.

"Hey, are you listening? I say you've got a hoard of little living, breathing morsels here that you really don't need. Many of 'em will go 'stale' or whatever it is before you get chance to kill them off- All I'm saying is they could be made use of elsewhere, and then I can-"

"Quiet now, Heisenberg. We have had this discussion on numerous occasions, and every time I repeat to you that you cannot take any of my... lovely maidens. I cannot spare any, find your guinea pigs elsewhere, hm?"

As much as you know you should move on quickly, you hesitate, but this hesitance only gets you noticed by Heisenberg, who turned away from Lady Dimitrescu in an exasperated huff, waving his hammer with clear frustration through the air. "Surely some of them are defective, or disobedient, like this-" He points the head of the weapon towards you accusatorially, and you hope beyond all sense he remembers your encounter from the previous day.

"Oh, it's you." His voice is gruff and low, and you glance up to meet his eyes. He's wearing those sunglasses again, but you see the glint behind them that prove he's still looking at you, even as he turns back towards Lady Dimitrescu, who you can see from you peripheral has brought her long, thin cigarette up to her mouth with an elegant flourish.

"I didn't realise you were making acquaintance with them, Heisenberg," She says, laughing, but there is no joy in the sound. "Maybe if you spent less time flirting with the subjects and more time actually using our blessings to assist Mother Miranda, you wouldn't be here begging for my assistance. I do hope you think of a better solution to our dilemma than whatever fool's game you're currently playing."

Heisenberg's grip on the hilt of the hammer is so tight you can see his knuckles drain of blood and fade into a ghostly white; his harsh mouth curls into an uneasy hybrid between a snarl and a smirk, on the verge of response but unable to formulate one. His hat is worn at an angle, low over his face, and you let your eyes linger on the collection of metal objects hanging on oxidised chains around his neck, shown through a shirt that is partially unbuttoned not down to aesthetic choice, you assume, but because the buttons have long since been lost. His skin, you realise, is slightly tanned, and his hair not entirely grey but more of a silvery-brown, making him look, from a distance, older than he probably is. Despite his generally grizzled and wolfish appearance, he seems so much younger than Lady Dimitrescu, so much angrier. You find yourself suddenly wanting to ask him what he's thinking about, and in this haze of thought you don't notice he's looking right at you, almost defiantly, almost searchingly, like he wants something from you. Maybe you're imagining it, maybe it's self-indulgent and false feelings of grandiose and importance just because you keep finding yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He growls under his breath, loudly, and his teeth show through an indignant snarl. His canines are sharp. You shiver- he turns and leaves, into the entrance hall and, you assume, upstairs.

You're left with Lady Dimitrescu, who you can see is watching him leave.

"What a fool," She says dryly, then turns towards you.

"You keep finding yourself in dangerous situations, little one," She drawls, and places a hand on her hip. "It's beginning to irritate me. Skulking about in the shadows, like one of my daughters."

"I'm sorry, my Lady. I simply didn't want to disturb you."

"I love it when you little fools think politeness will save your life," She remarks, smiling down at you almost encouragingly, like you're a child taking their first steps. "For your innocence, out of pity, I'll tell you this- Whatever you fear will happen to you under my supervision... You'll suffer less than under the hands of my little brother." She takes a step forward and you look up, fearing the consequences of breaking her gaze but also captivated by her sheer force of presence. "He'll eat you alive- he won't even do you the pleasure of killing you first."

Whether this was literal or metaphorical, you're not sure, but you don't want to ask. Lady Dimitrescu takes another drag from her cigarette then smiles wickedly. "You might be useful yet."