Sleepy Bois Inc. Angst Oneshots

Assassins

TW: mentions of blood and death, guns, panic; please lmk if I missed any!
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Tommy stares through the grimy window, his hands shaking and his fingers numb.

The hallway of the apartment building is just as dirty as the window, if not worse. No one bothers to clean up the wrappers or dust the cobwebs. Primes knows the last time someone mopped the hardwood floors. Most of the light bulbs are dead, but the ones that aren't flicker and cast shadows that his mind twists into people about to catch him. The smell of cigarette smoke and booze sits heavy in the air, making his throat burn.

The fire escape he's standing on seems to sway in the wind solely to remind him how far he is from the ground. Distantly, he wonders the last time this wire contraption was evaluated for safety. What if it gives out beneath him?

He's stalling.

He needs to do his job.

Every minute he wastes is another chance for someone walking below or leaving their apartment to see him and call the police.

Just as he goes to open the window, the door nearest to him swings open, and loud, drunken bickering fills the hallway. Tommy drops to his knees on the fire escape, hoping no one saw him. His heart hammers against his ribs as he pinches his eyes closed, covers his mouth, and prays for the couple to leave.

After what feels like eternity, a door slams, and the fighting ceases. Tommy waits for the other person to stomp off before finally letting himself breathe again.

Slowly, he rises to a crouching position and peers through the window.

The hallway is empty once more, and the night is silent again, except for quiet, muffled sobs coming from the first door. He wants to wait for the person crying to fall asleep, but he doesn't have that kind of time. Hopefully, the sound will at least provide him some cover.

He pushes the window open without giving himself a single second longer to panic.

Tommy places his feet carefully on the floor of the apartment hallway and slips through as quietly as he can. Clicking the safety off of his gun, he tip-toes toward his target's room. He reaches the door knob quicker than he'd like to, and suddenly, there is no excuse to stall any longer.

He steels himself for what he's about to do and-

A gunshot sounds, echoing in the hallway.

Tommy drops his gun and throws his hands up, as if to say he didn't do it. It takes him a long time to realize it actually wasn't him, and it takes him even longer to scramble for his gun. He whirls around, his eyes wide and breathing heavy. He waves his gun around like a madman, but another shot never comes, and none of the apartment doors open.

He leans against the wall, taking gasping breaths as he waits to calm down. He should run away, leave as fast as he can, but he still has a job to do. If he doesn't, Dream will kill his target in a much more cruel way than a bullet to the head while he's sleeping, and he'll make Tommy watch.

Tommy turns the door knob, surprise clear on his face when the door opens easily. He goes to step inside when another shot rings out.

Instantly, his side explodes in pain, and he collapses into a pile of curses and whimpers just barely inside the room. He's quick to cover the wound with his hands, like he's been taught to, but the pressure makes him hiss in pain.

Heavy footsteps stomp down the hallway, taunting Tommy as they get closer.

Tommy bites his tongue until it bleeds and pushes to his feet. His entire body protests the movement, but he can't just lay there and wait to be killed. He pushes the door shut, his bloodied hands fumbling to lock it. When the lock finally clicks, Tommy sinks to the ground in relief and leans against the door.

Some part of him knows he should be quiet; he doesn't want to alert his target, but another part of him is in too much pain to care.

If his target hasn't already heard the gunshots, then he won't hear Tommy's cries of pain.

Unless...

Tommy's eyes scan the apartment only to realize it's entirely empty. Aside from the furniture, there isn't a single sign of life: no decor, no clothes on the floor, not even any trash. The bedroom and bathroom doors are both open, and even from here, Tommy can see they're both empty.

His target isn't here.

His heart sinks. He's going to die for nothing.

Someone pounds on the door hard enough that it rattles the walls, and Tommy's breath hitches. His side explodes in a whole new wave of agony. He bites his fingers until a coppery taste fills his mouth to keep from screaming and then gags at the taste.

Oh, Primes, he's going to die.

Either he's going to bleed out, or the maniac on the other side of the door is going to break in and finish the job, but no matter what, he is going to die. He doesn't want to die.

The door is starting to fracture, creaking and groaning and showering Tommy with wooden splinters.

Tommy looks around for anything to help. His eyes land on the bathroom across the room; it's closer than the bedroom but still impossibly far away. If he's lucky, which he never is, there might be a first aid kit in there. At the very least, it'll put another locked door between him and the maniac; it'll give him a minute or two to think and to make peace with his death.

Gathering his strength, he pushes to his feet again. His vision goes black for a second, and he has to grab onto a nearby counter top to steady himself, leaving behind a trial of bloody hand prints.

The door is almost completely splintered.

Using whatever he can to support himself, Tommy hobbles towards the bathroom. He limps into the small room; it takes him longer than it should to lock the door. His hands don't want to cooperate, but eventually, he manages it.

He forgets about looking for a first aid kit. It'll just waste what little time and energy he has left. Instead, his eyes dart around for somewhere to hide.

Without thinking about it much, Tommy collapses into the bathtub and tugs the curtains closed, only managing to close it halfway before his hands fall back to his side. He's too tired to pick them back up even to just put pressure on his wound.

What remains of the front door cracks and gives way, crashing to the floor. Tommy flinches at the sound and narrowly manages to bite down a scream of pain.

The heavy footsteps approach the bathroom.

Tommy vaguely wonders if he should reach for his gun before realizing he doesn't even have it. He must have dropped it when he was shot. He then wonders if he should've picked a better hiding spot, although he's too weak to do anything about it now.

Breathing gets harder and harder; black spots start to fill his vision. He doesn't have long now.

Distantly, he notices that he's laying on the drain, so his blood is pooling around him, warm and wet and red. Maybe it's the blood loss, maybe it's his twisted sense of humor, but Tommy manages a weak laugh at the irony that he's bathing in his own blood.

The walls start to shake as the maniac gets to work breaking into the bathroom. Tommy can hear wood splintering, but it sounds like he's underwater.

His eyes close, and his breathing slows.

The last thing he registers is the bathroom door busting open as he lets go and drifts away.
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(1310 words)
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AN: This oneshot may get its own book if I ever get around to writing it. Until then, here's the teaser! Hopefully, I'll find a better name for it lol

Thanks so much for reading, and thanks for 128k reads! It's still so crazy to me that people actually take time out of their day to read my writing. I've said it a million times before, and I'll say it a million times more: thank you all so much!

I'm proud of all of you, and I love all of you! Take care of yourselves, my darlings! Have a lovely day/ night <3