Creep [j.l + p.m]

in which he freaks out

(Idk what the hell keeps conjuring this shit up)

"Son of a bitch!" John shoved Brian off of his lap and touched his bruised skin. "You weren't supposed to leave marks, fucker."

"John, this has got to stop. I can't fool around with you, it's been a whole week now. I've got a shop to run." Brian shook his head, backing away from John with his arms stretched out.

John pulled his hair. "Cynthia called me this morning, Bri." John watched Brian lower his hands, realizing John had no fight in him today. "She isn't coming back."

"I'll talk to her, she's probably where she was last time. I've gotta go now, okay, John?" Brian reached behind him and held onto the door knob.

"I don't want to be alone. Please, stay, I'll-"

"You need to go back to work." Brian readjusted his tie. "Lay off Mal, poor lad 'as worked a whole week while you were here jackin' off."

"Richard's the one working. Mal just laughed when I asked." John dropped his arms between his legs.

"You know Richard is sick! You can't use him like that." Brian sneered, glaring at him.

John pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I'll go to work. Richard won't." He rose from the chair.

"I will visit you soon, alrigh'? I'll bring Cyn and Julian too."

John didn't say anything; there wasn't much he could say that would convince Brian to stay. Richard needed to go home, Brian was right.

John sulked the whole ride to the motel, all the way until he was face to face with poor Ritchie, who looked like he was ready to collapse any moment.

"Christ, if I knew you looked like this."

"It's fine." Richard smiled weakly. "I-I hope that you're okay. You were gone quite a while."

John grimaced. He wasn't okay in any way shape or form, and seeing Richard like this didn't help. "Yeah, I'm better now, thank you. You need to sleep, stay in one of the rooms, okay?" John rushed over to where the room keys were and plucked one from its hook.

"I can't do that-"

John shoved the key into the open palm of his hand. "You can, and you will. I'm sorry for putting you through this. You could head back home tomorrow, once you've slept."

"There's a letter for you, on the desk. I'll see you tomorrow, John." Richard looked down at the key, tilting it towards the light so he could make out the number on it.

John spotted the letter, wondering why someone dropped it off. "See ya, Ritch." With his luck it was probably the bank, or Astrid letting him know she finally found him.

The envelope didn't have anything written on it, which made John's hands flinch with worry, because that wasn't what normal people did.

John toyed with the flap of the envelope praying that it wouldn't be some horrible, sick prank. The envelope was torn open and a folded paper slipped onto his desk. There couldn't be something bad on such a small slip of paper, John reasoned.

'I'm sorry'

And before John even noticed what he felt, he started to cry. Even Cynthia hadn't said sorry to him since they escaped England.

That dumb whore and his girlish handwriting had no right to mess with his head, or have the nerve to say sorry for causing homicidal-like tendencies that were latent since Stu.

But John knew this time was far worst though, he never had the urge to drug Stu and take dirty pictures of him. Hell, Paul knew about Stu, yet he still pranced around like it was his God Given Right.

John swiped the backs of his hands under his glasses and glowered at the paper.

"Holy shi- are you crying?"

He jumped up and clutched his chest, growling at the intruder. Did Paul have a tracking device on him?

"Get the hell away from me, Paul." John focused on his neck, imagining how soft and warm it would feel under his grasp.

Paul came even closer, close enough to run his finger nails along the desk. "Are you crying about the note?"

"Why are you waiting around until I hurt you?"

Paul furrowed his brow. "I can't say, really."

"You aren't afraid that you'll end up like Stuart?" John took Paul's left hand off the mahogany wood and ran the pad of his thumb over Paul's knuckles. His actions were betraying the anxiousness in the pit of his stomach, the realization that he could actually kill and torture someone as beautiful as Paul.

"If I was I wouldn't be here." Paul had a faint smirk.

John dragged his tongue along his bottom lip. "Why are you here, anyroad? You've got a job, haven't you?"

"I can show you how good I am at my job." Paul pulled his hand away from John and leaned towards him. "But it can't be free, sad as it is."

John's chest tightened at the invitation. He couldn't accept it, as tempting it was. The rational mindset was drilled into his conscious and refusing to dissolve. "I'd rather not."

Paul rolled his eyes. "Are you celibate or somethin'? Or is it because you can't get it up?"

John wished it was something as mundane and simple. "No." He bore his gaze into Paul, hoping that it made the message clear. "It's because we can't."

"I told you I wasn't afraid, John." Paul didn't move away from John.

"Baby, I don't think you- I..." The grottiest image manifested itself inside of John's mind, vaguely reminded him of something he did in the past, and left him oddly turned on and curious just to see Paul's response. "Fine, I'll pay if you let me fuck you; with a gun."

Paul's cheeks became flushed and his defiant gait wavered. "How much?"

"I thought you'd have a price point, seeing you are the one who offered an' all." John was elated with Paul's response. Paul should've learned not to play with fire a long time ago.

"Well, I was thinking you wanted to do something conventional. Kind of a stupid thought now that I think about it." Paul chuckled nervously. "But fifty dollars and I'm yours."

John was broke as hell, business the shittiest it's been in awhile, but he realized he could go without whatever the fuck drove his electric bill up.