Of Journalists and Knives. [ Johnny C. x Reader ]

"Three."

Johnny is a bird of prey and you are nothing more than a mouse in his clutches, but he seems uninterested in doing you any harm. From the behavior he has shown so far, it is as he said.

He's only here to visit.

You don't want to tell him to get out and never come back because you are scared of the things he is capable of doing. You can still hear the scream of the first victim in that coffee shop resounding in your head, and you know that you are no safer than they ever were. It would be reasonable to think that he is here to finish the job. Your survival means something only to you; to him, you surely don't matter at all. You fear where this is going to lead. Johnny strolls into your kitchen, still inspecting things as he goes.

"I'd like to live somewhere like this." He remarks.

You wonder where he does live, then quickly push that thought away. You don't want to find out, not in the slightest. All you can imagine is torture dungeons and blood-spattered walls. Johnny is a mystery to you, and you would prefer to keep it that way.

"Ha, yeah, it's... nice." You find your living space very humble, nothing remarkable at all, but Johnny seems endlessly intrigued by the way that you live. He seems to be analyzing the space, gathering facts about you to store away. Why he would ever need them, you can't be at all certain. As far as you're concerned, he's either here to kill you or to do some other awful thing to you, like gouging out your eyes to put them in a jar.

You watch Johnny inspect your knife block, and you hold your breath until he moves away from it, leaving it untouched. That doesn't mean you relax, though, because as far as you know a spoon or wall clock is just as viable of a weapon as a knife to him. You need to be constantly on edge, but you aren't going to run away. If you take off into the outside world, you aren't sure when it would ever be safe to return. This space is no longer a safe one, now that he knows where you live and could come climbing in your window to steal your organs at any given time.

"How, uh, how did you find this place?" You ask, your curiosity outweighing your fear for a moment.

"Followed you." He replies with a shrug, as if that is a perfectly normal thing to have done.

"Oh, I see." You nod a bit, wondering how you could have ever been so stupid as to think that he couldn't do something like that. If he could stay undetected after committing such atrocities, surely he could follow you without you noticing him there.

"Does that bother you?" Johnny asks, head tilted to the side.

"No, that's- that's fine." You answer, hoping that your ruse is not too obvious. Of course it bothers you. There was no chance that it didn't. He invaded your personal space and ignored your basic need for privacy, seemingly without a second thought, so of course it bothers you.
Johnny smiles at you, something different than that grin he gave you in the coffee shop. It doesn't leave you with a chill up your spine, but it isn't exactly a heartwarming gesture, either. "You should make some tea. We have... things to talk about."

How lovely. He wants to discuss things with you over a cup of tea.

"Okay." You don't know what to do, besides exactly what he says. You wonder if he is aware of the power he is exerting over you by doing this, though you doubt that he is. To him, this is some kind of casual encounter. The inner workings of his mind are surely beyond your own comprehension.

You make tea, picking two nice mugs that aren't chipped or worn, because you might be having tea with a murderer, but you'll be damned if you don't make a good impression anyway.

"Thanks." Johnny's spidery fingers curl around the mug when you hand it to him. "Do you have any sugar?"

You nod, beginning to grow desensitized to his presence. There is still a terrible, anxious feeling inside of you, but it has become more dull than it once was. You give him the sugar tin and watch, with some kind of awed feeling, as he puts not one or two but five spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. He must like things sweet.

"You're very hospitable." He says.

"I try." You offer him a small smile, doing your best to keep yourself from falling back into terror. You won't get through this if you don't.

"Anyway, I saw that article you wrote about me."

Oh. That's what this is about. You suppose you should have known that he would see it eventually, and that he would be unhappy about it. Then again, you still aren't sure what his motives are, and you aren't in a writerly mood. You're not going to interrogate him for answers.

"Uh, yeah... that's my job, and all, so..." You hope he isn't angry enough over it to kill you. He doesn't look particularly angry, if you're honest with yourself, but you have no idea how he really feels.

"I gathered. You know, I left you alive because you weren't supposed to tell anyone about what happened. You didn't see anything, remember?"

"Yeah, um." You cough, looking off to the side for a moment. "Sorry about that."

"I really can't have you spreading that kind of information around." His fingers tap on the table as he takes a sip of his tea. You notice him grimace slightly, and then he pours a sixth spoonful of sugar into it.

That can't be healthy.

"I don't intend to do it again."

"Really?" Johnny leans forward, giving you a look that you can't pinpoint the meaning of. "You aren't going to write an article about this?"

"What would I even write?" You inquire, trying not to get uncomfortable with the way he's looking at you. "No one would read it. Not enough blood, not enough drama."

"I see. You must know your demographic." He leans back in his chair again, and you release a breath you had been holding since you finished your sentence.

"Of course I do. People are, well... they're ravenous. They seek out that kind of thing to satisfy some kind of need for tragedy. And me... it's my job to make sure they have the content they're after."

"Interesting." Johnny nods. "Do you ever question the morality of that?"

'Do you ever question the morality of killing people?' You wonder, but you don't say that out loud. You wouldn't dare try to provoke him. "Well, yeah, of course I do."

"Why don't you stop?"

"...I don't know." You respond. You aren't sure what he's getting out of this, but he seems calm and not much like he intends to run you through with the handle of the sugar spoon, so you hope it's going well in his opinion. "I never claimed to be any better than them."

"I suppose you didn't." Johnny agrees. "But I think of you more highly than I do of them."

That's a very nice thing for him to say, you think, although you can't help but be intimidated and uncomfortable regardless. "Oh, thanks."

"I can't stay for very long. I have... previous engagements."

"Is that so? Shame." You take a sip of your tea, contemplating how hard it would be to move out of this place undetected. Not that you can afford that. You can probably afford a nice, new deadbolt, though, and you intend to get one. Anything to help you sleep at night after this.

"Yeah, it is." Johnny seems genuinely disappointed that you can't entertain his company any longer, and you can't say that's a sentiment you particularly share.

You sit in uncomfortable silence with him for a while. He looks at you often, seeming to be studying you the way he did your house. It makes you uncomfortable, more than even the conversation did, and you search for things to talk about if only to spare yourself the discomfort of being analyzed.

"So, uh, how did you know it was me who wrote the article, anyway?"

"Oh, that was easy." Johnny replies. "I knew where you worked, and there was no one else there at the scene to recount it so vividly. I knew it was you."

"How did you know where I worked?"

"Followed you." He says, yet again.

"Ah." You shouldn't be surprised. How long has he been following you now, and why? What fascination does he have with you? It's somewhat mortifying to consider the implications of this borderline stalking. Actually, what about it is borderline? He's outright stalking you, and you don't know why. "Well, alright."

"Are you scared of me?"

"Why are you asking?"

"You're too... compliant. It's making me uncomfortable."

"I'm making you uncomfortable?!" You blurt out before you can stop yourself. "You're the one who waltzed into my house like you owned the place!"

Johnny looks surprised, maybe offended, and you feel your face flush. You shouldn't have done that.

"I see." He murmurs. "I thought we were on good terms, since I let you live and all."

"It doesn't work like that." You say, significantly softer than before, almost as if you're trying to console him. Perhaps you are. "But it's fine. That's... that's behind us now." It will never be behind you, but you want to ensure you will be living to see tomorrow. People will say anything to ensure their lives remain intact, and you are no exception.

"Okay." Johnny nods, looking distracted.

Back to the silence. He must be thinking very hard about something, though you don't know what it might be. Maybe he's considering all the ways that he could end your life.

"Well, I should get going." He announces as soon as he finishes his tea. He stands up quickly, almost knocking over his chair in the process. You follow him to the door, still exhibiting your best manners despite his seemingly complete lack of them. Johnny has his hands in his pockets as he walks through your living room, and you notice that he has quite miserable posture. You have been paying an odd amount of attention to his mannerisms, but you suppose that is because there was nothing better to do than observe the same way he observed you. 

What did he learn about you from this exchange?

"Bye." He waves at you from the front porch step.

"...Bye." You wave back, and as soon as he walks away, you close the door and make sure to lock it. Then, you slump against it and draw your knees up to your chest, trying to steady your breathing.

Something tells you this will not be your last encounter.