❝ Shhh — don’t you worry ‘bout a thang, cher. I’m right he’e. ❞ The question never was did Deane want it. If it were left up to him, he’d be back home, under the assumption he was safe in that giant house. His cop buddies can’t help him now. But he doesn’t need help. Tom can keep him safe enough. Not a damn thing can touch Deane here. Nothing but the fox. If Craig so much as tries, that’ll be the end of him.
This isn’t a means of punishing Deane. It’s all about Tom rewarding himself. For months, he stayed in that house, close enough to be noticed and rarely ever was. Took that goddamn pig to set Tom off. Blew his cover. If it weren’t for him, Deane would still be home. Dry eyes, at least.
The fox is seated on the foot of his own bed, leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Eyes focused on Deane’s hands, and his own hands locked together under his chin, this may be the least threatening he’s been since he lodged that blade in what’s-his-name’s jugular. He got stuck in his roll of n o r m a l too damn long. That’s all it is.
❝ En’t NO ONE gon’ hurt you now. ❞
Words ripple through to the Cajun’s core -- shakes him more so than his trembling form ever could. He’s close to sobbing as tears leak from the corners of his eyes but there isn’t much he can do. There is nothing Deane Dixon can goddamn do. He is trapped in this place -- his own personal form of hell and terror because he just had to become the infatuation of someone mentally unstable. Why couldn’t Tom just be the nice, sweet man Deane thought he was? This wouldn’t be an issue -- this wouldn’t be happening. He could stay in pure bliss, fucked out almost every night without a care in the world if only his...whatever the other Cajun was to him (boyfriend maybe thought once or twice), was just a normal guy.
But he is far from it and those words make Dixon want to vomit. Wish that he was in Georgia with his brothers or even had one or both of them here with him. They’d keep him safe -- or they’d be dead. The idea makes him cringe. Dead like the cop the always keeps an eye on him and the Cajun can’t have his brothers on his conscious like he does with Sean. Changes his mind almost instantly and Deane is left to pull at the hem of his shirt finally. It’s up and over his head in a matter of seconds, left to be held tightly in shaking fists that never could do much. He’s always been to terrified of Tom to manage anything. He tried to fight but it’s just not who Deane is -- he’s no damn good at it and it only got him hurt worse. So...accepting all of this would just be better, right?
Just pretends it’s Tom -- like how he was before.
Hiccup passes lips and the Cajun didn’t realize he was downright crying buckets at this point. Silent as they fell, rolled down his cheeks -- his chin, neck. All the way down his bare chest before he paws at it like a scared little boy that is lost at a fair. Even if that were the case, Tom’d pick him up and tell him the same thing. Those eyes are watching him but they don’t look the same and Deane knows it. Close to a predator waiting for it’s prey to align just right. He sniffles, tries not to think about the fabric he finally lets go to fall on the ground. Jeans are next and he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want this -- wants to be home but he’s trapped.
“Y’re gon’ hurt me worse.”
Mumbled out in between soft crying noises before Deane pops open the button of the denim he dons. Shy isn’t the right word here to begin with but his gut twists and jumps like it is. Deane Dixon has never been shy about who he is, what he has, or any of the like. This is different. Teeth worry over lips again as fingers hesitate at the zipper.
“Please don’ make me. Ah don’ wanna, Thomas.”
titsay
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