This is unprecendented. You're going to blame a mixture of teenage hormones, fear, and guilt on what you're doing. You've been awake all night, even as you heard Ryder fall asleep. Which was a first - you usually crash way before him, drained from work or sex or general fatigue from the world sitting on your shoulders a little heavier than normal that day. But for the first time in a long time you got to listen to his breathing slow and feel his heartbeat do the same; feel the way his hands stilled on your back after having been rubbing it calmly and quietly. That, too, probably had a hand in what you were doing, the simple pleasure of having someone so close that cared that you wanted to protect and covet forever.
You reach over his sleeping form to grab your (still broken) phone, dimming the screen as you look at him. Oblivious. Innocent. A bystander that would surely be within the blast radius once this got to be more than you could handle. More than anything you wanted to keep him safe from this, but you knew deep down that would mean distancing yourself from him. You knew deeper down that no matter how badly you wanted to protect him, you were way too selfish to keep him more than an arm's length away. Did that make you a bad person? There were a lot of things that could classify you as a 'bad person', but did knowingly keeping someone close to you in the cone of danger classify as that?
This is the thought that accompanies you out of your bedroom, pacing the hallway as you try to build up the courage to call him. Him. The man that was slowly but surely making your resolution crumble without even being around, the man that you knew could ruin you and your brother with the push of a button. The man that you'd jacked in the face on your birthday. You were pacing and you were pretty sure that you were panicking because your hands trembled and your breathing was off and cold sweat prickled your forehead. Your meds couldn't save you; you'd have to face this alone. You were young and 18 again, your body could in no way cope with the huge doses of the medication you took normally. Not the rohypnol, not the Xanax. You could take a shot or two but even that didn't sound appealing; like this you were more likely to get so nervous you'd throw up in his shoes and that was definitely not a way to apologize.
Apologize. You were going to apologize to him. For hitting him. For being so outrageously out of line that you literally could not imagine what he had done to you once you'd collapsed from the flunitrazepam. You'd woken up and gone home and at work the next day you'd found bruises everywhere. No unnatural pain aside your neck and shoulders, but still. You could only imagine what he was going to do to you tonight.
Maybe nothing. Maybe an apology - a real one, you were more terrified than honestly apologetic but an apology was an apology - would be good enough for him. Not enough to stop what he did, obviously, but put the two of you back on the footing you'd had before.
It was simultaneously shocking and horrific that you were at all complacent with that notion. That that was your ideal vision of normalcy. You were disgusting.
But as long as the people you cared about were safe and oblivious, that was all that mattered to you.
You dial his number, discreetly listed as some blase dry-cleaners. It rings a few times and for a moment you think he might not pick up; your younger imagination goes wild with possibilities. Maybe he died. Maybe he fled the country and maybe he had no interest in ruining your life anymore. You're foolish enough to let a small gleam of hope shine through the din until you hear the click on the other end.
"David." He sounds surprised. Or, well, you can only imagine the slightly upward inflection of the 'A' in your name meant surprise. "This is certainly a first."
"Y-yeah." Your voice cracks and you swear you can hear a grin cross his face when he speaks again. Your voice is smaller and definitely younger and loads more scared than it usually is. "I uh. W-wanted to... um. Apologize." The hand you struck him with balls into a fist but relaxes. It's almost as if it happened yesterday, the sting of your knuckles flaring up before you speak again. "...for hitting you."
"And here I was hoping you were calling to ask me out to some classy soiree." Yeah. There's the grin. You can hear it in his words and it always, always chills you to the bone. "Though I do believe an apology is something that is to be delivered in person, hm?" You hear him move and the quiet shuffle of papers is heard in the background. "I believe I have some time for this." You swallow and nod. Of course he does. "Twenty minutes, David. I'm looking forward to your visit."
He hangs up and you rub your face. You're not going to bother trying to get ready or anything, because honestly you hadn't gotten out of your work clothes after last night. They were rumpled and dirty but you really didn't care. You head downstairs and throw your phone onto the couch, trying to quell your nerves with a glass of water. You're almost entirely numb at this point, even without the help of drugs or alcohol and you're not sure if that's good or bad. When you're finished with the water you leave the glass on the counter and take a deep breath and step into your transportalizer, slumping a little as you press the button.
It's a lot harder on your childish body than you expected, the water already roiling in your stomach like an angry sea, threatening to make you tsunami all over the goddamn place. As usual you're greeted by his wait staff; poorly-hidden smirks among them. You do your best to not make eye contact until the Man Himself comes into view. He stops however, a few feet in front of you; a brow raised and a barely-there grin curling onto his face. You can tell he's amused by your change in stature, and you can only imagine why. Like this, you're younger than him - smaller, easier to handle. But you're not going to fight anyway.
He steps up to you and he's taller than you now and that settles a rock in the pit of your tumultuous stomach; it's hard to keep your knees from quaking or your palms from sweating but all you can think about is your brother, your sleeping boyfriend, your MIA senpai or even people like Rose and John that you hold dear and know might be somehow affected by this if it got out.
You think the most unsettling thing is that this man always looks so calm. Even after you'd punched him, and made him and yourself bleed, before you blacked out you remember him looking nothing more than a little disappointed. As if he'd had higher hopes for you, or something similar. Well, you became disappointing when people referred to your boyfriend as a whore. What could you do.
He reaches out and strokes hair out of your eyes and you swear you could throw up on him right then and there; the gentility of it all conflicting and hurtful. The breath you take in shakes and he chuckles quietly, pulling his hand back and watching you. Your hand balls into an unseen fist as if daring him to say anything else about the people you love. But he doesn't, instead waving his staff away and taking a step back.
"I believe you have something to tell me, David." You can tell he's more than eager to hear it from you but he hides it well. You nod, taking in a deep breath and watching your feet as an angry blush rises to your cheeks. You'd said it so easily before, were so willing to apologize to him - and now, actually here, you're struggling.
"I'm... I'm sorry. For hitting you." Your childish voice is a petulant mumble, and you do not look up at him. ...until he grabs your chin and makes you look at him. Your eyes aren't as dark as they are when you're 38, true that at this age they haven't been dulled by stress and everything else that's wound its way into your life.
"Again, David. I'd like to see it on your face."
You take another deep breath. Swallow. Stare into his eyes. "I'm sorry I hit you." You mean it. You desperately try and mean it because he's staring right through you and like this you're so small, so vulnerable, so easy to call out and hurt. But he buys it and lets you go and turns around.
"Good boy." You feel your knees weaken and you wish for all the world he didn't say things like that. Because under normal circumstances you liked things like that. But from everyone else - not him.
You shudder and ignore it and are about to turn and leave because that felt kinda... finished? Your vision lingers on him for a moment before you turn to leave - just in time to see him raise a hand. Almost instantly two of his wait staff are at your sides and grabbing your arms and your stomach bottoms out because yeah, you were expecting this. You close your eyes and hold your breath and let them lead you wherever they want.
Hours later you're allowed to leave, your body and mind numb as you crawl back into bed. You don't even want to take inventory of what he's done to you, you don't even want to think about it. You wipe your sweaty, dirty face on your pillow before rolling over, back to your waifu, unable to look at him right now even if he was sleeping. The only comfort you have is that when you wake up, you might be the right age again.