Blame It On Me (Set Your Guilt Free)
Rosekiller microfic: 779 words || cw: mild themes of horror, necromancy and Barty being like... that
Death was a funny thing. A door that only seemed to open one way. A threshold that, once crossed, spanned into the endless inky blackness of eternity.
Barty had always been smarter than people gave him credit for. It had started, as many things did, with his father. He had never quite figured out how to be enough for the man who had seen fit to bestow his name upon him. Had never managed to live up to impossible standards that so often went unspoken until he'd inevitably failed to live up to them.
Ultimately he'd stopped trying.
People underestimated him or came up with all sorts of assumptions based on the superficial—yet perfectly practiced—facade he offered the world, and that was that. There was a certain freedom that came with choosing how he was perceived. Over time it became his armour, his defence against a world that never cared to look deeper.
Until Evan.
Evan had bothered to look deeper.
Bit by bit, piece by bloody piece, he'd taken the time to peel back the carefully constructed defences and Barty had let him, giddy from the high of being seen after so long.
Perhaps that was why losing him felt like losing himself.
Barty hadn't bothered going to the funeral, he'd never been one for the messy sentimentality of endings. Besides, 'goodbye' wasn't for people like him. Either he would take back what had been stolen from him, or he'd set fire to the world for daring to turn without the most important part of it. Either was fine.
Which brought him back to how death really was a funny thing. Cold, impersonal, sure. But immutable?
The hardest bit had been sourcing the parts. By the time Barty'd done enough research to feel confident in his plan, Evan had already begun to rot. It was fine, a minor hurdle that had been overcome. Thank Merlin that Barty had never concerned himself with the delicate boundaries of morality that seemed to constrain most.
In the end, a little bit of creativity and charm went a long way...
Looking down at the scarred body laying on a stone slab that had less to do with practicality and everything to do with curating the right sort of vibe, he was impressed with his work.
Sure, some things weren't quite right. His nose was a tad too straight—in fact, it was tempting to lovingly break it, but that could wait. His lips were just a tiny bit too plush, the cupids bow didn't arch at just the right angle. But it was close enough.
It was the eyes he had been the most proud of. Perfect pools of blue that felt like looking into the sky.
Laying his hands on the smooth, cool stone, Barty began to chant. The incantation rolled off his tongue like poison dripping into a wound. Soft and insidious, yet as sweet as a lullaby. Like Evan was merely sleeping and it was time to wake up.
Static pricked at his fingers, causing the hair on his arms and the nape of his neck to rise. The lights flickered, casting sinister shadows around him—twisted, elongated things that bled down the walls, pooling at his feet. Still, he pressed on.
Hot, sharp static zapped up his arms and a rough, raw sound tore from Barty's lips as lightning shot over the slab, over his skin, over the would-be-Evan... He could smell burning—was it him? He couldn't tell. He grit his jaw so tightly it was a wonder that his teeth didn't break as lightning shaped like long fingers stabbed into his brain, into his soul, tearing and clawing. He was going to die.
No sooner than the thought had formed, the fingers retracted. Barty fell to his knees, the breath punched from his lungs.
There was a strange ache in his chest, a curious, hollow thing that seemed to echo behind the cage of bones that held it. Almost as if something vital had been removed. It didn't matter, he wasn't naive enough to think that this wouldn't come at a cost.
What point was there in a heart that lacked its reason to beat anyway?
When the pain finally began to subside and Barty opened his eyes, he found himself staring into pools of blue that made him feel like he was like looking into the sky.
"Rosie... Is it..? Did I..?"
A trembling hand rose to cup a too cold cheek, scarred fingers curling over it to hold it in place. Evan's voice, when he finally spoke, was little more than a rasp and Barty flinched when the sky clouded with horror.
"What have you done, Bee?"