Dental Tautology
You plan to circumvent his lymph nodes. He shows up in the skin you wear. Ocean pulp is raw, not deli. He needs more. You're feeling generous. ⤷ harry gardner x muse user!f!reader. 3.1k.
He arrives on time. Knocks five times in quick succession. Not particularly well-mannered. Impatient. Or apprehensive. You open the door and peep through the narrow gap restricted by the chain lock.
"Hi, I'm— I'm here for the books," he says, sounding brittle through the pretense of naive friendliness. "We talked over the phone this morning."
He's shriveled into himself, slightly jittery and focused on his breathing, trying not to let the cold affect him. His hands are in the pockets of his coat, but the leather's tough to hide and easily justifiable in this weather anyway. Your jaw tightens, but experience saves you from giving away much else. Plans change. He seems to fully take you in after a moment, looks a little flustered, like you aren't what he was expecting out of a Craigslist listing link-up. It makes him straighten up. His lips thin out in a tense line of casual civility and you sense an underlying nervousness disguised by the thickening early-evening layer of frigid mist.
Plans change—because Sommers and that bitch Noir like playing god. This one could be promising: in his early 30s, if you had to guess, and inexperience is easier to spot when that's the case. He shifts stiffly but doesn't look away, letting his crystalline eyes, sharp chin and charming set of smile lines do the work. It's always nice to see them shiver. You make up your mind, wordlessly shut the door and unclasp the chain. When you open it again he lifts his head from where it was evidently hanging in those seconds, all 90s heartthrob locks—dark and glossy, wind-whisked: the innocence and earnest ambition of a teen with boyband-level confidence—but doesn't make a move. Smart enough. Or queasy. Either way, you find him somewhat precious. He thinks himself the undetected predator tonight.
"Come on in," you offer, quick and simple, detaching from the entrance and turning your back on him carelessly.
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Hesitates, but follows you into the kitschy living room. You offer him a drink and catch him eye the 2019 Bardolino bottle on the coffee table. He politely declines. Ariel is there too, off to the side, on the hardwood edge, and so is The Colossus. You watch him read the titles on the spines from a distance. What's funny is you really wouldn't mind them gone. He looks like he listens to Leonard Cohen and doesn't have a solid grasp on dad jokes quite just yet.
"Poetry aficionado?" you ask. "Or is it just the Cape that tends to make us melancholy?"
"Yeah, um, a bit of both, I think," he says, awkwardly sticking out amidst the antique furniture. "It's mostly for research, actually. I'm a writer too."
You stop by the cherry-colored chesterfield and give him a once-over.
"Not that kind," he's quick to clarify. "I write for TV."
"This must be where I go 'Anything I might've seen?'" you quip, a tad heavy on the delivery in a way you hope he doesn't recognize as too vixenish just yet. Then again, the game you're playing is the same. You take silent pride in having him beat already.
He lets out a puff of air. "Probably not. I've done a couple of network procedurals. Just signed a sort of a big, uh, streaming service deal, though."
"Mm," you acknowledge neutrally. "Not big on subscription services."
He breathes out a chuckle. "Yeah, I don't blame you."
His stance is unobtrusive and you can tell he's questioning your reserve, but a writer's ego is impossible to muzzle, so he gets himself to loosen up, stands tall and secure in his imaginary (in his eyes: discernible through cultivated taste, an urban bourgeois sort of angle; in actuality superficially appreciable, pop culture zeitgeist palatable, not yet even realized—just like yours) prestige. The beauty of the pill is the way it unveils that scorned superiority complex. He's getting there. You relish his need for reassurance.
He looks around, clearly stalling. Scans the room and takes a gloved hand out of his pocket to readjust the gray bag hanging from his shoulder. You pour yourself a glass of red, unhurried. The smell of currant feels like EBM synthesizers and drum machines turned into vapor, dry and crunchy, softer to the trained ear. The presence of the other bottle on the table—a brown glass onion, heavy liquid and not a lot of it—sitting pretty just behind the wine, exhilarates you more than you can afford to admit. Something obvious catches your guest's attention and he takes a step, small and almost involuntary, toward the metal rail by the south wall. Galvanized steel, hangers holding up chiffon, silk, calfskin, lace and paper. Organic matter you mostly deem recycled. One should avoid sounding too similar to Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.
"Are those—" he lifts a hand and points in the direction of the impromptu rack, "yours?"
You hum flatly. "Work in progress."
He approaches slowly, as if magnetized; momentarily distracted from the demand for brutality that brought him here: that pressing, insistent thirst. You take a sip—raspberry and black pepper blend, easier to recognize by the minute, and observe him from the side.
"Graduation collection," you explain after a moment, because it doesn't really matter what he learns about you. He doesn't know it yet, but he's no threat. He glances at you briefly, searching. Must be the question of your age. "Master's," you add, toneless, to give him at least that crumb to latch onto. It's just about enough, and he turns back to examine the garments more closely.
"It's looks..." he breathes out, "incredible." You let yourself enjoy the praise, the genuine appreciation in his tone. He hovers, right beside them now, looks to you for more. "May I?" So you nod. Goes to show how he goes about manners, about morality when he deems you're of equal standing. You like what this could mean for potential exhibitions, those excerpts you might get to read on The MET's webpage in ten years, with a foreword by Andrew Bolton.
He traces the pads of his fingers along a shoulder seam, as if he could feel the material through the glove. It's a jacket you could see him in, a tighter fit that would accentuate his lean physique—something to file away for later.
"It's—" he hesitates, trying to find the words. "It's very..."
Grotesque?
Intense?
Morbid?
Hungry?
"...poignant." He says instead.
You study him with tame curiosity, swaying the wine glass in languid, subtle little circles.
"It's the posthuman. A glimpse into the future, if you will. Or the present," you expand, deliberately measured.
"The posthuman," he repeats, tasting the words. You can only see his profile from this angle, barely in a position to catch the miniscule twitch along the line of his brow. "Non-human hybrids. Dystopia after the end of humanism."
"That's the one."
He drags his hand over to another piece, grazing the hardened ripples of the structured beetled linen sleeve. The mask hanging over it—deconstructed medical influences and a dash of 80s body horror—goes to show you've set your course after the British avant-garde tradition. You sit down on the upholstered sofa, crossing your legs as you contemplate his candid fascination.
"It's jarring, isn't it?" you muse, testing. His head slants in your direction, instinctively leaning into the sound. "Facing it directly. Anthropomorphic, yet so... inhuman."
He shifts—hardly noticeable tension in his spine—but keeps his eyes on the rack.
"We never quite imagine it lurking like this, in broad daylight," you continue, suppressing a bourgeoning smirk. "Clinging onto remnants of the little humanity it has left. Sharp-toothed... insatiable."
It does the trick. He goes rigid—like the molded fiberglass you manipulate to mimic rigor mortis. You lift your chin.
You hear the inhale, see the pretty panic in his eyes when he turns to face you, swift and alert. His expression tells you his brain has gone into overdrive. You hold his gaze. The suspense spreads, a charade he was not privy to lands atop his shoulders in a way that looks to weigh him down and make him lighter, snappier, at the same time. He licks his lips and the way his face unknits the next second seems to mean he's put the puzzle pieces together.
"I'm not here for the books, am I?"
"Books?" You tilt your head and draw your eyebrows together, slightly lifted at the inner corners—amusedly sympathetic, like you pity his distress. "Is that really what you came here for?" you coo sweetly.
He stills under the invisible charge of your inflection, your scrutiny; alarmed; reaches for his pocket. The terror of the unexpected ambush. You let it unnerve him for a moment.
"Relax," you say eventually, lowering your chin. It's cute, the way he's masking being startled, how he's bracing to defend himself (to attack first, if needed), and you graciously provide the answer to his confusion in the drapes of a question, voice laced with a teasing sort of composure. "You think I'd pull this trick on one of ours?"
The confirmation sinks in fast. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, breathes in with his whole chest. You're in no rush.
"How did you know?" he asks, quiet and unsure.
"I could smell it on you," you say, plain and a little sly. "From the moment I saw you." His features tighten, so you probe in a way that forces him to reconcile himself to the discomfiture. "Still debating going for my throat, screenwriter?"
He shakes his head. "No, no," then exhales sharply. It sounds like guilt, adrenaline and the kind of uncertainty that makes your blood pulse in your neck. "No, of course not."
The hazel in his eye has warmed over in the dim low-level light of your living room. You know he's half lying, half convincing himself—a protective mechanism, a nervousness that makes the pink tissue of your gums buzz with a pleasurable thrill.
"Funny where we draw the line," your voice drops lower.
You take another sip and move to set your glass down. "Sit," you beckon him over without another glance.
He wavers. A second. Two, three. Four. You pretend to miss the way he fiddles with whatever's in the pocket of his coat, until he finally decides to drop it. His steps thump atop the wooden flooring, then soften to a dull thud on the carpet.
"What's your name?" You turn to him again as he takes a seat on the armchair just beside the sofa, clutching his bag strap with both hands. "Your real name," you clarify. "We both know how this works."
"Harry."
You prop your elbow on the upholstered armrest—tall enough to allow you to hold two fingers at your temple as you lean into your hand. He draws another hefty breath and meets your eyes.
"Look, I wasn't—" he starts.
"Yes, you were."
His lips stay parted for a beat, taken off guard, as he rummages for something in your expression, then closes his mouth, jaw tense. You remain motionless—easier to keep him on edge.
"I didn't want—" he tries again. "I don't want to hurt anybody."
"No," you drawl sympathetically, syrupy and ambiguously comforting. "Still getting used to it, aren't you?"
He readjusts his posture, letting go of the bag and inclining forward, forearms resting on his thighs; faring better, it appears—accepting of your awareness. "Do you ever? Get used to it, I mean." His timbre's gone breathier, slightly dispirited and earnestly desperate. You find you'd quite like to make him fully trusting, hopeful and reliant on you for relief.
"Do you like what you do?"
He cups a hand over his mouth, drags it down heavily, rubbing the skin, stops at his chin and holds it there. "Yeah."
"You want to be good at it," you prod. "More than just good. More than great. You want to be... exceptional."
It's not a question. He falters—long enough to indicate at least an arbitrary attachment to the imposed moral obligation. Good to know he isn't exactly heartless.
"...Yes." He admits.
"Then you don't have a choice."
His shoulders slump downward. "How long— how long have you been..." he trails off, the question fizzling out. You take pity on him.
"It's my second season. Came here last winter to work on the collection. Couldn't finish it in time."
"So you came back."
"So I did."
"For the collection."
"For the lobster rolls."
He laughs, short and sweet, like a weight lifting off his lungs. You roll your bottom lip inward, let it rest beneath your teeth momentarily, and keep your eyes on him.
"You seem... you seem okay," he says in the silence that follows. You raise an eyebrow, prodding him to spell it out. "I mean, it seems like... it's easy for you."
Your forehead melts, expression smoothing out into a simple look of receptive understanding. It gets increasingly more endearing by the minute: the way this stranger's leaning into you for comfort. For validation. For approval, or even for advice. There's a mole—prominent and solitary on his chin—that you frivolously imagine kissing after a kill, after he's ripped open someone else's throat and the blood has trickled down in a thick little stream of dirty maroon. The same fate he had envisioned for you.
"I've made my peace with the end of humanism," you say, tongue-in-cheek.
"Yeah," he smiles through a sigh, then lets the bitterness take over, full-bodied this time, strangely vulnerable—the gleam of something tender (something scared) flashing in his eye. "I... I have a family."
Ah. All the more fun.
"Poor thing," you mutter attentively. "You like it, don't you? You like it so much it scares you. You don't want to put them in danger. To hurt them. But it feels too good to stop."
"No," he immediately shuts the notion down. "No, I will. I can. I just need to write a few more scripts and then it's done. I'm done."
A knowing smile tugs at your lips, controlled and admittedly arrogant. People never change.
"You went to Dr. Feldman."
He frowns. Exhales heavily, like he's been caught again, a reluctant acknowledgment. You get the feeling this won't take much.
"You're a murderer," you jab, matter-of-fact and silky on the consonants.
He huffs, disgruntled—on the defensive. "That's not fair."
"You like it."
"I don't!"
The veins on his neck strain through the thin skin as the assertion soaks into your shared air, bleeds into the expensive leather seating. You let him struggle through it. His eyebrows twitch harshly, as if to startle himself out of it. His head falls forward and you find wicked amusement in the way he breathes in deeply, facing the floor, and runs both hands through his hair roughly. "I fucking don't," he rasps, quieter this time.
The seconds crawl onward, lethargic in the space between you. Contented with the Phantom Thread-esque approach's success, you straighten up and reach for the second bottle—the one you're glad you refilled earlier.
"The pill doesn't create monsters, you know," you murmur, low and gravelly. "It just unearths what's already there."
Harry shakes his head dejectedly, not looking up, fingers still buried in his hair. You grab a shorter glass—for whiskey—setting it down right next to yours, and pour some of the murky plasma into it.
"You think you're better than them, don't you? The pale ones. You've heard the Chemist's bullshit story," you continue. "Except the truth is that they were strong enough to give up. They let go of their dreams because achieving them meant they'd have to step on others. You and I? We're just the marketable motherfuckers ruthless enough to keep going."
He swallows hard and lifts his head at last, eyes flicking back up to find yours. His brows are tightly creased, like this is something he is pained by, even if he knows already. You nod toward the glass, lulled by his torn-up countenance, the way those ruffled locks fall over his forehead in messy, wavy black clumps. Neatly handsome even when exasperated. He stirs, leaves his bag behind and walks over. You hand him the glass. He takes it and sits down on the sofa, some inches away.
"Drink," you instruct, intentioned but not cold.
He brings the glass to his nose and stares at the shallow pool swirling inside. "Is this—"
"Drink, Harry."
He shoots you a final look—glassy but nervy, floating on an undercurrent of determination and conceit—and takes a swig. You drop your gaze down to his throat and watch it bob with the sip. The tautness of his features dissipates at the taste, eyes widening as they flicker rapidly back and forth between what's in his hand and your face. Antipodal sensations: you see the thirst, unleashed and raging now, the bewilderment and the perturbation. He's so delightfully dazed—like you've broken something in him only to restore it, more vibrant and delicious than before.
"Yeah?" you murmur breathily, unable to help the affectionate lilt—because he's already just so pleasantly receptive. "Good?"
He nearly freezes at your tone, muscles stifling down a shiver.
"How..." he quavers, clearly affected. You're in no mood to explain just yet, especially considering how difficult it is to get your hands on the fresh stuff nowadays. This one came in clutch before you even met him.
"Let's worry about the how later, yeah?" You recline back against the solid upholstery, sounding thoughtful, somewhat sheltering—as if you've made up your mind now, as if you're saying that you've got him, that you know how much this weighs on him, that he doesn't have to bear the burden of responsibility with you, always the caretaker outside these four walls. "Drink up."
He does, of course—it's not like he can help it once he's had a taste. You wonder how many days it's been. You wonder what Aristotle would say now about the soul, the animalistic side; but he isn't here, so you've taken it upon yourself: the deconstruction of the zoon politikon. The politics of fangless vampires are somehow both Hobbesian and a confirmation that rippers live amongst formal, organized institutions too. For now, you'll coax the hybrid out of the battered stranger on your couch. He keeps drinking and you smile lazily, eyes growing half-lidded as you reach out to gently scrape your nails across his nape. He lets you—trusts you, recognizes your pride.
"It'll be okay," your whisper is a soft rasp.
He drains the glass and peers back at you with the inkling of a different kind of hunger. You encourage him to pour himself the rest as well. He stays until the understanding tethers you together: barbarity is a negotiable malady. You choose to pretend that you can be the boot that stomps.