#postasylumwaylon

[corporateasshole-andlovingit]

SHAME JEREMY BLAIRE 2014

[corporateasshole-andlovingit]

"We are never, ever doing that again!"

"Oh, I don’t know about that”, Jeremy drawled, skilfully slipping his belt back through the laces of his slightly crinkled suit pants.

The bruised man’s voice was slurred, but his defiance shone through to the executive, who couldn’t help a crooked grin.

"Maybe you won’t be conscious next time - see, that’s how I am. I’m already making compromises. Aren’t I a prime example for a perfectly decent CEO? You don’t have to answer that, Park. Save that mouth of yours for later.”

Blaire huffed as he fumbled with his shirt buttons, elbowing the light back on before tossing one last look into the mirror. A few loose curls here and there, that was to be expected. A lightly swollen nose from the single lucky punch before Jeremy had cuffed the software engineer to the heater.

“Up, Park”, he snarled, savagely kicking Waylon’s thigh as the shivering man scrambled to his feet. Jeremy uncuffed him and shoved him out of the cell, quickly locking it behind him. That master key had been well worth the investment.

"Your weekly performance evaluation starts at five, Mr. Park", Blaire let Waylon know smoothly, "so don’t be late.”

[corporateasshole-andlovingit]

"Run!"

The high-pitched shriek from his right lacked two things: the intention of appearing like someone who had their shit together, and the necessary stillness with which Jeremy had - so far - survived this almost fallout. Now, however, the dipshit who’d ridden himself into an even bigger mess by whistleblowing was rushing towards and then past him.

As soon as Blaire heard heavy footsteps rapidly approaching the two of them, he knew why. Not even questioning the incompentent fool’s directions, he turned on his heel and chased after the smaller man, almost toppling over as they went around a corner and into an unlocked cell.

Trapped. Trapped, and there was no way in hell they’d both be able to crouch and hide under the shabby bed.

"Shouldn’t have led us here, Park", Jeremy muttered without any hesitation and knocked the software engineer out, shoving him on top of the metal construct while he himself scooched beneath it.

Closing his eyes, Jeremy Blaire did something he hadn’t done in over a year: pray.

[corporateasshole-andlovingit]

Stupid

"You really should have accepted that final peace offering, Mr. Park. Now you're all alone, and the ocean is deep and cruel. No ship in sight, no one coming to your rescue. And beneath the surface, Mr. Park...there are sharks. They just caught onto the scent of your blood and they're starved, Waylon, they're mad with hunger. Yet...you're merely the bait. They'll follow your trail, the real of fear you've been oozing since day one."

Jeremy Blaire paused, easing up on the trembling who was probably one death threat away from vomiting his five dollar breakfast all over the CEO's five thousand dollar carpet. The software engineer'd have to lick it up in the aftermath.

"They want your wife. Your kids. They want to tear them to shreds, and feed those shreds to their young. I could have protected you, you fucking moron! You giant goddamn fucking idiot! They're all going to die, and it's all your fault."

Waylon let the hail of insults and rather blunt threats off the crackling walls of his self-esteem and stared at his hands resting on top of his knees. As soon as he stopped clutching them, he'd faint. Blaire was right. They knew he was; it didn't matter now, though. The metaphorical hooks Murkoff had drilled into his searing flesh writhed and twisted themselves to turn pain into agony.

What had remained of his dignity? What shards of homely security - or the illusion thereof - he was barely able to hold onto as they cut into his aching palms?

With a wretched sob, Waylon hunched over, burying his face in his hands. Jeremy rolled his eyes, impatiently gesturing him to shut the fuck up.

"Quiet!", he icily commanded, "at least now you are aware of the rather dire consequences, Mr. Park. No need to share that with me."

The CEO tossed Waylon a manila folder, "Memorize these codes. If you want to make a break for it, you better be fucking prepared, because - "

Jeremy came to a halt and glared at Waylon, "As soon as the board members' fingers start pointing at me, you and your entire bloodline will be ripped off the face of the earth. Is that understood, Mr. Park?"

"Yes, Sir."

[corporateasshole-andlovingit]

Midnight Visit [closed&edited w/postasylumwaylon]

He hadn't noticed the crouched shadow at first, trying to sneak past his insane hearing as the CEO himself lurked in some room of the lower corridors, trying to figure out how to properly put one foot in front of the other. Park hadn't wanted to talk, but that certainly wasn't his responsibility to decide. And currently, Jeremy Blaire had a lot of things to say.

"I'm not the one who needs to be high off his ass to forget all the fuckery he's done downstairs already. Wait. I am. Ah, fuck." Waylon, painfully aware of his own sobriety, tiredly shrugged.

"Well, you know, you could try and fix it maybe. There's an idea."

Why hadn't he walked faster? He could be in his shabby room by now! But the CEO didn't let him go. "You can't even fix one round, Park. Let alone...", he counted on his fingers, "...uh...eight months." Park's eyebrows shot up in honest surprise.

"Eight. Months. This shit all happened in less than a year?"

Not like anyone ever told him shit. Jeremy carefully shook his head. "Nah, not that...it's been going on since '09. I don't need to snort that away, imbecile...", he huffed, wiping his nose. While Waylon saw the chances of hitting the hay before midnight steadily decrease, he figured he might as well try and...help? As much as this person in front of him could, would be helped. "Maybe you should go lay down or something", he suggested, nervously eyeing his superior. "Ah, fuck you, Park." He was barely standing. Waylon narrowed his eyes - the very last thing he needed on top of the ever-growing shitpile that was his work was having his boss ralph all over him.

"Seriously, you might wanna go down to medical or something. I'm not gonna pick you up if you collapse in here, you know that right?" "I'll drag you down with me, you bastard", Jeremy hoarsely laughed. "Uh-huh. Big threat coming from someone who has to lean on the wall not to sit on his ass right now."

It was brazen bordering on stupidly insane, but Blaire seemed in no position to harm him. He probably wouldn't even remember their conversation in the morning. "The fucking wall is fucking...moving...ugh." Jeremy reached out with one hand, grabbing nothing but air. Park sighed and went to break the fall, letting Blaire slump onto his shoulder.

"You're my fav...five...f'vorite employee." But of course, Waylon thought.

"I don't even want to know just how much shit you took to make you say something like that. Let's just. Get you to a horizontal surface or something." Blaire still clung to the software engineer. "Don't 'eave me, Park!", he whined, "Wherare...my legs...oh. Right. There they are, heheh. "I'm not, I'm not. Oh my god just. shut up for a moment." With a groan, he hoisted him further over his shoulder and tried to drag him out of the room. "Wherarewegoin'?", the CEO wanted to know, glaring against Waylon's shoulder, "Come on...what is this...you shut up", he retorted, weakly flailing his arms. There went his night. "Aren't you like, thirty-eight or something? You sound like a friggin' child", Waylon bitterly mumbled and pinched Jeremy's arms a little to make him stop flailing. "Ow! I'm only thirty-six, doc. Don't pile 'em on me, okay?", he huffed, "Are we there yet?" They had moved barely ten feet, but a bench in the hall was better than nothing. Waylon shoved him onto it, none too gently either. "Yeah, we're here. You big baby." Jeremy glanced up with dilated pupils.

"Wha-? Whearewe?", while glancing around in suspicion, "Park...Paaark." Rolls his eyes, Park answered, wearily tossing a glance around to see if someone more capable than him was around to babysit Murkoff's golden boy. Apparently not. Great.

"Still here. Just. Lie on your side or something, you're probably gonna be sick in 10 seconds if that shade of green on your face is anything to go by." "That's ridic -!", Jeremy began before he lunged back over the bench to throw up, "Aaah, fuck. Where'd that even come from, I only ate...three...maybe twenty olives." Waylon jumped back to avoid the spew, looking rather tired. "Yep, see. You're a goddamn mess." "No, you are!"

Backtalking for the sake of backtalking. "Stupid engi...neer." He sat up again, shuffling his feet, "I can't feel my face." Groaning in frustration, Waylon pushed him back down, holding him there should he think to get back up, "No wonder with all the shit you put in it. Might wanna rethink your dosage next time." Blaire glared up at him, "You might wanna...ugh." Wiping his nerveless face, he squinted up at Waylon, "Pff, just because you don't have nightmares, jerk. Are you holding my f-feet?" Rubbing his eyes, the software engineer sighed and certainly not for the first time asked himself if he was better off being a goddamn high school janitor. Nothing could be worse than this.

"Nightmares or not, you're killing yourself. Is that what you want?", he eased up on the grip a little, "And no, no I'm not. Jesus, you're really out of it." Blaire snickered. "Heheh, you're soou into me, Park. How emb...a...how dumb. Idiot Park crushing on a co-wrecker." He lazily wiggled his feet a bit away, "Not like I'm running." With a glare, Park released him and stepped away. "No, you're not. And I have half a mind to leave you here muttering into your own goddamn filth." Now Jeremy couldn't have that. "Noo! No, don't go!", he whined again, wiping his face as he attempted to sit up, "Errythin' stopped spinning now, anyways."

"I'll give you five minutes 'till you're sick again", Park mumbled, but nevertheless took a seat. Jeremy vigorously shook his head. "No, nonono, I won't, I swear."

He blinked, staring against the wall a few feet away. "Guess I'm empty after all, eh, Park?", Blaire suggested, wiggling his eyebrows under his messed up hair. Amazing. And the minutes were crawling away until his next shift. Waylon rested his chin in one hand, looking fairly bored.

"Nah, just wait for it." "Like you can see the fu -", but Jeremy bent to the other side to throw up again, "Fugg you, you were right." Park sighed.

"I sure was. Jack had a bout of flu last year that was- ...", he caught himself and frowned "...Nevermind. Did it help?" At the mention of this somehow familiar name, Jeremy's bright eyes shot open again.

"Who's Jack?" he asked with a rattle. "Of...course it did. Better get it out, get it aaall out. How can that be twenty olives." "Nobody." Waylon looked away. "Just don't try to walk. You're going to fall flat on your face if you do." "Jack Nobody's a dumb name, Park. Pff", Jeremy decided, not managing to move his legs. Wouldn't risk it, no siree. "Yeah, whatever." His superior was absolutely no threat to him tonight. Park leaned back against the wall and sighed.

"Why did you even come to me with this shit? Don't you, I don't know, kinda hate me?" Jeremy nodded with wide eyes. "I do. Going to kill you one day, Park. One day..." He took another shaky breath and leaned back, hands in his lap. "Nobody ever fucking listens, that's why." Waylon cocked one eyebrow, looking almost amused. "Oh, wow, okay. Kill me? That's a little more brutally honest than I'm used to." He stared down the hall. "You do know you're not in a position to be telling me these things right? I could literally let you rot here and say it was an accident if anyone asks."

But Jeremy made a dismissive gesture.

"Eeeh, they'll find me. Got this pager...somewhere."

Rummaging in his pockets, he retrieved a little remote.

"Mhm-mm. Mine. Mine now, anyways", he let out a stifled laugh, "I'm not going to die here. Not by a long shot." "Right. Of course you do. Yeah wishful thinking I guess. No offense. You did say you're going to kill me and all." Waylon shoved hands in his pockets and leaned his head back a little, staring at the ceiling. "I'm not gonna get much work done this way you know", he muttered matter-of-factly and Jeremy sneered. "What do you do, anyways? You're a coffee boy...you toy around with the codes, too." Shakily waving his hand, his chin sinking to his chest before he went on, "Eh, doesn't matter now. Work, schmork." Once more he tried to move his legs again, once more without success.

"'Toy around with the codes'. Yeah sure, guess that's one way to put it."

It didn't matter whether or not he argued with the man, but if he didn't speak at all, he'd actually go mad, that much he knew. Waylon glanced at Jeremy out of the corner of his eye before turning to him fully.

"Are you falling asleep? I'm not carrying you back to your quarters, let's just get that straight right now."

"Naah..."

Like hell he was. He was merely resting his eyes so as to be able to use them more...better. Yes. That was it.

"...I'll be right back, Park, just wait a fucking second, Christ..."

The CEO slumped against the software engineer, snoring. Waylon opened his mouth, about to protest, but closed it again as soon as Blaire started snoring.

"... juuust perfect."

He grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him a little.

"I wasn't kidding. Try those legs again, not carrying you, remember?"

"Mhmmokay..."

Blaire moved his feet barely a few inches forward.

"Did...thatwork? Can you see something? I can't see shit, Park. Just your two dollar jacket..." He was about to doze off again.

"Just...to...the elevator." "Wow. No, that's..."

Letting out a drawn-out sigh and drawing a deep breath before standing up and holding his hands out to Blaire.

"Come on, get up. I'll help you." "Okay."

Somehow Jeremy managed to stumble back to his feet, rather clinging to Waylon's hands as to not fall over.

"Now what, now what?", he asked, still dilated pupils curiously eyeing the other. "Tell your body to get it together, we're moving now", tugging one of Blaire's arms over his shoulder to steady him, but he didn't actually start walking, not until he knew he wouldn't be immediately brought to the floor by the other man. "I did, you just didn't hear it!", Jeremy quipped, motioning with his free hand to move forward, if only by tiny steps. The elevator was in sight..?

"Thank fuck nobody's here anymore", he laughed, stretching his arm out for balance. "Yeah, I feel so lucky I got stuck with you because I was the only one still on call."

Waylon's voice was laden with sarcasm at this point - none of which Jeremy detected. He moved slow to fit Blaire's snail's pace.

"Where's your room anyway?" "You are damn lucky...", Jeremy growled, squinting at the slowly approaching metal construct.

"Up, up...upstairs, the top of course. Then..."

They had to halt so he could think properly.

"And then to the right. Number...ah, fuck...number 479. Fuck whoever thought those up...", he fumbled with his key card.

"Yeah. That's it." Park was rolling his eyes to the point where it was starting to give him a headache. Shifting his shoulders a little and starting to get more than a little tired from dragging someone who got more than a couple of inches on him, he sighed.

"Don't you think I should do that? Dunno if you've noticed how much your hands are shaking, but..." Jeremy snarled with impatience.

"Take it, then! Just take it!"

How the hell were they moving now? Ah, right. Elevator. Going up. He closef his eyes to prevent throwing up again and felt the card being wedged out of his iron grip.

"There. Happy now, I hope."

He spotted his door down the hallway. "Ah-HAH! Park! PARK!", he yelled, "Over there!" Wincing at Blaire's sudden and slightly distressing excitement, Waylon dug his heels into the floor before the other man could topple them both.

"Jesus, slow down, we'll get there. You're gonna hurt yourself. And me. Fuck."

When they finally reached the door, he swiped the keycard once, relieved to see the pad next to the door light up green, and pushed the door open with one hand, hauling Blaire inside.

"Turn on some light would you? Can't see a thing..." Jeremy slammed his hand against the doorframe until he found the switch, only to reveal the most decadent 'quarters' in the whole building. Soft, burgundy carpet, a canopy bed on the right, a heavy oak desk with an adjacent fireplace with glowing embers on the left. What walls were not hung with booze and bookshelves sported other carpets, pictures of the Aspen golf course, and of course a giant Murkoff logo. The lamp wasn't a chandelier, but above the comfortable couch, a crystal hanger illuminated the chamber in a warm, golden glow.

"Couch, Park", Jeremy ordered, simply because it was the closest thing in the room. Waylon's mouth fell open in awe at the sheer extravagance of the room. From outside it had looked like any of the staff chambers, but inside...

"So this is how you executives bunk down, huh? Classy."

He hoisted Blaire a little higher, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Would've thought you'd be out of here and lounging it up in some mansion right at closing time. Not that this isn't almost a mansion..."

The couch looked like it was worth half of his life savings. He untangled himself from the CEO and allowed him to slip down onto it, still loosely holding onto his arms to steady him. Then he started pacing. Blaire wasn't in much of a position to stop him from checking out the room anyway. Slowly returning to his senses, yet still not very steady, he nodded.

"Mansion's too far away, Park."

Idiot, he thought, how the fuck would he be able to leave the asylum and drive home? He'd probably crash his precious Mercedes!...and die. Yeah, that too, that would be a risk, maybe; or maybe not. He shuffled into a fetal position, arms wrapped around one of the comfortable cushions.

"The fuck are you roaming about, Park?", he snarled, unable to lift his head above the couch's backrest.

"Snooping like a fucking cop...got nothing to hide, anyways", he lied - not that the engineer would know - and stared at one of the Aspen pictures. "So this is what Murkoff offers in exchange for... your soul, I guess. Empty excess?"

Waylon picked up a decidedly expensive looking bottle of brandy from one of the shelves, studying it briefly before popping it back into place, moving on to stand in front of the fireplace, admittedly basking a bit in the leftover waves of heat. Mt. Massive got so cold. And his own chamber had only a shitty broken wall heater to cut through the crisp mountain chill. He looked back over at Blaire.

"How's the head feeling?" "We earn our shares, fucker. Everything is earned. What we trade is freedom, but you don't need that when you have corporate freedom."

He sounded like a broken record, as if he'd been saying that exact phrase a billion times already. Probably had, too.

"Head's doing better. Don't mess with my stuff, Park! Don't...touch the clubs, either."

He vaguely gestured at a polished set above the fireplace, two of the three Barth & Sons clubs slightly bent and thus not utile anymore.

"Don't you fucking dare touch those!" Waylon glanced up at the clubs. It was tempting, now that he'd been expressly forbidden from touching them, but he stilled his hand. Blaire might not be completely conscious now, but he would be in the morning. Best not to get into too much trouble.

"Corporate freedom? To do what, exactly? Spend your free time being dragged around by employees because you despise your job so much that you had to numb the pain with enough drugs to sedate an elephant? 'Cause that seems like just an excellent use of freedom." "Hey, I did...things...that were fun, okay?"

Why was he even explaining himself to that silly person? That expandable moron that went lurking around in his room, touching his things, probably thinking he was better than him with his fucking nice domestic life and shit?! Jeremy'd be furious if his brain allowed him another emotion but slight anger and mostly the downfall after a too short drug high.

"And those things were fun", he emphasized, rubbing his face against the pillow before crawling to the edge of the couch, placing his chin onto the armrest.

"But you're not an exec, you don't even know the fucking rules. You just know the basics. They'll...never suspect you'd step out of line." "No, I'm not an exec, thank fuck. Your idea of fun is pretty far removed from mine."

Waylon stared at the pictures of Aspen, aware that Blaire at least had the means to travel. He'd always wanted to, but with such tight finances... not that he'd exchange that wealth for being a decent fucking human being.

"Well, if you're feeling all better, and since you haven't puked in the last ten minutes I'd say that you are, no need for me to stick around. Right? If all else fails you can always use your... whatever that pager thing had on you is."

He glanced around one last time before heading for the door. "That pager calls your cell, though."

What a plot twist. Or not, seeing as Blaire had made it his personal goal before to annoy and demean the hell out of the software engineer. Not that he knew why, but it had made sense at some point. With a groan, he sat up, still clutching the pillow, and nodded vaguely, his head lolling back.

"Yeah, if you want, you can go." He narrowed his eyes.

"Did you put my key card on the desk? I...can't get up and check myself." He stopped, one hand on the doorhandle, and squinted at the executive.

"... Just when did you decide to pick on me out of all people? Because that just seems... unnecessary, to be honest."

And annoying. And demoralizing. Why couldn't he just be allowed to do his job and fuck off at the end of the day? With a small frustrated sound, he whipped the keycard out of the pocket he'd shoved it into and held it out to Blaire, wedged in between two fingers.

"Here, take it. Now, if there's nothing else..."

Jeremy snatched it off Park's fingers at the third try, rocking back against the pillows before nodding.

"Wise question. Maybe you'll never know, maybe...you've always known."

To his own surprise, he was able to get up and pushed him back, towards the room's door.

"Now off with you, little fly! Don't get caught up in another spider's web, because that might have quite the consequences...and those drag until your very doorstep."

His voice became lower with every word during the last threat and he half-shoved Waylon out, lingering in the entrance. "Yeah, because that makes so much sense."

The sarcasm was dripping from his voice now, but it seemed utterly lost on Blaire who had swayed onto his feet and was shoving at him rather pitifully in an attempt to get him to leave, babbling a string of nonsense about flies and spiders. Must be the drugs talking, but Waylon couldn't be certain. Tuning out the ramble, Waylon simply spared him one last glance before taking off down the hall, hoping to catch at least a couple hours of shut-eye before the inevitable interruption of his sleep, either from dawn breaking or from a page sent by the CEO to piss him off.

"Have fun getting sober. You'll probably want to wait a few more days before attempting another overdose again", he called over his shoulder as he walked. Jeremy glared after him as he sinks down the doorframe with a look that combined both exhaustion and the always present glimmer of madness into one odd mix.

"We'll see about that, Park!", he called after him, clinging to the doorknob as he shook his fist, flinging the card behind him and onto the fluffy carpet.

"We will see!", and apparently, they would. While sleep came easily, rest was a whole other situation. On the rather comfortable floor (he hadn't made it onto the canopy bed), the CEO was able to convince himself to at least pretend he was gaining something from not moving...but he wasn't. And now it was the middle of the fucking night, great! Idiot Park, helping him back here. But as much as he loathed his employee, maybe the guy was up for another talk? Jeremy was rather sober now, at least in terms of drugs and alcohol, but his mind still spun. Flicking through the sheets of his phone's document, he found where the engineer's room was. If not now, when was the perfect time to disturb him?

No. Jeremy was NOT going to sulk alone. He stumbled out of his room and made his way to the lower workforce's dormitory, hammering against the door with both fists.

"C'mooooon! Let me in!"

While Waylon had wholeheartedly counted on receiving an unnecessary page from Blaire, he hadn't expected the man to actually show up at his door, loudly wailing for him to open it. He felt he'd barely managed to close his eyes from he'd stumbled into bed to this new interruption.

Had he slept at all? His watch read four thirty. Christ. He knew the executive wouldn't likely just leave if he attempted to tune him out, his level of determination made clear from the fact that he was here to begin with. He'd probably attempt to break down the door and instead break himself. Then Waylon would have to deal with that. So he rubbed his eyes, yawning as he stumbled out of bed, sheets tugged around his shoulders for warmth and coverage. He shot Blaire a tired glare upon opening the door. The executive hadn't ceased his banging for the entire duration of him getting out of bed.

"What? What do you want?"

Jeremy wasn't so sure whether he was expecting a frightful glance or an overtired glare; he received a mix of both and his own pitiful look didn't quite add to the batch as he crawled into the little room, still wailing, if not as loudly as before, and he instantly clung to Park like an overly needy crustacean.

"I have nobody", Jeremy sobbed as if that realization was news to him and not something he'd figured out the day he had started working for one of the worst companies on earth.

"And I fucked up, Park, I fucked up badly, and now he's never coming back. And you don't even have half the wit, you imbecile", the CEO went on crying into the blanket coat that the software engineer had wrapped himself into.

"What are yo-" Waylon muttered in disbelief as Blaire latched on to him, a sobbing whiny mess of a man, so different from the arrogant prick who usually paraded the halls. Well, he was still a prick. But something major must have happened to make him let go of his defenses so willingly, pouring his heart out to someone he'd openly admitted to loathe, someone he deemed as vastly inferior to himself if his usual treatment was anything to go by.

Waylon was about to shove him away when the stuttered words made him halt, one hand on the executive's shoulder and ready to rip him off. He? 'He's never coming back'? His eyes widened a bit at that, some of the grogginess forgotten.

"... Did someone leave you? Is that what this is about?"

How the hell was he supposed to deal with this? One thing was making sure Blaire didn't die from an overdose, but listening to him wail about his love life? Something he'd been fairly certain the man didn't possess until just now. No. He glanced at the door. If he could just gently guide him back over there...

...while he regretted now any of the previous interactions, especially letting Park guide him back to his own room! The one room nobody ever entered without a written permission slip by yours truly, maybe on Christmas when he was already too high to realize what kinda bullshit he signed - Blaire most certainly was going to regret this pathetic display even more.

He just didn't know it yet. Park seemed like the kind of guy with, if not relatable troubles, than most certainly the sort of empathy he direly needed. Or at least a few fake wise words to make him feel better? A heavy coke-induced low coupled with whatever vermouth was left in his veins was something he didn't look forward to sweating out alone...

"Yeah", he rasped, clinging a bit tighter, finally looking up with glistening cheeks.

"If only...would've killed him, then...no, I...got rid of him. Would have...would have been me, otherwise. ...I shouldn't have done it, oh God...", his grip didn't loosen in the slightest as he inched closer on his knees. Was he dreaming? It seemed a faint possibility by now, none of the things he was seeing and hearing making sense to his eyes and ears. Especially not the tear-soaked face of his superior's superior looking up at him pitifully, weakly, showing no signs of murderous apathy but only complete and utter remorse.

He pondered vaguely on whether or not to pinch himself to test the dream theory, but found that he was more or less frozen in place, simply staring down at Blaire as he spoke in whimpered cries, fingers digging tighter into the fabric he'd pulled around him for protection.

When the broken man beneath him shuffled forward, Waylon took an involuntary step back, cringing at the sight of the man, at the inconsolable tone of his voice, at being subjected to this man's uncovered misery.

He just wanted him out. He wanted to sleep. To do his job. To go home. To see his family. His... family. Blaire was right. He had nobody. That came as a surprise to no one. But to learn that he'd had somebody? And lost them? That made him human. If only for a moment. With a sigh, Waylon dropped to his knees, placing a hand on either of Blaire's shoulder and jolted him upright a bit, looking him square in the eyes.

"If you're going to moan and piss about this we might as well get off the floor. It's cold." In a way, Jeremy should have counted on being kicked the hell out. Not that Park would risk getting fired or worse, but he looked rather sleep-deprived, and Jeremy knew how that had been his doing as well. But the palpable unease which slowly transformed into at least pity and not the expected disgust, was something the executive had not seen coming. The trembling stopped for a moment as he seemed to measure his currently superior's competence in terms of consolation, and he slowly figured that if he hadn't come here in the first place if not for at least the hint of a safety net.

Not like this was going to be a 'thing', this was a one of a kind deal after which both parties would split and never even mention this again. "Alright", Jeremy barely managed to utter when he felt hands on his shoulders, half shaking him, half encouraging him to get up. The floor's iciness wasn't his major concern, though. It was himself, almost eagerly giving his worries away. He knew he was sick, beyond repair, and so far off that the numbness and lulling cruelty of his acts coated him with a much needed cover of frost...which had now shattered into a billion tiny splinters, hurting him rather than protecting him. He got to his feet, now at least physically taller than his employee.

Surprisingly, the fair bit of insubordination in that previous statement earned him nothing but quiet compliance, and he watched Blaire climb back up to his full height with a rather wary expression. This wasn't right. This man didn't deserve his pity, let alone his unbridled empathy. He owed him nothing and he would give him nothing.

He could still kick him out. He should kick him out, tune out the inevitable protests and go back to sleep. Or at least try to. Grogginess came and went now, lids heavy against the dim light from the hallway creeping into his room. When would he sleep, he wondered, really sleep without hearing those distant, muffled but incessant cries and pained whimpers from the patient floors.

He couldn't remember a night spent here that hadn't been invaded by those sounds, whether or not they were present to echo in his ears. Now they'd been replaced with the uncomfortable, palpable silence between the two of them, neither one speaking, neither one moving.

Waylon stared for a moment more before his shoulders slumped and he shuffled back to sit on the edge of his cot, resting his arms on his knees. Blaire would see he had no help to give soon enough. He'd get fed up and leave on his own, no violence needed. He didn't look at him as he spoke.

"Whatever you want to tell me, do it before I pass out. Because I will. Any second now."

Whether or not it seemed wise to continue, he didn't think he had a choice. He felt cage already, and if this little idiot dared to even think about this unique occurrence, he'd be dead. No, his family would be dead. Wife, kids, all fucked up. Maybe he'd burn them alive, just to show Park how little he cared. To have the audacity to reveal such - !

But he hadn't said a word yet. Jeremy hadn't realized how he'd shuffled to take a seat next to the employee on a mattress not worth mentioning, the bed frame's steel cool against his legs as he stared down at his own shaky hands that were too heavy for him to lift. What could he say? Or more, what should he say?

This one was done for; he was not going back home. Not tonight, not in the next few weeks, or months... Jeremy's random trail of thoughts ran dry and once more wandered to the main issue at hand as new tears sprung up in his eyes and he let out a strangled sob.

"Ah, fuck. Shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have done it, Park" he muttered, wiping his crimson features. "I...I didn't want to die, alright? Just...the fuck was I supposed to do, shoot him? Not that I hadn't been offered a chance", Jeremy wailed, his fingers now clutching at his sweaty forehead.

"But what was I supposed to do? They're...they're moving him back downstairs, I d-don't have a say in this; of course I don't, hah!" Turning around to face the software engineer, he went on stuttering.

"I thought, out of sight, out of mind, at least for a bit...but...I didn't want to. I really didn't want to do it. I swear."

As Blaire talked or rather, fumbled for words, his thoughts stumbling and catching themselves as he uttered them, only barely managing to form coherent sentences through the hoarse whimpered breaths falling from his lips, Waylon felt himself starting to nod off. It was surprising to him how little he actually cared. So Blaire's hubris had finally caught up with him and it'd bit him in the ass as expected. He'd had to have known that this would happen eventually. He was curious as to whom exactly his superior was referring to, having trouble envisioning him caring for another human being, let alone one of the multitude of assholes that this facility had on its payroll. Or was he talking about a patient? His thoughts had become scattered and heavy, his head drooping to his knees and vision dotted with flashes of comforting inky darkness. The only question he managed to mutter came out low and almost inaudible and he wondered briefly if Blaire even heard it over his own wailing.

"You didn't have a say? Aren't you the boss around here..." Once the words left his mouth, he closed his eyes for a scant second and he was off, sliding down into deep dark complacency, forehead resting on his knees and hands hanging loosely across his thighs.

Blaire was on top of him within a second, grabbing him by the collar of his (probably) five dollar pajamas and shaking him awake.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING FALL ASLEEP ON ME, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT!", he yelled, heavily backhanding Park before slouching back on his heels, his burning forehead against the cold brick wall as he continued to bawl, crouched on the slim mattress like a toddler in a suit who'd curled up in a corner, trying to avoid his worst nightmares.

Only that Jeremy was living them, day after day after day. He honestly hadn't thought it'd take this long to finally consume his mind, but now that it was here, all so vivid and frantic and mashed with the happy memories he dared to let seep into the broth of tar, it maddened him beyond belief.

After a minute of silent sobbing - like hell he was excusing his behavior - Jeremy went on explaining, if almost shy in his small gestures, staring blankly at the dusty ceiling. Park knew this; he must have known this before, but his family was still there, hopeful, waiting, wanting him back.

Like Rick had. And he had wedged that dagger neatly between his ribs, had watched him bleed out with cold, distanced looks and even colder orders. "I loved him", he whispered, mindlessly scratching at some rubble that came off the bricks, "I did. That's why I'm out. They...kept me. Because I'm the fucking best. But...ah, fuck. Fuck, he won't even know it's me", Jeremy cried, "not after all that shit they gave him!"

Waylon snapped awake with a grunt as he was yanked up by the collar, only managing a small sound of surprise as Blaire struck him across the face, still somewhat numb from those few seconds of unintentional slumber. It'd worked in the man's favor, he was definitely awake now. One hand went to his cheek and he rubbed there, the skin sore and throbbing beneath his fingers. So much for lending a shoulder to cry on. Sitting up straighter, hand still on his cheek, he shot a rather halfhearted glare at Blaire's trembling form.

It was a pathetic sight, a harsh mockery of the man, all curled in on himself and laid bare in front of Waylon, of all people. But the more lucidity he gained, the longer he listened, the more those words seemed to come together and suddenly it became clear to him that this wasn't a matter of Blaire's avarice ruining his life. This was out of his hands, something else. Murkoff. Always Murkoff.

And... love.

He'd never expected to hear that particular sin be uttered by someone like Blaire. It was mildly disconcerting to be honest, seeing such a human side of him sobbing and broken, muttering into the scratchy fabric of his mattress like a small child. Letting his hand fall from his cheek, he cocked his head at the other man, uncaring of how hard his expression might have looked; Blaire wasn't looking at him anyway.

"Who exactly are we talking about here?"

"Right...you...you weren't there, you weren't there", Jeremy muttered, half-laughing, managing a weak shrug as he shoved a trembling hand into his suit jacket, unearthing a wallet. "Let me...show you, Park."

The CEO fumbled with various credit cards and papers, scowling down at his Murkoff ID and flicking a tiny rectangle at the software engineer after another harsh breath.

"Trager, Richard 'Rick' Trager. He...he was an executive about...two years ago", Jeremy explained with hollow voice and an equally hollow look, slowly shuffling back to move his shaky frame a bit forward.

He regarded the employee with glassy eyes, not noticing whether or not he was picking up the little photo. It had been taken at the Aspen golf course (twenty minutes with the Murkoff helicopter from Mount Massive), in early 2011. What he could remember of that particular weekend had been utter bliss.

Now reduced to nothing but smoke and greyish memories. Those counted for fucking nothing, especially with the nanites continuously chewing on everyone's brains.

"They - Murkoff; they didn't approve. Distraction, all that bullshit. ...we tried to keep it clandestine. Fucking morons, the both of us. Cost us...it cost us everything."

Waylon's expression softened by a bit as he picked up the small photo extended to him.

The pair looking up at him from the smooth bit of paper were smiling, shoulder to shoulder, each with a shiny golf club in hand. Blaire on the right and an older man with his arm around the CEO's shoulder, his grin wider than Blaire's by miles. So that was Trager then. There was an air of innocence to the photo, if only because both of them looked... happy. That word was not something he normally associated with anything related to Murkoff.

And apparently, neither did Murkoff itself. Waylon had never understood most corporations extreme aversion to office romances or "fraternization" as it was so often called, but then he'd never found himself in one. But he wasn't blind either. Murkoff was not a normal corporation, not by a long shot. Whatever punishment they had doled out for this indiscretion, it had been harsh enough to leave the executive a sobbing mess on his employee's bed in the wee hours of the morning.

Suppressing a yawn, Waylon gave Blaire a wary glance, almost afraid to pose the question forming on his tongue.

"What did they... do to him? You said he was moved downstairs?"

And then it clicked. Downstairs. The lower levels. The Engine. Had they really shoved an executive into the engine as punishment for being intimate with a colleague? An involuntary shudder passed through him at the thought. Suddenly his own chances of getting out of here in one piece seemed to dwindle.

He realized that Park was still talking to him, an action he would have found incredibly infuriating had the circumstance not been the current ones. As direly as he needed help, and not just a little, he rather just talked through it, through this whole bloody affair that was Murkoff and would always be.

"Gave me a choice, because who the fuck needs an R&D guy, right? Killed his family first for openly acting against the rules. Good thing my parents were Murkoff too. Didn't have shit on them. I...I thought he'd get through 'therapy' as an example and they'd release him. Granat from Legal ordered him to participate in the program; he was...he's - Rick's incredibly smart. Fuck, they'd been waiting for a brain like his. And they seized it. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

For a moment, Jeremy was silent, then snatched the photo from Park's hands, angrily stuffing it between his other cards into his wallet.

"And now, thank fucking GOD, they're moving him back. I don't understand why, they got me good with it, they go everything they wanted...and now they just..."

His voice faded into another sob.

"Fuck, they're going to kill him. And I have to oversee the process. I...have to authorize it. Not that it's in my power to stop it. None of this is. ...I had fucking rings. They took those too. Evidence of misconduct. Fucking psychopaths."

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, had been his motto afterwards.

Rings. So not just intimate, but... well he'd said it himself moments earlier. Love.

And Waylon hadn't thought him capable of such a thing. He wondered idly if the man had any notion as to just how much of his privacy he was giving away by telling him these things, by exposing himself quite so thoroughly, no filters, no holds barred. If push came to shove, Waylon told himself, he would take this information and he would use it.

That's what he tried to convince himself of in any case. For his family. He would do it for his family. Hearing Blaire confirm that Murkoff made good on their threats had made his heart sink like a stone. But then, all the threats of personal injury and collatoral damage towards him had been uttered by Blaire himself. Not Murkoff. By someone who'd been put through that same treatment. And come out on the other side much worse for wear if the defeated, morose tone of his voice was anything to go by. Wide awake now, Waylon sat up straighter, tugging the blanket closer around his shoulders and stared at the door. He felt colder now, somehow, than before Blaire had started his little tirade.

Of course he'd come to know that signing a contract for Murkoff hadn't exactly been his brightest idea as of yet but the full reality of it still left him feeling slightly nauseous. His voice felt dry when he spoke.

"Let me guess... the only way to leave all this behind now would be in a coffin. Am I right?" So he knew, huh? Smart little weasle Park, Mr. Know it all, but...Park still had his family. Unless they'd been already shot and buried, but if they were, Blaire hadn't been informed.

Well, wouldn't have been the first time, he thought, numbly shoving his wallet back inside his suit jacket.

"They'll kill all of them. They'll kill your pretty wife, and your kids...no matter what you think you can or cannot do to prevent this...you didn't have a fucking chance."

The CEO glanced at his watch, wiping at his eyes once more to get a proper and not too bleary look. They'd have him down in an hour, maybe two. Maybe earlier. Who knew...

Now sobbing quietly, the high rank executive slid off Waylon's mattress and back onto his feet, rummaging in his various other pockets.

"Park", he rattled, tossing a phone at him, "if you want to talk to them, now's a good time as any. I...don't know what they're going to do, but - they might do it soon. Fucking CHRIST, I don't know, they...they'll kill the both of us sooner or later."

Waylon's face fell when Blaire spoke next. The coffin comment hadn't meant to inspire him to outright state his forthcoming demise. Was he serious? Didn't have a chance? Didn't. Past tense. A shiver ran through him and he rocked forward when Blaire shuffled off the cot, eyes wide and a thousand questions burning on his tongue, bile rising in the back of his throat.

"What do you mean di-" he started but was cut short when Blaire tossed him a phone, only barely managing to catch it, the blanket falling from his shoulders with the sudden movement. He stared at it, on the verge of stammering when there was finally room for him to speak.

"What do you mean I didn't have a chance?"

There was the telltale sting of tears in his eyes and he stubbornly fought them back, trying futilely to replace them with anger, but it only made his insides twist more painfully. What that left him with was desperation, pure, unabashed, shameful desperation.

"You're part of Murkoff, you... you've got to be able to do something! I didn't. I've done nothing to deserve this!"

He knew there was no fooling himself here. If Blaire hadn't been able to intervene in the torture and imminent execution of a loved one, there was no chance in hell he'd be able to lift a finger in defense of Waylon's family.

Or that he'd even want to. But his sleep-deprived mind left little room for such considerations and he babbled on, as pathetically now as Blaire had been only moments earlier. "You say you loved this man, Trager, right? I love my family. I love them, you hear me. And if there's a chance... you have to help me."

"Do you know why I'm here, jackass?", Blaire whispered, keen on just grabbing his employee by the collar again and tossing him against the nearest wall just to get rid of some of the frustration, "because Murkoff doesn't give a fuck about you unless you do something that isn't on your timetable. You work, you eat, you sleep. As it is on your schedule. There..."

He lowered his voice once more and inched a bit closer, "there are no bugs in this room. They don't fucking care if you stay up all night writing poems or jacking off or sewing wedding dresses. But if you step out of these four walls and back onto the shitty carpet, you're property. Your my property which makes you Murkoff property, because here's the scoop, you dumb idiot: nobody wins. Nobody ever wins. Let me dumb this down for your little software engineer brain, alright? You're fucked. The moment you signed the contract, you signed away your rights. I know, because I enforce Murkoff Law. These premises, they're not even American soil, not officially. If...if you're even so much as think of working against this corporation, you're fucked."

His whispers became hoarse, manic, his eyes wider.

"We're both little fucking flies. But you're too dumb to realize that it's not the spider's web we're stuck in - we've already been devoured. Do you want to know what keeps me alive? Apart from the chemo-cocktail and the constant rush of killing yet another human, or enforcing great deals of pain? It's because a tiny yet significant part of me, someone that I lost control over, is still being digested in these bowels. But he's not dead yet. As long as he's not dead, I refuse to die. You have to start thinking like that, Park, or you're a goner, too."

As Blaire talked, Waylon stayed rooted to his seat on the cot, refusing to move even when the executive stepped closer, every inch of him deflating slowly but steadily with each word hissed in his direction. There was no hesitation, no hint of the smooth sheet of lies covering everything he'd come to know from Murkoff up until this point, no mercy to those truths. By the time Blaire had finished his little rant, Waylon felt like someone had punched him in the stomach, all the remaining air expelled from his body at once.

It made sense now, why Blaire had insisted on having his breakdown here, of all places, if what he said was true. He'd suspected as much, that every inch of the building was under constant surveillance, but he hadn't actually wanted to believe it could be true. It felt too... surreal, to think that he was no actively involved in something like this, he who'd always stayed on the straight and narrow and never had to face such harsh consequences for making one wrong choice. Signing that contract had been a mistake. Him being here was a mistake. it was all a mistake. And it was too late to back out. But what Blaire was suggesting... that sounded almost worse.

His face set in a deep frown, he looked up at the man, noticing the manic glint in his pale eyes but choosing to ignore it for now.

"I'm not like you, Blaire. I'm never going to be like you."

"Not like me? You think you're any different with your clean slate and your proper work attitude, Park?", the CEO laughed, leaning back.

"You're just as fucked as everyone in this building is. You think two weeks is tough? Try two years. Try decades away from your family. Are they alive, are they well? Are they being watched, are they left to rot on the streets after yet another mortgage fails to reach the bank; under mysterious circumstances your boy's bus crashes and twenty children perish in the burning metal casket that once was a safe car. Coincidences. Victims upon victims - Park, do you think I have time to count the bodies? The body piles? You will die here. You will."

Blaire seemed to ponder for a second, staring up at the ceiling as if in deep contemplation.

"Argentina is out of Murkoff's reach, of course; just because it didn't work for us doesn't mean it won't work for you. If you can charter a little holiday flight for four, that is."

Fumbling with his phone again, Jeremy seemed completely off, and was already heading towards the door. One hand on the handle, he turned around one more time.

"If you say anything to anyone about...this, I will make sure you're going to watch your children die before your wife gets it, Park", he icily announced.

Then he was gone, leaving not a trace in the shabby little bedroom.

[corporateasshole-andlovingit]

[4 postasylumwaylon]

It was at this point Jeremy Blaire realized how one of his stupider decisions was about to cost him his favorite company car. The asylum had been snowed in for a few days, but MurTac had made a dash for it, and the CEO's Mercedes was equipped with the best tires money could buy so naturally Blaire was out of the facility at five sharp, almost running over the miserable figure shakily crouching next to a vehicle Jeremy didn't even try to identify. Park, the dumb idiot, about to freeze to death and trembling, had carefully waved his hand at him and Jeremy, whatever nanite-infested brain vessel had just taken charge of his mind, had motioned him to get the fuck in the back.

Up until that particularly foolish moment, the car ride had been silent. Blaire knew where the Parks lived - he'd paid them a visit once or twice for good measure - and he'd drop the bastard off without another word. Maybe kick him in the back.

As he chased down the icy slope and towards the highway, trying his best to ignore the software engineer whose fingers and lips had apparently thawed to the point of disgustingly pleasant conversation which Jeremy obviously didn't acknowledge.

Glass shattering. The dainty clattering of shards and pieces dancing off the taught leather and polished steel and falling onto the soft ground between the seats. Crystal splinters sticking to the cheap jeans which to everyone's surprise were still bone dry.

"Sir...", Waylon began with his features matching the freshly fallen snow, his look glassy with terror and the tremor invading his every fiber not making it any easier to focus on the little protrait medallion that had previously slipped out of an invisible roof department and into Park's lap.

Jeremy stopped the car with a shriek and geared down, his scarlet face an intimidating clash of unrestrained fury and pure grief as he blindly angled for his .45 automatic.

"Shouldn't have done that, Park. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You really ought to think before acting. Could get you out of a lot of tricky situations; well - not out of this one, to be fair."

He cocked the gun and aimed for Waylon's forehead, his grip tight and his hand steady.

[hugecomputernerd]

((I cannot believe I've only thought to follow u now and that it has to be in the midst of all this drama, but seriously. Your Waylon is great, that anon needs to chill the fuck out. You literally cannot whitewash someone who doesn't have a canon ethnicity. Also your art is hella rad yes good.))

((oH MY GOD I GOT SO EXCITED THAT YOU FOLLOWED ME like u and wayrider are my two fav outlast blogs of all time!!! and it’s a’ight i know people hate white blonde stereotypical men but i mean that’s just the way i want to make him. i’m not going to change him bc that anon was like “CATER TO MY EVERY WHIM STOP DRAWING WAYLON LIKE THAT I DONT LIKE IT” lmao))

[clairjohnson]

postasylumwaylon replied to your post:Thanks postasylumwaylon that’s just what I needed...

((our grave stones are gonna be so pretty though, u gotta admit!))

"Here lies Aly. KILLED BY TOO MUCH SAD. THANKS SNUFF."

That's what my stone is going to say. Word for word.