Halloween!fic. I KNOW, WHAT.

[essbeejay]

This is pretty much what I've been slaving away at for the past few days.

Title: Somnambulist
Character: Boomer
Genre: Horror (I know, this is a first for me)
Rating: R/M
Disclaimer: I don't lay claim to any character of The Powerpuff Girls, nor the creepypasta that inspired this.
Summary: “Please wake up.”
Notes: I always wanted to write a horror fic but have no talent for the genre. Case in point: this is totally based on one of my favorite creepypastas. If you know your creepypastas, you can probably guess which one this is based on. As soon as I read it, I knew I wanted to write a fic inspired by it, and here is that attempt. Warnings for blood, slight body horror, etc., etc.. What else should I warn for in a horror!fic? A general sense of unease? I guess what I'm saying is, Don't read it if horror ain't your thing. If you do read it, I really, really want to know what you think. Happy Halloween! Un-beta'd.

Somnambulist
-sbj

It was a pretty day—even though there were barely any windows in the house to let sunlight in it was obviously gorgeous out—and Boomer, seated at the dining table, had glanced over at the room where Butch was staying and wondered for the third time how long the guy was going to sleep in when there was a knock on the door. He turned, curious and excited at the prospect of company, yet still couldn't fight back the slight dread curling in the pit of his stomach. Something about guests always made him nervous.

He stood up, casting one last glance in Butch's direction—man, Butch would sleep forever if he could—and passed by the kitchen, where he paused to smile at Bubbles' back.

“I'm getting the door,” he told her as she chopped up foodstuffs for lunch, and hurried on without waiting for a response. The knocking had started up again. He steeled his nerves.

There was no peephole on their front door; he simply swung it wide open. His expression brightened, even as his stomach wrenched.

“Brick!” he nearly shouted, either due to excitement or fear. Brick often inspired one emotion or the other when it came to his audience, and even Boomer was hardly exempt from it.

“Hey, Boomer.” Brick inclined his head in greeting. Boomer stepped back so his brother could enter the house.

“What are you doing here?”

“I can't visit?” He paused, having crossed the threshold, and stared at Boomer. “What about you? What are you doing here?”

Boomer blinked. “Uh... I live here.”

Brick continued to stare at him. “Right,” he finally said, and took a few steps. “I just thought I'd drop by and see you. You know. Hang out. Catch up. Chat.” He stopped again, his gaze riveted to the kitchen. Bubbles was busy, chopping away.

“You should stay for lunch,” Boomer said, continuing on to their small dining table.

Brick ignored the invitation. His gaze swept from Bubbles to Butch's room, the door just ajar.

“Is he in there?”

“Yeah. Should I go get him?”

“Forget it.” Brick moved to join him at the table, keeping a wide berth as he passed by Butch's room. “I wouldn't want to wake him.”

“Want anything? Water, coffee?”

“I'm fine.” Brick sat a little awkwardly and looked around. “Dark in here.”

“Yeah, not a lot of windows.”

“No windows at all,” Brick corrected.

“Dude, you've been in my house five seconds and you're already getting critical?” Boomer held up his hands in mock offense.

“Not criticizing.” Brick shook his head. “Just observing.” He glanced at Boomer again. “So... everything okay with you?”

Another little pang in Boomer's stomach, oddly. It was something about the way Brick said it, something about the look on his face. Like he knew something was wrong and was just waiting for Boomer to come out and say it first.

Hell if Boomer knew what it was. Everything was great with him.

“Everything's great,” he said, casually, easily. Brick did not respond. He only continued to peer at Boomer, scrutinizing him, waiting for him to say it first. But say what? As far as Boomer knew, everything was fine. Brick was the one who had come to see him, after all...

“Is...” Boomer trailed off and cleared his throat. “How about you? Is everything... okay? With you?” He paused, wanting to give Brick a chance to answer, then added, “It's been awhile since the last time I saw you.”

He'd never seen Brick's gaze go soft before, and he still couldn't be sure it was actually happening at all, but there was the smallest change in his brother's expression.

“Yeah,” Brick said, his voice soft. Another Brick first. “Yeah, it's been a long time.”

It got real quiet then, save for the chopping coming from the kitchen. Boomer glanced at Butch's door and thought about letting him know Brick was here.

Instead he looked back at the table, rubbing his arm. “So... what are you doing here now?”

Whatever had inspired the uncharacteristic almost-display of affection from Brick dissipated in an instant. Brick's face set, shifting into Leader Mode, and he gave Boomer a severe look.

“I came up here to see you,” he said. It practically sounded like an order. No, wait. An accusation. Boomer stopped rubbing his arm and clenched it.

“About?”

Brick took a slow breath that sounded like he was fighting for composure. He focused on the table, chewing his lip.

“I—” He suddenly looked back towards the kitchen, frowning. “Does she really need to make that racket?” She was still chopping. Boomer shrugged.

“She's making lunch.” Then, because he didn't want to be impolite, “You should stay.”

“No,” Brick said automatically. He had gone back to staring at the table. After a protracted pause, he added quietly, “I don't like it here.”

Boomer couldn't help but bristle a little. He was being rude. Typical.

“Well, I happen to love it,” Boomer said, feigning nonchalance with a shrug.

“Yeah,” Brick said, looking around. Looking uneasy. “You would.”

Silence again swallowed up the conversation, save for the rhythmic chop-chop-chop coming from the kitchen. Well. Brick could be a rude ass, but Boomer was at least going to attempt to keep the conversation from taking a nasty turn.

“She's making—”

“I don't want to know,” Brick said abruptly. His teeth were gritted, like he was struggling with something. It occurred to Boomer that he might be in trouble, or hurt. He tried to not be angry, despite the fact that Brick was being... well, himself.

“Is everything okay?”

“No,” Brick breathed—practically panted. He was swallowing big gulps of air all of a sudden, like he'd just stopped running a marathon and couldn't get enough oxygen. “I... had trouble... I couldn't...” He bent his head towards the table, still gasping, and thumped his head against the surface once, clenching one fist against his stomach. Boomer sat and simply stared at him, waiting.

“What's wrong?” he asked, even though he didn't much care. He rubbed at his shoulder.

“At first I couldn't wake up,” Brick managed, and he was breathing so hard and so short Boomer thought he was going to throw up all over that perfect tile floor of his perfect windowless house.

“Stop fighting me,” Brick hissed, driving his face into the table while Boomer sat there and stared at him. “Boomer!”

“What's wrong,” Boomer repeated, staring and rubbing his shoulder, rubbing his shoulder, his stupid fucking shoulder on his stupid fucking arm that hurt for no good fucking reason.

“I couldn't wake up, Boomer,” Brick said again, desperately. He pawed at the table, his face still pressed to the wood, then lurched forward and grabbed Boomer's arm, sending a flash of burning pain surging up, through him, igniting his very bones—

“No!” Panic swept over him like a tidal wave, and Boomer jerked his arm back and cradled it to his chest, tears stinging his eyes. “No, no no no,” he whispered, his arm feeling withered and frail and lifeless.

“Please.” Brick was seething, hissing into the table, and Boomer couldn't see his face but that didn't bother him, what bothered him was his arm, it hurt, it hurt so God damn much.

“Don't touch me,” Boomer whimpered, feeling like he was cradling a dying animal that was attached to his body and not wanting to look and see it for real, because it wasn't a dying animal, it was his arm, his fucking arm!

The sound of a creaking hinge invaded his head, seemed to echo in the room, and he turned his head to Butch's room. Butch was lying there, his back to the door, stock still as he slept.

“Wake up,” Brick said again, and Boomer shook his head at him like he was some sort of idiot.

“He's sleeping,” Boomer said, willing feeling and life back into his arm. It was coming back, little by little, just as long as Brick, this idiot, this fucking ass, didn't touch him again and ruin everything—

“There's this thing they say,” Brick rasped against the table, still not looking up, still thumping one arm uselessly against the table, still reaching for Boomer even as he pulled away. “About people who are being—”

“Shut up,” Boomer whispered, trying to get his arm right again, trying to make it right.

“Tortured,” Brick continued, stubbornly, relentlessly, ever pawing at the table for his brother, his brother who didn't want him any nearer, don't come any closer, stay the fuck away! “They make up a world—they pretend that it isn't happening—”

“Shut up,” Boomer whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on his arm, his arm, his arm was going away again, it was like pins and needles, it was messy and wet and falling apart, falling off—

“And they pretend so well that they don't know—”

That hinge, creaking again, and Boomer looked up in alarm, but he didn't mean to and he instantly wished he hadn't, because there was Butch lying there, not having budged an inch save for the fact that now he was facing them, now he was staring, open-eyed, right at Boomer, black hair matted and staining the floor in deep dark red that stretched all the way to the table—

“Until they get a message reminding them what's happening—”

There was a keening sound issuing from Boomer's throat, threatening to break into a sob at any moment. The wall cracked, plaster falling as if someone had punched it from the outside, and suddenly there was a hole and light was flooding in, illuminating his house, showing everything, the blood on the floor and the please on the wall, over and over again scratched deep, please and please and please and wake up wake up WAKE UP—

“Bubbles!” he screamed, and turned to the kitchen, his arm feeling like it was being torn from his body. He froze. Bubbles was gone, the silhouette that had taken her place in the kitchen unfamiliar and terrifying as it flitted across the doorway, out of sight, that incessant CHOP-CHOP-CHOP growing louder and louder—

He twisted away, back to the table, and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears, the house, against the shadow in the kitchen and Butch wide-eyed in his room and the pain in his arm that wouldn't go away that was killing him, killing him, killing him!

“Come back,” he pleaded, begged, wanting her back, she was the only thing that could make it better, the only thing that could make it right, and they'd never forgive him for it but he had needed her for exactly that reason, she was the only thing, she had been the only thing—

He couldn't stand up because his legs wouldn't move and his teeth felt all loose in his mouth and his arm, his arm, oh God his arm was going to fucking fall off, and still Brick sat there, his face against the table and staining the wood red as he thrashed against it and reached for Boomer.

“Please—”

“Stop,” Boomer mumbled, trying to keep his teeth from falling out.

“Please, Boomer—”

“Go away!” Boomer gurgled, how had Brick even gotten here, how had he even—

“BOOMER WAKE UP!”

“STOP IT!” Boomer bellowed, and all his teeth and all this blood came out and Brick was thrown against the floor, where he laid out of sight. He didn't get up.

Boomer panted, gasping for breath as tears leaked out of his eyes, diluting the blood on the table. He shut his eyes again. He just wanted it to stop hurting. He had just wanted it to stop hurting, so...

A presence behind him, all of a sudden, looping its arms around his neck, and he jerked but didn't open his eyes, afraid to see, afraid to look.

“Shh,” he heard Bubbles say, and then her arms were draping over his chest, calming his heart. “Shh. It's okay.”

Everything—his panic, the pain, the light—ebbed away, bit by bit. He opened his eyes, just a little. The room was dark again. He could see the pale skin of her arms—perfect and porcelain, just as he remembered. He tongued his teeth. Wouldn't budge.

He could almost feel her smiling.

“Better, right?” Her arms left him, and her figure came around the table, moved towards Brick. Her back was still to him.

“He must've been so tired. Why don't I put him in with Butch? So they can keep each other company when they wake up.”

She didn't look at him once as she said this. It sounded like a good idea. He nodded, even though she couldn't see him. He felt her smile again and moved his eyes to the table, refusing to look up as she picked up his brother and carried him to Butch's room. Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice. It'd be nice if they could be together when they woke up.

He heard her coming back his way and kept his gaze downward. Her hand alighted on his chin, and he sensed her moving in for a kiss. He immediately winced and he turned away, unable to face her. She kissed his cheek.

“I'm going to get back to making lunch, okay?” she said, and pulled away, running a hand through his hair. As soon as her touch left him he turned to look. She was in the kitchen, chopping, her back to him.

The only thing that could make this better.

Boomer took a deep breath, then exhaled long and slow, and glanced at the room where his brothers were sleeping.

The door was shut. Good. He didn't want to wake them.

-fin-