Duff knew what they’d been doing as soon as they stepped out of the bathroom. He could tell by Izzy’s pallid face, by those two spots of hectic color high in his cheekbones. He could tell by the way Axl hid behind his hair, and by the way his lips seemed swollen and red. They were probably pissed at him for interrupting, but he needed them. Whatever it was in the closet - and he doubted it was a thing, but you could never be too cautious - he didn’t want to take care of it himself, and Slash had told him stories about how Axl was like a berserker with the things. That was what Duff wanted.
“We were just… in there,” he said, backing towards the other room. He hadn’t wanted to leave Slash. Oh god, all alone in that room with something in the closet like a horror movie, and him barely able to sit up on his own? It turned Duff’s bones to jelly just thinking about it. But someone had to go and someone had to stay, so he’d run to the bathroom and disrupted and Axl and Axl’s sour scowl could just go fuck themselves.
“Slash is awake?” Izzy asked, and Duff nodded slightly. Yeah, Slash was awake, if you could call it that. Duff preferred to call it ‘conscious’. It conveyed the right meaning without actually implying that Slash was fully aware of his surroundings.
“Kinda. I was trying to get him to sleep again.” He’d been singing softly, something that Slash loved and hated. Said it reminded him of his mom and made him feel like a baby, but it put him to sleep and he never had nightmares when Duff sang him to sleep. “You know, the one song. About the fishing and boats and stuff.” Izzy glanced at him impatiently and Duff shrugged. Sometimes the things he considered relevant were just unimportant background knowledge for other people. Whatever.
“But you heard something in the closet?” Izzy pressed, and Duff nodded. He’d just gotten to the second verse, about the wind and the islands and lost loved ones, and there’d been a soft little scratching from inside the closet. It hadn’t sounded like one of the monsters. Really, it’d seemed a little wistful to him, almost like there was something in there that was listening, something that wanted to crawl out and join Slash in his arms.
“I don’t think it’s one of the things,” he said mildly as they entered the room. Slash was sitting up and Duff immediately crossed the room to sit next to him, arms circling his thin shoulders. “Dude, you should be resting. You’re still not okay and the balancing and all…”
“I’m fine,” Slash muttered, pushing him away impatiently. Duff bore it calmly, knowing that it was just Slash’s way. He didn’t fault his friend for being snappish and undemonstrative; people couldn’t help how they were, and he loved Slash anyway. “Besides, you don’t expect me to fucking curl up in bed when there’s something in the fucking closet, do you?”
“I really don’t think it’s a thing,” Duff repeated, turning his gaze to the closet door. It was easier for him to call them ‘things’ because that way he didn’t have to think about what they really were. If he thought about what they really were, he’d probably lose his mind and then who would take care of Slash? Not Axl. Not Izzy. So practicality insisted and he called them things and kind of filed them away in the same category as serial killers and rabid dogs and poisonous spiders. They were dangerous and scary and to be avoided at all costs but, ultimately, not human and therefore unworthy of sympathy or mercy.
“Yeah, well. Better safe than sorry,” Izzy murmured, glancing around for a weapon. They’d lost nearly everything in their flight from the original hotel room, including the bat and the hammer. All that was left now was the hotplate that they cooked food on, and Duff was certain that Izzy wouldn’t use that to clobber a thing. Who knew what kind of disgusting infections they had? Duff had seen a set of hungry teeth close up, had smelled the thing’s rotten breath. He knew that once they got their filth into your blood it was all over. There was no sucking out poison like that.
Axl glanced towards a table and Duff was sure that he would start kicking and pounding at it the way he had before, when he’d made his first club, but Izzy held up a hand and crouched close to the closet door, obviously listening. He stood like that for a full minute, dark eyes flickering, and Duff smiled approvingly. He was listening for breathing! Of course! He should have thought of that himself, but he’d been so concerned for poor Slash, all stretched out and weak on the thin hotel mattress. It hadn’t even occurred to him to call out to whatever was in there. Hell, it might even be a puppy or something.
Izzy stepped back and nodded slowly, a little more relaxed than he had been. “I think I can hear something breathing in there,” he whispered. His eyes roved around the room, resting on each of them in turn, but only for a second on Axl. Something must have gone wrong for them, poor bastards. Duff bit his lower lip in concern. “I’m gonna open the door and jump back, and I want you guys to be ready for anything, okay? It might be nothing, but we should be careful anyway.”
“What do we do if it is a zo-“ Axl paused, then started again. “If it’s one of the boogiemen?” Izzy smiled thinly at the word and shrugged.
“I think if it is one of them, our best bet is for you to lure it into the other room and get it over by the window so that I can shove it out.” It was risky, but Duff supposed it was their best bet at this point. The hole in the window hadn’t been repaired yet, and the things were, according to the guys, incredibly strong but almost laughably slow. Axl should be able to avoid it. He was small and quick, wasn’t he? Slash’s fingers clamped around his, and Duff looked over at him serenely.
“Right, then,” Axl muttered, rubbing his hands together. Duff felt a short, sympathetic pang of panic as Izzy reached for the door, but he pushed it down. Now was a bad time to freak out. He’d have plenty of time for it later, when Slash was asleep and he was staring up at the ceiling, afraid to dream of the chomping, horrible jaws of the bellboy he’d killed. For now, he had to be calm and clear-headed and ready to do what had to be done if things went horribly wrong.
Izzy’s fingers closed on the doorknob, clenched till his knuckles were white, then twisted hard. The door flung open with a loud clatter and Duff, in spite of his resolve to stay calm, shrank back a little, sucking in a breath and holding it. Slash did the same, and Axl tensed, ready to draw the thing’s attention. When nothing came out of the closet, thing or otherwise, there was a long moment of puzzled silence.
“Um.” All eyes turned to Duff and he flushed sheepishly. “Maybe I was imagining it?” Izzy started to shake his head, but Axl shrugged and nodded.
“Yeah, you probably were.” Duff bristled at the tone of his voice. Sometimes Axl irritated him beyond toleration, although he was usually very calm about it and simply removed himself from the confrontation. That wasn’t much of an option here, and the fact that Axl was agreeing with him only made the superior edge of his words that much more annoying.
“He wasn’t,” Slash broke in, voice raspy and tired. Duff looked over at him, brow furrowed. Slash really ought to be asleep; he’d had a very long week and a longer day. They should all be asleep, not clustering around a closet wondering what lay in the dark depths. Narnia! Come in, little boy, would you like some Turkish delight? Duff smiled faintly. “I heard it too. There’s something in there.”
“Well, why don’t you stick your hand in and find it, then?” Axl snapped. Duff had to remind himself that something bad happened between Axl and Izzy, something that had clearly put Axl on edge. It was the only thing that kept him from snapping back.
“Billy!” Izzy fixed Axl with a fierce glare, and Duff was sure that this would turn into a fight. It would turn into something that neither he nor Slash needed to see, but would probably bear witness to nonetheless. He started to turn his face away, intending to block out the angry words threatening to spill out of Izzy’s mouth, when Slash’s hand clamped tight on his own.
“I saw it,” he hissed, and everyone fell silent again. All eyes shifted focus again, staring at the closet as though to tempt out whatever rested inside. There was another soft rustling, and Duff saw a flash of what might have been skin, shaded gray in the dimness. So there was something in there! He hadn’t been wrong after all.
“Whatever you are,” Izzy intoned, tense again, eyes flicking up to catch Axl’s gaze. Axl nodded minutely, ready to run at the slightest provocation. “You’d better come on out of there. We’ve got guns and we’re not above blowing the hell out of a closet…” It was a terrible bluff, but whatever was in there evidently bought it. There was a long silence, the kind that seemed to catch in Duff’s eardrums and tug them in opposite directions, the kind that made him want to laugh and shout just to fucking break it. He almost thought he’d have to, and then the closet creature emerged.
They all stared in shock, and Axl actually collapsed to the floor with a thud, legs giving out in what Duff assumed was relief. Izzy uttered a low curse, but those were the only words spoken for at least a minute as the four men gazed wonderingly at the skinny apparition that’d crawled out of the closet.
Duff couldn’t honestly say one way or another whether it was a boy or girl, but it was definitely a child, and a living one at that. Big gray eyes darted back and forth, judging each one of them and evidently finding them sufficiently unthreatening. The child’s hair had been hacked back clumsily so that it lay in short, bristling clumps along his or her scalp. It looked to Duff as though the child had done it in response to something, some horrible knowledge, and the thought made him shiver in sympathy. His eyes drifted lower, taking in the dark circles under wide eyes, the malnourished little body, the rumpled clothes, the chipped nail polish. Nail polish? Well, then…
“Hey, sweetie,” he said. Everyone started and twisted to look at him, but he focused on the little girl. God only knew how long she’d been in there and what sorts of things she’d seen. He pitched his voice into a lower, more comforting register, the kind of voice he used to talk to scared dogs and his siblings’ kids and Slash when he was in a temper. The girl responded to the kindness by edging further out of the closet. “C’mon, you can come out. We aren’t gonna hurt you. What’s your name?”
But the girl didn’t answer, only stared at him the way a drunk with the DTs will stare at a bottle of whiskey just out of his reach. Either she couldn’t talk or she didn’t want to, and Duff was willing to lay money on the former. He’d heard of people who got shocks so bad that they just clammed up and never said another word. By the looks of this little girl, she’d had enough trauma to shut up ten men.
“Okay, honey, how about we think of something to call you then?” he continued. His vision had narrowed to the girl and only the girl. Vaguely, he was aware of Slash beside him and of Izzy and Axl flanking the child. She only had eyes for him, though, and his full attention was reserved for her. Maybe it was stupid, but he felt a kind of kinship with the poor little thing. She reminded him very strongly of one of his nieces, was probably even the same age, and for that reason only he would have felt compelled to help her.
The little girl nodded slowly and Duff smiled. Thank god! She at least understood was he was saying to her and was capable of responding. And how much easier it was that she would let him pick a new name for her! They might have spent all day picking through names to find her real one. Besides, this way it would make her theirs. Or… his, he supposed, because none of the other guys seemed interested in jumping in. That was fine. He’d be a good surrogate uncle.
“Um, let’s call you… Grace.” He smiled gently and the corners of her mouth twitched in response. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was better than nothing. At least the little girl had a spark left in her. “You like that name? Good. It’s kind of a favorite of mine.” With every word, she crawled a little closer, so he kept on talking. It was like socializing a feral kitten. All you had to do was talk soft and sweet and sit very still, and it would come right to you. “Whenever we sang Amazing Grace at Mass when I was a kid, I thought it was about some woman named Grace that was just the coolest fucking lady alive, you know?”
His rambling little story was cut off by a soft mewling noise. At first, he was puzzled by it. It didn’t quite sound like a cat, but it certainly wasn’t human. Then he realized that it was the girl - Grace now, not ‘the girl’ - and a shiver of pity ran through him. She really was like a feral kitten, reacting on instinct and crawling towards the only kind voice she’d heard in God knew how long. It broke his heart, but he managed to keep the smile on and even hold out a hand.
“What’s wrong, Gracie?” he murmured, and Slash shifted uneasily beside him. Of course Slash wouldn’t like this. Neither would Axl, and he supposed he could see why. A little girl would slow them down, hamper their ability to move around, to find Steven and get the fuck out of the city. They didn’t matter, though. The only one who mattered was Izzy, and Duff saw pained sympathy in his dark eyes. The girl would stay. Gracie would stay.
Grace scurried forward a little more, casting a quick mistrustful glance at Slash before reaching into her baggy shirt and pulling something out. Initially, Duff thought it was just a necklace and that she wanted him to see it. He cooed and leaned forward obediently, all ready to admire the trinket. When he got closer to it, actually looked at it, he understood the mewing sound she’d made. It wasn’t just a pretty necklace, it was a delicate little rosary made out of rose quartz and gold, the perfect size for a child’s fingers and obviously very special to her.
“Oh,” he breathed, running his thumb across the clever little crucifix and smiling faintly. “You’re Catholic, aren’t you?” Grace moved her head in what might have been a nod, and Duff relaxed a little further. She must have seized on what he’d said about Mass and… yes, he could see it in her eyes, that pathetic relief that finally she had someone who understood, someone who would take care of her. No matter that he hadn’t been to Mass in a month of Sundays, and no matter that he just barely remembered how to say a Hail Mary, let alone an entire rosary. He could remember, if only for the sake of this poor little lost child.
“Come here, sweetie,” he said, holding out his arms. There was no hesitation on Grace’s part now; she climbed into his lap and curled against his chest as though she was his own daughter. Duff had never been more willing to assume another role than he was right at that second. “Are you hungry? Izzy makes a mean corned beef hash…”
Axl was opening his mouth to protest when there was another soft scrabbling noise, this time from the opposite side of the room. As one, they turned, and Duff might have laughed if not for the extreme surrealness of the situation. First a little girl locked in a closet and now this? It seemed to be coming from the heavy dresser pushed against the far wall, and was almost relentlessly steady. A puppy maybe? Or a baby, Grace’s younger brother or sister.
“Stay here, sweetie,” Duff said, standing and setting the little girl down. She cried out in protest and wound her fingers in his shirt, but he brushed them away easily. “It’s okay, Gracie, I’m not going far. Just over there to let them out too.” There was a wild fear in her big gray eyes, and Duff’s heart broke a little more. Poor thing, abandoned by her folks and left to live in a dark closet for who knew how long. No wonder she was terrified. “I won’t even leave the room, honey, I promise.”
“Dude, be careful,” Izzy cautioned as Duff picked his way through the mess of utensils and canned food that they’d scattered across the floor. Duff nodded and waved a hand at Izzy, smiling softly. He’d be fine and was, in fact, looking forward to finding another kid in the dresser. He still hadn’t quite gotten past the point of thinking of all of this as a huge game, and games were always more fun with kids around. He barely even noticed Axl falling into step behind him, tensed for a confrontation.
“It’s fine, Iz,” he said, reaching down and tugging open the heavy double doors of the dresser. “It’s probably just Grace’s brother or sister or something.” Crouching, he peered into the darkness and smiled. There was something in there, small and round and white, probably a little toddler. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why, if there was a baby in the dresser, there had been no terrified crying. He was too caught up in the idea of being a hero, of rescuing the orphaned babies and finding Steven and getting the hell out of Dodge, and he extended a hand to coax the child out.
By the time the baby crawled into the light, revealing dead eyes and greenish skin, it was too late to jerk back. Even if he hadn’t frozen in horror, captivated by the jerky movements and slack, stupid jaw of the hideous mockery coming towards him, even if he had yanked his hand away the instant he noticed something was wrong, it wouldn’t have been enough. Tiny, slimy teeth sank deep into the first three fingers of his left hand, past skin and muscle and tendon to grate hideously against bone.
The shriek that ripped from his lips was animal in its terror, and he snatched his hand away from the dresser with enough force to dislodge the monstrous baby. Dimly, he heard the others crying out behind him, in terror and pain and fury. Something bright flashed by his face (Axl’s hair) and the grotesquely silent baby was snatched up, flung against the wall. Duff heard it land with a sickening thud, and then his attention turned to his hand.
He wasn’t aware of turning but he must have because there were splatters of red in a little arc around him (oh god, blood, blood, fucking blood everywhere) and he was facing the others. Facing Izzy’s pale, shocked face and Grace’s tear-streaked, terror-twisted one. Facing Slash, whose own animal cries of disbelief cut through Duff’s brain like a knife through jelly. He had to do something, had to do it quick. The poison was seeping up into his blood, hot and heavy and septic, and if he didn’t stop it, he’d be one of them. He’d be a monstrosity, a filthy flesh eater. He’d be dead.
It came to him in a bright burst of clarity, and he wondered that he’d been so stupid before. He’d wasted too much time already, but it could still be done. Here were all the tools he’d need, right at his fingertips, and no one to stop him, though he could see in Axl’s green eyes that Axl knew. Oh, Axl knew all right, and he was lunging forward, trying to stop him. Too late! Oh, too late, and the knife blade glittered as it swung down, like the fish in the song he’d been singing for Slash.
(silver the herring and silver the sea and soon there’ll be silver for baby and me)
Duff uttered another little shriek as he dropped the knife and hugged his hand to his chest. At least it had been a sharp one; the cuts were clean and smooth, and it’d only taken the one swing. Blood poured more liberally from his hand now, but he understood that he had to let it drain, had to let all the poison flow out of his system, so he tipped the hand down and bit his lips and shut out the cacophony of noise that surrounded him.
Someone tried to push a towel against his wounds (Izzy, poor Izzy) and he shoved it away. Let it bleed, at first and then, when they wouldn’t listen, he shouted. LET IT BLEED. Arms circled his shoulders, pulled him close against a bare chest that smelled of sour sweat and nightmares. (don’t worry, Saul, I can still take care of you) Slash rocked him slowly, moaning like a wounded animal and smoothing his hair compulsively. Dimly, Duff understood why, but it seemed like even the pain was receding now. Everything would be all right! The poison was slow and he’d stopped it before it’d gotten to his brain. He would live.
“Michael,” someone sobbed, and after a moment he realized it was Slash. Slash never called him Michael, never ever unless it was some kind of special occasion (oh god, oh Michael, fuck yes, come for me, Michael, please) and he was sure that this wasn’t a special occasion. “Michael, Jesus! Look at you! Fuck…” And since Duff always listened when Slash told him to do something (oh, he loved his Saul, loved him so much it hurt sometimes) his head tilted down and he stared at his hand.
It was a mess, bloody and hacked and hardly recognizable as a hand at all. Thumb and pinky were still intact, but the rest of the fingers were gone, sliced cleanly away by the silver knife blade, severed to save his life. A burbling laugh fought its way free of his throat, and he held up the mangled limb so everyone could see. “Look ma,” he whispered. “No fingers!”
It was hysterically funny to him, but Slash just moaned again and clutched him tighter, and from the other side of the room he could hear Izzy retching. It wasn’t as bad as all that, really. The blood was clotting! He was alive! That was what really counted. He was still alive and he could still go searching for Steven and take care of (his Saul) Slash and the little girl, Gracie, who he’d already starting thinking of as his own.
“C’mon,” he chided, wavering a little. Ooh, he was tired. He’d have to sleep very soon. Hadn’t it been a very big day for him? “C’mon, it’s not that b… bad.” The words didn’t want to come; it felt as though his lips had turned to rubber, which was a funny thing to think, and he laughed. “So I’ll never pl… never play piano again. S-so?”
And with that one little harmless cliché, it all came tumbling down. He was alive, yes, but mutilated. Horribly mutilated, and no fucking wonder Slash was crying. Fuck the piano! He’d never play anything again. Never play bass, never play guitar, never play piano, never play drums, never never never never…
Just after he stopped screaming, and just before he passed out, Duff thought he heard the wind blowing. Truly, though, it was only Slash’s breath against his ear, singing in a rough voice the very same song that he’d been singing earlier.
Hear the wind blow, love, hear the wind blow, lean your head over and hear the wind blow.
