Chapter Text
“What’s happening with this one?”
“A man, tied to a wooden pole while another man cuts him with a knife. His ears are pointed. The plaque says it’s Apollo flaying a…” Breathe. “…satyr.” Good.
“Sheesh. The next one?”
“Judith and Holofernes. She’s got his hair in one hand and the blade to cut off his head in her other, held high.” Francis found himself lingering on the musculature present in Judith’s back and extremities. “Her arms look… strong. Thick.” Not so good. Not awful, but definitely not good.
“Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” says Reba, and squeezes the bicep she’s been attached to for navigation. Francis takes a breath and holds it. Reba continued, “Is her maid there?”
Breathe out. “Behind Judith, in the left hand area of the painting. You can only see her head.”
“Hummm. And what’s the blood and guts situation in this one, D?”
“There’s none.”
“Well, that’s refreshing. Next?”
The museum had been Reba’s idea. She preferred outings like this to the standard dinner date.
(She doesn’t like eating in front of people either.)
During lunch hour they’ve pivoted from hiding in their respective territories to sitting beneath a barely used flight of stairs in an older corner of the Gateway building, something that reminds Francis of a schooltime strategy he’d employed to escape the wandering eyes that awaited him in cafeterias and playgrounds. It was there that she’d proposed the trip, stating she’d been on her own a few times but that the guided tour they offered had gotten stale.
“Doesn’t help that the cane puts them on edge. I get that it’s eighty percent of their job to make sure no one knocks anything expensive over, but they made me feel like a bull in a china shop the last couple of runs.” She paused to bite into the apple slice Francis had traded her for one of her raspberries.
He knows what her angle is, because she’s been upfront about it, never tried to disguise her intent. She’s taking him somewhere visual so that he’ll talk to her about what he’s seeing. He understands why she wants him to talk, too. Though he’d love to abandon his voice for his hands forever, the gift Reba had given him was of use to the two of them alone. While he’s loath to do it, in most cases Francis still must speak aloud if he’s to interface with the rest of the world. Their prior outings to the cinema had been set up with this as their primary objective; always matinees for old films certain to be sparsely attended at best. Dolarhyde had bristled at the notion initially, but calmed when faced with the near darkness of the theater and lack of an audience. He has no cause for complaint: all of it’s preferable to the “proper” speech therapy he’d received post-op, a substantial part of which had revolved around ensuring Francis could address his superiors as “sir” without spraying.
And better still than being coached at home, if he reached back further, when he’d been all hasty stitches and missing teeth. Say “hello” Francis, tell the nice lady your name Francis, show the nice man your mother Francis, good boys use their words, Francis.
Reba’s still talking, he’s being rude.
“Anyways, it’s been a while, so they’ll have new pieces in by now.” Her spoon scraped against the sides of her yogurt cup as she searched for any remaining food. “A fresh set of eyes would be nice, I think. Does Thursday work for you?”
The St. Louis Art Museum is a stately building with floor to ceiling windows within and stone sculptures without; its entrance divided by Corinthian columns. It’d gotten colder out and Reba aimed to combat the weather in a handsome peacoat, with tall boots that rose beyond the hem of her wool skirt. Their heels clacked against the tile as the two of them continued through the numbered galleries. The floors had been waxed recently, and were so well shined that Francis could see himself in them. He kept his eyes on the art. Reba commented on the change of seasons, claiming she was looking forward to baking gingerbread but dreading that she might discover the snow banks and patches of ice appearing on the sidewalk the hard way.
“Bruised my tailbone that way in Denver once, it hurt to sit for a whole month. And I got my socks wet.” Recounting this made her grimace. “But how do you like winter, D?”
“I like it fine,” which is true, despite cold and flu season hobbling his over-vulnerable sinuses annually. Even before his rhinoplasty winter had meant seeing his mother for Christmas, and then only so she could hand off her pity presents before having him seen out for his frigid walk back to Brother Buddy’s.
But Francis did and does like winter, because winter weather normalizes the use of scarves. To this day, Dolarhyde takes great comfort in wrapping his scarf up to just beneath his eyes, fogged up glasses be damned.
“And… how do you like gingerbread?” Reba’s tone was conspiratorial. Or suggestive. Francis wasn’t sure.
“I’ve never had it.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No.” Sweets had been a rarity growing up.
“Okay, that tears it. I’m baking you gingerbread men. I don’t care if it’s only November.”
“You don’t have to.” They passed a wooden sculpture of St. Michael and the Devil that his eyes hung on briefly.
“I want to! Besides, if you end up not liking them that means I get the whole batch to myself.”
The next area was empty save the gaggle of uniformed schoolchildren and their chaperone observing the crucifixion rendered in oil. Dolarhyde, avoiding the group, led Reba to a wall on the opposite side of the room, which bore a plaque proclaiming its dedication to women painters of the Renaissance, eliciting an expectant “ooh” from her when Francis read it off. His eyes caught the thick, gilded frame of his chosen painting first, and its label: Gentileschi’s “Danaë,” c.1612, painted at just nineteen. The subject was—
Oh.
“Uh, you all good over there D?”
Say something. Say something. “Uh-huh. It’s a— a nude.”
Mistake! Mistake. He shouldn’t have said anything. Idiot. She will be frightened, disgusted. Angry. He’s sick, and she’s finally found out just how fucking sick and she’s going to—
Reba whistles, then grins, cocks a brow. “And…?”
She’s not upset about what he’s shown her then. That’s good? It is. Francis should be able to relax now, but cannot. His mouth works but says nothing.
Behind them, he hears some of the children laugh at something, feels eyes crawling up and around his back like fleas. Imagined or not, the gnawing he feels is real enough.
The lights are too bright. The floors are too shiny. He clenches his jaw so tight his top plate shifts out of place, the obturator jamming up into the split in his palate uncomfortably.
“Hey, you sure you’re okay?” A shadow passes over Reba’s face, dropping her voice to ask: “Is it your head?”
She means the Dragon, but she doesn’t call Him that. And it’s not the Dragon, anyway, though Francis can feel Him stirring in His chemical slumber. He readjusts his teeth with his tongue, pressing them against the roof of his mouth to buy him time until he can privately apply his adhesive. The task is enough to slow the frantic rattling of his nerves.
“I’m okay. I am.” He is. Reba nods, sidling closer to rest her head against his rounded shoulder. He can feel the gentle weight of it through his raincoat. When he tilts his own head to the side to lie atop hers he closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deep through his nose.
In. Out. Alright.
“It’s an interior. Two women; Danaë in the foreground to the left, on a lounge, and the other in the back on the right. The one on the right is clothed, and looking away. There are gold coins coming down on both of them like rain. The woman on the right is catching them in her skirt, but Danaë is just letting them fall. Her eyes are nearly shut. She’s— she’s basking.”
He wants to say more, to elaborate on the myth and Zeus’ role in it, but realizes quickly that he can’t; his mind’s too worn out to manage it. As if she can sense this, Reba begins to roll up her sleeve, exposing the bare skin of her arm beneath several layers of warm clothing. Francis’ finger is bone-white against it when he writes that he’d like to leave now.
Later, they open the van’s rear doors to sit and smoke in the back while they wait for the fans up front to stop blowing cold air.
When Francis reaches across to light Reba up, she says: “You made that painting sound beautiful, D.”
He should say “thank you,” but it's too cold to expect her to roll up her sleeve again. He settles for an “Mm-hm” around his cigarette instead, and removes it to exhale a menthol-smelling cloud into the parking lot.
She pulled him forward then, held him in the brisk air. “Thank you for showing me.” Her breath smoldered against his frozen ear.
He curls into her before he can stop himself, crosses his arms over her back, face crushed against the side of her head. They stay that way until his cigarette burns down to the filter.
They’re at her duplex again. Dolarhyde has found that he prefers it to his own home, which Reba says is strange considering he lives in “an actual mansion,” but nevertheless flattering. Francis is stirring their soup and keeping watch of the hot oven while Reba crimps pie crust and hums along with the record.
The excitement from the museum and the subsequent domesticity has made the Dragon restless, but manageable. It hasn’t been as hard with Him since the hospital muffled His roar beneath prescription antipsychotics. His commands have been reduced to a whispering hiss in Dolarhyde’s ear canal, and that’s only when He manages to speak at all.
He does still speak, though. Far more than anyone would like.
take it from her, He says, when Reba picks up a knife, cutting the dough into long strips. She has strong and well used hands, but is of slight build overall. If she were capable of eye contact, she’d have to crane her neck to make it with Francis.
When he closed his eyes he saw the satyr’s frightened face, his blood pooling in Apollo’s merciless grip as the latter neatly separated skin and muscle. It would be easy to get the knife away from her, quick work to overpower her for what came next.
It is a little harder to shut down the Dragon when this happens, but it can be done. Francis’ psychiatrist has taught several mental exercises designed to help silence Him when the medication can't, and now Dolarhyde follows through each one to the letter.
Francis is not the Dragon, the Dragon is not him.
He won’t do what the Dragon says, and the Dragon cannot force him to.
The Dragon cannot hurt him or anyone else.
Francis can, but he won’t.
He has that choice and always will.
After a time, there is naught to fill Dolarhyde’s ears but kitchen ambience and hard won silence.
He realizes he’s been gripping the pot handle too tightly when the wood begins to bite into him. So he loosens up, turns the burner off, and begins ladling the soup into two mismatched bowls.
“D? Can I get some input over here?” Reba’s overlaid the pie’s cherry filling with the cut strips, woven over and under each other like a basket. She waits a moment after his footsteps stop to speak. “Does this lattice look even to you? It feels even. Mostly. If it needs fixing I’d like to do it before I glaze this thing, y’know?”
Her hands and forearms have flour on them, but her hair is tied up, so he writes “It looks perfect” on the back of her neck instead. Her conditioner mingled with the cloying scent of cherry preserves in his nose. After a second he remembers to tack on “Soup’s ready.”
“Ooh, uh— shit, if you can get the table set I’ll be over in a minute?” She brushed egg white over the dough with haste as she spoke. “I swear I’m almost done.”
As he walked off, she called after: “And turn the record over!”
“Do you find yourself having thoughts like you had in the kitchen often?”
“No.”
Francis is telling the truth. He tries his best to be honest with Dr. Bloom. He’s been honest about the Dragon, about why he tried to die at the hotel, and about Grandmother, even. However, if he’s too honest with Dr. Bloom he thinks he might end up back in the hospital, which he doesn’t want. For what it’s worth, Francis is also not sure how often “often” is supposed to be.
“But you do have them.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dr. Bloom shifted in her seat. “Intrusive thoughts, by design, often frighten or disgust us. Whatever yours might contain isn’t necessarily a reflection on your morality.”
“…They don’t make me feel bad all of the time.”
“How do they make you feel, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Powerful. Confident. Excited, most shamefully, before Reba, when he thought his reveries were the closest he’d ever come to having something like that. Even after they’d become truly bloody.
These are his options if he is to answer this query. He needs to answer soon, or he will disappoint Dr. Bloom. He settles on “Powerful,” and waits for her to tell him what it means.
Instead she just says “Hmmm,” and nods, sips from her steaming mug. Francis is no longer sure if he’s given the right answer. She wrinkles her nose when she lowers the tea, and gingerly deposits its dripping bag into the small waste bin.
“It doesn’t happen at work anymore,” he offers, and immediately feels spineless for the effort. Still, he appends “…not in a long time,” to it.
It used to happen at work a lot.
He tries not to dwell on the thoughts he’d had regarding the scores of grinning celluloid families that passed through the plant, or on the roles the Dragon cast them in for his mind’s shadowplays. He knows he should probably feel much worse about everything, with the children and all.
A normal person would feel wretched, he thinks. A normal person wouldn’t think of such things in the first place. They would never reflect on how good being truly terrifying, even in a mere fantasy, made them feel.
He feels bad for ever wanting it, but, mostly, he feels bad for not feeling so bad.
The doctor would want to know how he felt about that. Should she be allowed to know? It may be cause for alarm. Francis isn’t sure how to find the line without crossing it.
Dr. Bloom seemed receptive enough to the information he did give her, despite it not being particularly revealing, and congratulated him before forging on.
Visiting his psychiatrist means a full hour of Francis speaking, which would be unappealing enough without the added threat of someone keen to uncover things he’s kept private for a reason. It is fortunate for him that Dr. Bloom is not only excellent at communicating with the uncommunicative, but every bit as perceptive as one in her field could hope to be. It took only a few sessions to determine that her patient was more forthcoming in a dimly lit office than a sunny one, and that a pen and pad should always be kept on the coffee table for when speech proved too difficult. Francis doesn’t clock that these changes to the space were made for his benefit, but is placated all the same. He remains leery of her efforts at times; paranoid by nature and expectant of the worst by nurture, though enough time has passed that he’s nearly sure that she’s an ally rather than a foe. A friend, even. Maybe.
The Dragon hated her.
She pushed her glasses up her nose and leveled an inquisitive glance at her notes over their clear plastic frames. “Our last session we talked a little about the progress you’ve made with regards to the mirror issue. Would you say things are still going well on that front?”
“Uh-huh.” Each morning before work, Francis angles his driver side mirror towards himself and holds his eyes on it for a count of ten. On good days he can even subject himself to the plant’s public bathroom and the oppressive row of faces above its sinks, though actually utilizing those mirrors remains beyond him. “Reba had an idea that I could carry a compact with me. For… if I feel ready for other times.”
“And a fine idea it is! I’m thrilled that these controlled exposures have been so beneficial for you, Francis.”
She’s smiling. This is good. Francis has done a good job. He folds his hands and grins briefly at his shined shoes.
Alana’s own grin dims a fraction. Dr. Bloom is suspicious but not yet fully certain that her patient sees these meetings as tests he must pass, and not as the help he deserved to get, “win” or “lose.” This combined with existing concerns over his occasional evasiveness in therapy. Alana believes that he wants to trust her enough to discuss relapses and missteps, but believes doing so may be unsafe. She’s still devising the best way to broach the subject should the behavior continue.
But as it stands; Francis Dolarhyde only has six minutes left in his appointment slot, and Alana has an undoubtedly lengthy call with Will to look forward to at the top of the hour. She briefly asks Francis about his Moban prescription and its efficacy, (all going well, side effects minimal, no need to change the dosage,) and with the confirmation that all is as it should be she quickly writes out his refill before walking him to the door, opting out of habit to let it swing shut on its own.
Before it could slam, Francis stopped its progress with his hand, and then closed the door manually in near silence. His departing footfalls were softer than what was natural for a man in his weight class. Quieter, quieter, gone.
Alana suspects she knows how this habit formed; Margot makes herself small in similar ways, but wants to be sure.
She made a quick note to question Francis on it during their next visit, and began the long wait for her phone to ring.
Francis has never done anything like this before.
He’d always been more than comfortable letting Reba take the reins during sex. It wasn’t uncharted territory anymore; she’d seen to that, but it was still mapped sparsely. As a young man such things had been yet another dainty not meant for the prohibitively ugly, and later, he’d deemed them base and filthy during what he’d thought had been the Becoming, beneath him.
Beneath Him.
At any rate Dolarhyde is a barely tried beginner, and societal shame had mingled with a layman’s anxiety to form an acute fear of Doing A Bad Job. But there was no chance of humiliation with Reba’s experienced hands to guide his own; deftly directing him between the two of them and adjusting his thumb until it hit the place that made her gasp and shout and sigh. But what he means to try now is different.
He’s only ever seen it done, sort of, and that had been just the once in Seoul, when another man snuck a woman into their barracks. Francis, awoken by the noise of their tryst, had only barely caught the shape of the woman rocking above the cot before slamming his eyes shut again and covering his ears, but for decades on the memory had lingered, however guiltily.
This is what he’s thinking of when Reba slides into bed behind him and holds him tightly. The feeling of one of the simple studs she wore in each ear stood out cool against his painted back. A quiet moment passed in the dark of her room.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she says, bringing a travel-worn hand to rest atop his stomach. Her nails were coated in a deep green; courtesy of her sister, she'd said.
Francis takes it and turns to face her, writing: “I want to ask you something and I don’t know how.”
She tenses some. “…What about?”
“Sex.”
"Oh?" Relaxed again, she slips out of his grip. "Oh my god, okay. Sorry, I just- I thought you were going to… or that maybe…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.” She wraps around him anew and her hands venture south. “So, sex! What about it?”
He mirrors her grip, and moves to write on her shoulder instead. “I want to try something different.” Just the thought of the question was mortifying, and asking it was a terror all its own. It’s all he can do to stop himself shaking.
But it’s not quite enough, and a conspicuous tremor makes Reba frown. “…And you’re worried about it. You don’t need to be.”
“I’m not sure if it’s strange to do or not.”
“And you’ll never know if you don’t go ahead and ask me, hm?”
Reba’s hands keep moving until she’s found the burns on his hip again, her fingers pressing down on each one like an accordionist. The fixation she had on them puzzled Francis; the scars and their origin had become banal to him with time, and they were nearly invisible beneath the tattoo, besides. He rarely thought of them.
A needy, bruised part of him wants her to know what made the craters, to know how the cigarette served as supplementary punishment if he fussed too hard during a spanking. Not now, though.
Deep breath. Time to talk.
“You’d be on top, like normal, but higher. By my… face. Then..." Out with it, christ. "I’d put… my… mouth on you.”
Reba rose her brows and blinked in the direction of his voice. “Okay, you meant that. I mean…” she moved to sit up. “…if we’re being candid here, I’ve only done that once, myself. And I was just hanging off the edge of the bed that time, not… well—”
“Nevermind.”
“No no no, hey!” Her hand dropped to his chest in a bid to halt Francis’ turn away from her. He let it. “I’m interested! Just letting you know it’ll be new for me too.”
He’s relieved and unnerved in equal measure. It was a comfort that the playing field had been leveled, but now they were both inexpert. How would he know if he was doing it right? How would he know to fix it if he were doing it wrong?
No, he wants this. She said she wanted it too. Stop it. “Okay.”
“Okay! I mean— no rush, obviously, but honestly I’m good to go whenever you are.” She lolled around a bit, scratched at the short hair on the nape of his neck. “I’m sure all this sensual conversation’s really got you in the mood, now.”
The sight and weight of Reba atop him are familiar sensations these days.
He was still anxious, but the friendly heaviness settled astride his midsection strengthened Francis’ resolve. Reba laid her hand on one side of his face before moving further up.
“What color are your eyes, D?” She’d never asked before. Why now?
“Hazel,” he says, since that’s what’s on his driver’s license. Francis has always thought of them as yellow, a feature he shared with his mother and hers. The color brought filth and illness to mind; bile, jaundice, urine.
There’s nothing wrong with your face, D, he can almost hear.
They can be hazel. Francis guides Reba’s hand to the headboard and lets her move the rest of the way herself.
He can see Reba very closely, now, hovering mere inches from his eyes. Even in the dark, because he still needs it to be dark, he can fully take in the sight of her center; coral pink and shining beneath thick black hair. Francis recognizes the scent of her from the smell that hung on his fingers immediately after they'd been together, only it’s concentrated and potent now, and right under his nose. His hands grabbed into the meat of her thighs and trembled there.
It all feels very obscene, but he does what he does next anyway: leans his face in close for a proper sniff.
His ribs expand to accommodate his filling lungs as he takes the deepest breath he can of it. The air he takes in is thick and heady with Reba’s aroma, and the perfume she wore, and both their sweat, and a sort of skin smell; if there even is such a thing. He breathes out heavily, and the contact makes Reba clench up and inhale.
“I’ll tell you what’s good, talk you through it, yeah?”
“Uh-huh,” and he nods on reflex. She’ll still help then. Good.
Making first contact brings him from half mast to a full erection with a speed that Francis would find embarrassing if he weren’t completely overwhelmed by the taste of her on his lips and tongue.
He is not a natural. His licks find and lose rhythm periodically, and he needs reminding of Reba’s instructions twice. He’s pretty sure it’s taking him longer than it’s supposed to. He keeps forgetting to breathe. Hair itches at his face while his cock tries in vain to fuck thin air, and he wants to do something about that, honestly, but one hand’s supporting Reba and the other has two of its fingers curled inside her, so it’ll have to wait.
But it’s worth the trouble to be so close.
Something inside him was settled by being like this; surrounded. Reba to his left, his right, his front. Peering up at her focused face from below, she looks beautiful and immense, towering, but Francis doesn’t feel small in her wake. Francis doesn’t even feel ugly. Francis feels secure, fully enveloped in a soft, warm peace. He feels safe.
Eventually, things do begin to click into place. After what seems like an eternity of coaxing and direction, he feels Reba begin to shake and tighten all around him, pulsing like a heart. Her instructions changed: “Keep your mouth here and suck, right there, good, do it hard, that’s it, good, good, God,” as she held his head ever tighter against her and ground in, and, God, he’s close too, the smell and the taste and Reba’s hands and Reba’s voice and all of it, thank God thank God, he’s so hard it hurts.
Reba shouts and shouts, trembles, pulls hard on his hair for purchase, and Francis withdraws his fingers to hold her hips steady as she finishes.
When he determines it’s safe to let go, he takes himself in his wet hand and pumps with haste: one, two, three, done, done, done. Oh God, done. The mess spread out from his pelvis and crept up towards his ribs, pooling indecently in his navel and abdominals.
As she catches her breath, Reba moves off his face to rest on his chest, leaning back on her hands. “Careful behind you,” he warns, hardly caring that exertion makes his voice crack and croak. “I got it on my stomach.”
One hand cards through the length of his hair as she laughs tiredly. “And I got it on your chin.” A kiss landed softly on his forehead. The ease with which he took it surprised him.
Reba made an approximate gesture towards where he was rapidly growing soft."I could've helped you out with that, you know."
Oh. Should he apologize?
"Guess I'll just have to make it up to you next time, huh."
Next time? Next time, next time. Euphoric and tired, he somehow got out: "Next time."
“Well, we both ought to wash up. Wait for me?”
He tapped once for “yes” against Reba’s hip before she left for towels. Dolarhyde knows she wouldn’t’ve seen him do it either way, but he’s glad she’s out of the room for it when he plucks a hair off his tongue.