[PUNCH CLOCK ANIMAL] ASHTRAY

[skinstealer]

 
It’s clear Derry isn't here anymore when the body faces them, the familiar scowl from the diner back on his face.
 

BUCKET: ...Bazil?
BAZIL: Can't believe that son of a bitch told you my name.
BUCKET: Don't be upset at them.
BAZIL: Why not? 
BAZIL: It's going and throwing shit in the trash just because it had a little nightmare.
BUCKET: By telling me your name?
BAZIL: You- 

 

 
He puts a finger on their nose, pushing them back slightly. 
 

BAZIL: Aren't supposed to be involved in our shit.
BUCKET: This would have had to come up at some point regardless.
BAZIL: Not if you or Chelsea had any sense to stop this damned relationship before it got to this point. 
BAZIL: Now I know the two of you have dug your heels in deep and aren't going anywhere good.
BUCKET: We're at risk everyday regardless of how we handle things. 
BUCKET: This is the nature of the job, no?
BAZIL: Nature of the- so you're okay with this job now?
BUCKET: Until we find a proper out, it's the cycle we must endure.
BAZIL: Ugh. 
BAZIL: You sound like an old poetry book.

 
  
 
The dog frowns. 
 

BUCKET: Do... do you not... like…
BAZIL: ...are you going to cry?

 
The dog goes quiet, causing Bazil to sigh and avoid eye contact.
 

BAZIL: Fine. I'm sorry for talking shit about the way you talk.
BUCKET: Why do you oppose what we do so much?
BAZIL: Because our situation is terrible without you throwing in extra variables in.
BUCKET: Does Spit know?
BAZIL: About what, your affair?
BUCKET: Mm.
BAZIL: Not yet.
BUCKET: Is she getting close?
BAZIL: Close enough that you should be a lot more worried.
BUCKET: I'm sorry for causing you trouble, I genuinely am.
BAZIL: Sorry doesn't keep our shit from getting kicked in.
BUCKET: She suspects us?
BAZIL: She's not an idiot. She knows something's different with us.
BUCKET: And.... she's been acting in response?
BAZIL: Where do you think the fresh cuts come from?

  


Bucket’s ears flop even further down. Bazil continues to avoid eye contact, not wanting to look at their expression.
 

BAZIL: She says it's to 'mark' us. 
BAZIL: Make whoever it is Chelsea sleeps next to know that she's not really theirs. 
BAZIL: What Spit doesn't know is who actually takes the brunt of it when it happens. 

 
His scowl worsens. 


 

BAZIL: She'd probably get a sick kick out of it anyway.
BUCKET: Why you?
BAZIL: Because whatever shit we go through gets passed around nice and even, everybody gets fucked up somehow. 
BAZIL: And apparently, I get that.
BUCKET: Every time?
BAZIL: Enough that Chelsea doesn't realize who her fuck-ups hurt.
BUCKET: But... why would it keep happening just to you? 
BUCKET: I don't understand.
BAZIL: Would you rather Chelsea take it instead?
BUCKET: I don't want anyone to take it!
BAZIL: Everybody's actions got consequences.
BUCKET: That's not fair to anyone!
BAZIL: Did you honestly think going into this relationship that it was going to end up fair?
BAZIL: That the two of you were going to ride away into the sunset untouched? 

  
He turns away from them entirely, hiding his face.
 

BAZIL: It doesn't work like that. 
BAZIL: It never has, and now you've gone and dragged me into it.
BUCKET: I did not even know you existed until yesterday!
BAZIL: And what'd change if you knew earlier, huh?
BUCKET: I'd... hope that perhaps we could be friends.

 
Bazil seems taken aback even while he’s hiding his face, not saying much in response.
 

BUCKET: And maybe I could help you feel better too... if you wished.
BAZIL: And how the hell would you go about doing that?
BUCKET: Well, on contact with another I can tend to wounds by taking the other's pain.
BAZIL: I don't like being touched.
BUCKET: I wouldn't do it more than I need to.
BAZIL: I don't. Like. Being. Touched.
BUCKET: I know.
BAZIL: I'll live with it. 
BAZIL: You can get all healing handsy with Chelsea when she's out again, handle it then.
BUCKET: Why would you endure something you should never have to?
BAZIL: ...Do you need to touch the wounds directly?
BUCKET: No, it's faster but anywhere else is sufficient.
BAZIL: Fine. 

 
He points to his shoulder. 
 

 

BAZIL: Do it quick.
BUCKET: There? What happened there?
BAZIL: Nothing, but I don't want you shoving your hand down my pants to fix me up. I'll take the slower heal.

  
The dog nods and places their hands there. 
 

 
Little flashes of what went down trickle toward them as they get to work, the usual trade off for their abilities. They aren’t detailed glimpses, but Spit's all too familiar cackling and jeering can be heard as Bazil is hurt, again and again. The feeling of raw anger and hate from him is almost overpowering, even just from the brief contact.