Crack Of Dawn (Dream x GeorgeNotFound)

Drop

George was practically dragged all the way back by his arm, his pleas of protest completely ignored.

The tugging didn't stop, even when the front door of the 'motel' was thrown open with just enough force to plant a seed of fear in George's heart. Clay was angry.

The hand around his wrist loosened to lock the door. It'd left red etchings onto his pale skin from the force, and they stung even more than before, with the cold fingers digging into it.

George stood with his back to the stairway, watching the man who had locked the door, and was now refusing to face George.

He turned, slowly. "I trusted you."

Trust... Really? Was that what he called trust? Allowing him to have free will for a little over five minutes, and even tearing that away from him?

He exhaled a shaky breath, although his voice was composed and calm. "I trusted you, and you went behind my back."

This was bad. This was really bad. George could practically see the building blocks he'd laid down to get his captor's trust collapsing one by one. He had to do something.

"I said we were just talking!" He put on his most convincing tone. "I swear. That's all we did. Just talk."

Clay shook his head in disbelief, his eyes narrow and lips wrung out in ire. He stood there for a bit, wordlessly, and then abruptly made a beeline straight for his bedroom and locked the door.

George stood in the middle of the living room in disbelief. There had been no anger, no aggression. If anything, the man had swapped out his psychopathic tendencies for those of a sulking child.

He looked around the room in disbelief.

He was in a completely unfamiliar environment. Sure, he'd seen the interior a handful of times before - through memories, brief moments of walking around... But he'd never had the freedom to be in it.

The freedom to be... He realized what that meant.

Complete privacy, no killing machine tailing him, no screams of agony from other victims, no flailing around in the dark basement, blind as a bat.

That also meant he had more than enough time to dive into the memory archive. Maybe upsetting Clay wasn't such a bad thing.

_______

He'd completed all the steps necessary to plunge headfirst into the memories, but something felt... off. He needed something to quell the unsure jitters in his limbs, the beads of nervous sweat forming at his temples. It bothered him enough to hold him back.

A word hung in the back of his mind, restrained by the last remnant of reservation he held onto dearly.

Powder.

Tinted blue, and destructive, and mind-numbing, and so... oh, so needed at the moment.

George didn't need to fumble around for the box. His brain had been tracing the movements he needed to make for it again and again, ghosting his steps until he actually executed them.

He dipped his fingers in and they came back coated. He didn't worry this time - about leaving a noticeable dent in the stockpile, about the side effects getting out of control... He just needed the reassurance. And if there were no words to give it to him, then he would substitute it with, well, substances.

It took a few moments. A handful of seconds at most for the effects to set in. And when they did...

It was like he was on top of the world. He was floating, and his muscles were relaxing, uncoiling, the tension that held them so tightly wound together just seeping away.