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Always Knew It Was You	By : bitterfig Category: M through R > Reservoir Dogs Views: 1402 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Reservoir Dogs, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Always Knew It Was You
- 1
Title: Always Knew It was You
Fandom: Reservoir Dogs
Pairing: Orange/White
Summary: A wounded Mr. Orange (Freddy Newandyke) reflects on the long line of ineffectual father figures in his life up to and including Lawrence Dimick aka Mr. White                                  Point of View: Orange
Chronology: Takes place in the last moments of the film, with lavish flashbacks
Beta Reader: Nzomniac

Rating: R
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters nor do I own them. I do not profit in anyway from them.
Warning: Language, violence, father issues, sex, angst, lots and lots of bleeding
Word Count: 2100

If I've killed one man, I've killed two --
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

Sylvia Plath

            Damn you, Larry. I never asked you for this. Never asked you to protect me, stand up for me, turn on your friends, take a bullet all for my sorry ass.   I never expected you to care fuck all about me. All I asked you to do was toss me out on the sidewalk like a piece of trash somewhere near an emergency room. You didn�t even need to stop the car. Instead you go and do something crazy like this and everything that�s been holding me together falls apart.

*

            Blonde saved my life. If he hadn�t been such a psychotic motherfucker, I would have kept lying here, sniveling and dying. I was curled in on myself locked in my own pain. The only thing I cared about was getting away from the pain, begging Larry to hold me in hopes that I could claw my way out of my own body into his, trying to bash my brains out against the floor, welcoming unconsciousness when it did come, clutching that darkness, closing out everything else.

I would have died quietly if Blonde hadn�t started in on the cop (that cop whose face I can�t remember even though he says we�d met, whose name I can�t remember, that gas-soaked body tied to the chair). You can�t treat someone like that, hurt them like that. Not just cutting him, making him plead and just laughing, dancing to some cheesy pop song the whole time like pain and death and humiliation is some big fucking joke.

You don�t treat someone like that.

There was only one thing, one single thing that could have gotten me to pull myself up from the floor as far as I could, hold a gun steady, empty it into another human being. That thing was anger, hatred, rage. Blonde hit a nerve, maybe the only nerve I had that wasn�t busy screaming in pain. He made me angry enough to kill him, angry enough to fight away the comforting blackness I had been praying for, angry enough to make me want to do whatever I could to save my ass out of pure, unmitigated spite.

A psycho bastard like Blonde probably gets his anger out on a day-to-day basis. Takes it out on whoever�s helpless, whoever he gets power over for even a second. I�m not like that. I knock myself out trying to be affable, likeable, a nice guy. Scratch a nice guy and you�ll find suppressed hostility. Shoot him in the stomach and you�re in for a motherfucking bloodbath.

When the pain mounts like a wave and the red tinged darkness starts to close in, I grit my teeth and think of my dad. When he died of cancer last year, things were supposedly okay between us. When a man�s being eaten alive from the inside out, you try to do the right thing. You pretend he never hurt you.

Dad was a teacher, High School English. It drove him crazy that his son was a moron. �Jesus Christ, Freddy,� he�d tell me, �maybe if you read something besides a comic book once in a while, you�d actually be able to learn something.� It was like that for years. �Do you know how it makes me look when you sit there in your classes not paying attention, acting like you already know it all, turning in crap when you actually do your assignments? I work at that school, what you do reflects on me. You�re embarrassing me in front of the people I work with. When you make a fool of yourself, you�re making a fool of me.�

He hated it when I became a cop, exactly the kind of blue-collar slob he�d spent his life trying to prove he was better than. He had priorities, things that mattered to him. Proving he was smarter than everyone else, making money, being respected, being middle class. �I�d say you were wasting your life, Freddy, if you�d ever shown me you had anything of value to throw away.� He told me once people had to earn his respect. I never did.

When I joined the force and Holdaway sort of took me under his wing, I guess I saw it as a second chance. This time I wasn�t going to fuck up, this time I�d do everything right. I was the most devoted prot�g�e anyone could imagine; I was his fucking dream boy.

�I can�t watch you around him,� my ex-girlfriend sneered. �Why don�t you just offer to suck him off? It would be a refreshing note of subtlety.� It was pathetic but I couldn�t seem to help it. I really believed he was the father I�d always needed but never had.

Turns out he had a lot in common with the father I did have -- priorities. He wanted to nail Cabot, and to get to Cabot he was willing to take risks. One of the things he was willing to risk was me.

Holdaway wanted to catch Cabot red-handed. To do that, the robbery had to happen. The cops would be there, watching, following, waiting, but nobody would make a move till Cabot himself showed up to claim the merchandise. That was the plan.

�Great plan,� I tell him, �except you�re counting on five guys we know shit about and a store full of scared civilians to cooperate � and if something does go wrong, those five guys are gonna know they�ve been set up.�

�That�s the way it�s going down, Freddy. It�s risky but to corner Cabot, it�s a risk I�m willing to take,� Holdaway said. �For fuck sake, Freddy, don�t look so hurt. This isn�t about you and me being friends. It�s about taking down this son of a bitch.�

Stupid, pansy-ass white boy, did you really think you were anything to me but a job? His naked contempt when he said the word hurt, that�s the sort of thing that keeps you alive. Wanting to see him again, wanting him to see me on the floor in a slick of my own blood because of his plan. Do I look hurt now?

I figured Larry would be the same story. Ineffectual father figure I let myself believe gives a damn only to find out he had other priorities. In this case, keeping his ass out of jail, staying in good with the boss, maybe pulling in a few bucks. Pretty basic things really and I really shouldn�t fault him for self-preservation, but when it comes down to it, when you�re screaming in agony dying and someone you thought was your friend, who you thought cared about you, won�t get you help even when you beg like a bitch, cry like a baby and beg some more, you tend to hold it against them.

So where did I get the idea that this heartless bastard killer, this criminal piece of shit motherfucker Lawrence Dimick a.k.a. Larry a.k.a. Mr. White should care less whether I live or die?

Maybe it had something to do with what happened yesterday, after we scoped out the scene of the robbery in the brightness of late afternoon, after we picked up tacos, after we went back to his hotel.

This crazy hotel he said he always stayed in, a fifties palace gone to seed. Everything aqua, orange and dingy white, ashtrays as big as the tabletops. We had a couple drinks, vanilla stoli and coke, the Shangri-La�s whining nasal on the radio. �How does he dance? Close� Very, very close.�

Larry standing by the window watching the cars on the freeway, telling me about a job. Not bragging, just telling me this story because he thinks it�ll help me tomorrow. I wasn�t even listening. I put my arm up on the window frame, leaned in close. Very, very close.

�You know something, White? You are so fucking cool,� I told him.

Larry�s hand trailed caressingly across my cheek. �You are some kind of intense, little crook.� He said, �You need to cool it, you�re gonna burn yourself. Christ, you�re gonna burn me.� That�s when he pushed me down onto the bed.

The whole time we�d been alone together, I had felt him drawing closer and closer to me: lighting my cigarettes, brushing my hair out of my eyes, touching my shoulder, touching my knee. If I�d pulled away, looked at him sideways, rebuffed him in any way, he would have backed off � but I didn�t stop him and he didn�t stop.

Pressing my forehead against the cool vinyl of the upholstered headboard, Larry inside me, his arms locked around my chest. Afterwards stroking the length of my back, leaning down to kiss me, whispering �I hope I wasn�t too rough, baby, it�s just that I wanted you so bad.�

I�ve always wondered why every straight girl I�ve ever met seems to have nothing but contempt for men. I think I understand it a little better now. When a guy comes inside you, you really believe it means something. That you mean something to him. It means something all right--it means you�re an easy fuck, it means you aspire to trash. At least trash can get tossed out on the street.

Believing I�d been nothing to Larry but a cheap piece of ass was lifeblood to me. I would have endured just about anything to keep breathing long enough to see his face when the police busted in, and he realized I was one of them and I was the one who�d brought him down.

But things didn�t end up playing out the way I thought they would. Cabot was there but Holdaway was taking his fucking time. It was already too late for that other cop, the kid Blonde cut. Pink was yelping, Eddie was shouting about Blonde, I was telling any lie I could choke out trying to buy time. I�d expected Larry to go along with Cabot, but he didn�t. He was taking my side, facing down Cabot, pulling his gun.

Three guns, Cabot�s aimed at me, Larry�s aimed at Cabot, and Eddie�s aimed at Larry. All Three guns went off; all three men fell to the floor. More Bullets slamming into me, shattering whatever was left.

Hurts like a motherfucker, but I can�t scream any more. My anger�s collapsed in on itself; it can�t support me any more. Larry�s hurt, but still alive. He picks himself up, moves towards me. I actually meant something to him. I never expected that. It never occurred to me that I could hurt him but I have. He doesn�t know yet how much I�ve hurt him.

Sirens blare outside. Holdaway�s finally moving in. I�m not fighting to keep myself alive any more, but I might still live. Live with the memory of the pregnant woman I shot and the cop I couldn�t save. Live with the look on Larry�s face when he realizes I set him up, that he gave up everything for a lie.

Larry is beside me now, he lifts my head into his lap, strokes my bloody hair. I might live, then what? Do they patch me up to testify at a trial, send Larry to prison for the rest of his life? My mistakes will come out; Holdaway will either cover them up or use them to bury me if he needs someone to take the fall for this huge fucking pile of bodies.

The cops are at the door. �Sorry, kid,� Larry gasps to me, �looks like we're gonna do a little time.�

You get to decide Larry. You were the only one who cared if I lived or died so you get to decide if I live or die. I have to tell you the truth, even if it is too late. I don�t expect you to forgive me. I don�t want mercy.

�I�m a cop.� It takes all my breath to say the words. He continues to stroke my hair. �I�m sorry. I�m so sorry.�
- 1
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Always Knew It Was You