Title: Broken Pt. 2 Author: RunRunGuyDib Fandom: Askewniverse (Clerks) Pairing: Dante/Randal (still really nothing . . . but assume) Rating: PG-13 Summary: Randal is not quite right emotionally. OR I dunno how suicidal people think. Archive: If you really want it, contact me. Email: runrunguydib@yahoo.com Series/Sequel: No more planned after this Spoilers: None, I think Web Page: http://somethingpro.tripod.com Disclaimer: Anything Askewniverse related belongs to Kevin Smith, View Askew, etc. I am not making any money offa this, and that's about all. Author's note: Kinda forced sequel. I still wanted to kill someone off, but I couldn't bring myself to. *sigh* So instead we have attempted suicide! In a not-really-realistic, Johnny the Homicidal Maniac kinda way! ( I DO need to stop beating myself up.) Oh, and more random, choppy thoughts. ~*~*~*~*~*~ Randal was out of the hospital. he wanted to stay home, and thankfully the boss gave him a couple of weeks of sick time. (He could be quite the nice guy when prompted.) it was boring, though. His parents worked late, Dante was also at work, and he couldn't muster enough strength or want to change the tapes in his VCR. The only time he did risk pain to watch something else was when he was EXTREMELY desperate, or when he had to limp off to the bathroom. For the most part he was bedridden. His bedroom was down in the small basement, so it was nearly impossible for him to get upstairs without aide. Fuck, he could barely walk to the toilet! it was too short of a distance for a damned wheelchair (which was actually upstairs), so he used a crutch under his good arm as he hopped on his left leg. (Which was bound stiff by elastic bandages for her had pulled several muscles, and tore a couple even.) It was agony just to take a gawddamned simple piss. Dante was a lifesaver, though. He brought him lunch every day, and every time he was off work he could be found with Randal. His smaller cuts were pink and healing well. His stitches itched the hell out of him, and he had to trim his bangs short all around to keep the hair from aggravating them. His broken arm was, well, as a broken arm should be. He didn't want to leave Randal's side; he wanted to help him with all his power. But Randal was being unusually humble. He didn't demand much. All he wanted really was some snacks, water, and pills close by, and the video changed in the VCR when possible. Randal looked much healthier whenever Dante was around. He was happy, glowing . . . He begged for the dark haired man to stay the night. Dante laughed and teased that he was being paranoid and needy. Randal would laugh as well, but rather grimly. Either way, Dante agreed. The first night he slept on the floor, in his clothing. After three nights in a row, it became apparent that was going to be a fairly often event, so he brought changes of clothes and slept on the far left of the bed. Dante would wake up for work and find Randal up against him, as if he had been cold, or scared even. He would smile, reach out, and play with his hair. .............................. "Randal!" "Hm" Randal stirred from his doze at hearing his name. His tape was static. As he yawned, his door opened and Dante entered, smiling greatly. "Hello," he smiled back, rubbing an eye. "Look what I bought for us once we're off the painkillers!" He pulled out a bottle out of a sack he had been holding. Randal laughed. "Yay, Wild Turkey." "Damn straight." he sat it down on the night stand. "And I yanked this out of the yard." He held out a daffodil and flicked it onto Randal's chest. "Aw, it's the sweetest thing someone's ever done for me," he cooed. "A quart of Wild Turkey and a weed. SOMEONE'S asking for a bone." "You're welcome!" He sat down on the edge of the bed, picking up the remote and shutting off the VCR. "Is Wild Turkey all you got I'm starving." "Yep, it is." He glanced at his watch. "Feel like Ramen Noodles" "Sure. Chicken." "Be back in a few minutes. Want a video in" "No . . ." He yawned. "I'm too tired to watch." "Well, don't fall asleep as I make dinner for you!" "I'll try," he grinned lazily. Time passed, they ate dinner, and watched mind-numbing sitcoms. Randal took two pills and laid back with his arms behind his head. Dante, instead of taking his pills, took a shot of whiskey. "Dante!" Randal exclaimed, unnerved. "Don't worry. I haven't taken any pills all day long." "Why" "One: I hate taking pills. Two: I forgot them at home. Three: I'm used to the pain after a week." He wove his arm a bit in its sling. "That's unfair," randal whined. "I can't have any and here you sit, calmly drinking it as if it were nothing." "Pauvre vieux," he teased, flicking the cap back on loosely. "I won't drink anymore till you're better, okay" "Oh-kay." He forced himself up into an upright position again, groaning. "I want to get clean before going to sleep." he grimaced. "I fucking hate being dirty." He reached down and undid the metal clip on the elastic bandage. Dante grabbed a couple of garbage sacks off the floor that they used to wrap around the casts. Randal hated this. He felt like a vegetable. He suffered great pains to bathe himself. He'd much rather die than be treated like a child. Dante slept over again that night. Every night, in the darkest hour, Randal awoke and watched Dante. There was one small window that let in some light from the street. He could see Dante's profile clearly. Still, peaceful, dead. He always looked dead. At first he looked pristine, like . . . to be frankly clichd . . . an angel. Randal wanted to touch him, but he couldn't . . . or wouldn't . . . And then he'd look dead. No longer unreachable because he was too wonderful, but because he was GONE. Randal could cry. Cry his head out. Dante was dead. But wasn't. Randal couldn't understand. He felt like three parts. Three conflicting points. A small part was joyful to be alive, to be awake, to have Dante. A second part, acted like some net. Denial. A larger, more convincing part, loomed over that. It made everything seem worse when it really wasn't. It said: So what if Randal was alive His right hand was crushed, it wouldn't move properly ever again. He had to learn to use his left hand. It seemed like such a minor thing, but that part screamed: "You have to do a lot! Learn to write again, open things, scissors, hammers, screwdrivers, brushes, keys--hell, you have to learn to MASTURBATE with a new hand." And his leg. His leg wouldn't be strong for a year or so . . . a year or so until he could know if he could RUN or SKATE with it ever again. But with physical therapy-- --But you may not be able to play HOCKEY again. It's a huge chance! With help-- --Even with it. It doesn't matter. Being able to run or not was fortunate or unfortunate. He was alive, his friend was alive, and they were there-- --He's dead. Look at him. He's dead. He was fine a moment ago. He wouldn't be in his bed if he was dead. --Look, he's dead. He's dead. You're in denial. Tear overwhelmed him. Dante was alive. He wouldn't leave him like this. He said he would stay. --He's stiff. Rigor mortis. Fucking tears. --Farewell! Randal maneuvered close, pressed against Dante's arm. Dante was warm. He fell asleep. Every night Randal went through that. .............................. The next night. Randal was awake and watching something on Discovery about forensic science . . . he was becoming obsessed with these shows. Dante came in holding a deli bag and juice. Only enough for randal. The blond quirked his eyebrow in question as he sat up. "I have to go home," he answered the unsaid inquiry. "Mom wants to paint the living room and dad's being a lazy ass. So guess who it falls upon I got some of the guys from hockey to help, though, so hopefully we'll finish tonight. It'll be late, though." He set the can of orange juice, open, on the nightstand. He flipped out napkins and dropped them on Randal's lap, doing so as if he had been born to do nothing but serve Randal. "Very late, so I'll be staying in my own bed." He grinned, unwrapping the turkey sandwich. "It misses me." Randal laughed, almost forced. "I see. I can survive." He chuckled. "I've been too selfish, lately. I'm sorry." "Don't be," he replied, dropping the bag or Doritos by the juice. "Look at you, it's the least I can do till you're better." He pointed at him sternly. "So get well." "Yes, suh," he mumbled, biting hungrily into the sub. "Now, get outta here." "Want a tape in" "Shure." He swallowed. "Pick whatever." "Can do." He left, Randal ate, and watched his cop shows. .............................. That night, he woke up. Dante wasn't there, of course. Randal was cold. His mind tortured him. He couldn't sleep for hours. .............................. Dante came by at lunch, bringing leftover chicken from his house. "We have to finish the living room. But mom decided to pain the hall and her and dad's room." He sighed. "You're parents out late tonight" Randal tried not to seem heartbroken. "Yeah." "I'll bring by something, then. Later, 'lay" "Okay." He talked to him for a couple more minutes, changed tapes in the VCR, and left. He returned that night, and left again. That night, randal went through the same mental pains again. .............................. Couple of days later, Dante was painting the bathroom and the cabinets in the kitchen on his off time. "I swear to God, she wants to see how long before I snap." "But you won't, puss," he forced an insult. "No, I won't," Dante laughed. He left, returned with dinner that night, and left again. Randal woke up that night. He was lonely, cold--in horrible pain. He had forgotten his pills. He couldn't sleep, it hurt too much. He looked at where Dante would be. The dent in the pillow was still there, but not him. He sighed. --He's gone, he's left you. Four days he hasn't stayed with you for more than fifteen minutes. It could be an excuse . . . No, Dante's busy-- --He's dead to you. He's fucking dead. Accept it. He brings food-- --Who cares He's dead to you now. Randal was in overwhelming pain. How could he forget his pills He reached over for the bottle. Sure, it wasn't the time . . . but he ached-- --You ache Stop it. Shut up. --What Dante's gone, so should you. randal paused. --It's easy. Sure it is. Too easy. He glanced at the other bottle just out of his reach. The whiskey. He had the pills. He poured some on his chest. Three of them. Without a thought, he stuck them in his mouth. They sat on his tongue as he glanced over at the empty pillow. --Gone! Breathing loudly through his nose, he inched over and rolled a bit. He grunted as he reached over. The pain . . . he grabbed the glass bottle, and rolled back. He stared at the glinting bottle. The cap was loose and it had fallen off. --Easy. Dante's GONE, dead, he doesn't want to be here. Must we repeat your injuries And how they-- No. He took a huge gulp and set the bottle down, cringing. He fell asleep. .............................. Holy . . . Jesus . . . Christ . . . Fuck . . . The PAIN! Randal was aware. Aware of everything. He hurt all over! Fuck! His legs, his arms, his face, head, lungs, heart, stomach, throat . . . he couldn't swallow even. Had he been awake before No. He had been dead. 'I died.' 'I fucking killed myself!' He calmed himself. He ordered his body to open his eyes. They hurt. He did anyway. He was in the hospital again. He was only hooked up to an IV. He must be considerably stable then . . . just so tired. How long had be been dead Unconscious Asleep How long had Dante been there He was back. Randal almost smiled. Just like last time. His head was turned away, asleep. He could tell by the deepness of his breaths. His one free hand was on his head, like he had been holding it up, but it had slipped when he fell asleep. His face hurt. randal could only twitch his lips to smile. Purposefully, ignoring the pins, he lowered Dante's hand to play with his hair. D ja fucking vu. "We have to stop meeting like this," he coughed. "Yes, we do." randal's eyes widened in start. Dante's head twisted to face him. His cuts were gone except for faint pink marks. The gash was more closed. Not a good sign that Randal was out just for a day . . . Dante was drawn, though, and his eyes shadowed. "Dante," he breathed. He raised his head, Randal's hand dropping to his side. "Why" Randal blinked. "Don't stare at me like that. Why Randal, WHY" "I'm trashed," was the only simple thing he could say. "You're TRASHED Sure, you have to become a leftie now, so fucking what Therapy will take care of your leg, you know that fucking well! Don't give me that bullshit!" he snapped as Randal flinched. "You're not PARALYZED! You're leg isn't fucking DEAD! You fucking coward! You low, fucking coward!" Randal didn't say anything. "The fuck, randal! The FUCK!" he brought his hand up to his face, covering as much as he could. "Randal. Your mom found you that morning. Your MOM. You were DEAD. Fuck. But she got to you on time. Thank God she knows CPR, you lowlife fuck. They found the pills, and the whiskey, and they pumped your stomach. Three fucking days. Or maybe four by now. I just barely managed to see you, your parents had to leave, I was . . . fuck fuck fuck!" He lowered his hand and glared at randal, frustrated and with tears in his eyes. "You killed yourself! Do you know . . . if you had stayed dead I . . . I . . . was ready to fucking kill myself, Randal!" "I thought you were dead," he whispered. "What!" "I thought you were dead!" "Dead DEAD! I brought you dinner, moron!" Tears came unbidden. They slid down his face. "I don't know, Dante. I don't know. I was convinced. Something convinced me . . . for four nights you were gone . . . you weren't there, I thought you were just dead. So . . . i tried suicide. I dunno . . ." "I don't understand you!" he exclaimed. "Good, I'm not alone." "I can't be with you all the time, every night!" He weakly wiped away the tears. "I know. I wish . . ." He didn't finish. :I wish I could, too!" Dante exclaimed, as if hearing the unspoken words. Silence. Randal's throat hurt. He was crying too much. Dante stood and leaned over him. With his right hand he grabbed Randal's cheek and wiped the tears with his thumb. "You promised you wouldn't leave!" he reminded him. "I said I'd try . . ." "You didn't even that, fuck you!" " . . . No . . . I didn't." He rolled his head into Dante's hand. "I'm sorry," he cried softly. "I'm sorry." "They're gonna get you the hospital psychiatrist." He nodded. "We don't want you--" "I understand," he choked. Dante brushed back randal's hair and smiled weakly. "I won't leave you, Randal. I won't. I'm alive and kicking and I hope to stay this way for a long time." He kissed him soundly on his cheek. "Got a tear," Randal whispered. "I did." "I can't stop. I hate crying." Dante kissed him again. "We all do. Go to sleep, okay I'll be here. I'll hide in the fucking bathroom if a nurse comes." "Not supposed to be here, huh" He was tired. He gave as big of a yawn as his smarting body would allow. "No." His smile wobbled. He looked as if he could break down anytime, too. He sat down in the chair he had pulled up, and laid his head back down. "Sleep, now. I'm tired, too. It's the middle of the night!" "Yeah yeah." He sighed, closing his eyes. He twisted his hand at his side, though, and played with Dante's hair. Soft. He fell asleep with his fingers tangled in it, and once again, Dante watched over Randal. The End .............................. It's kinda ironic I decided to type this tonight. A kid at my school killed himself. I hated his guts, but it's still incredibly sad. Learn from these people, don't die like that. ;_; And about the Clerkslash site: I'm thinking of calling it "Silhouettes on the Shade" . . . in fact, I've called it that! I love that Herman's Hermits song. Anyway, I haven't had time to work on the actual page (this's been one bitch of a week), but I WILL make it. ^_^ And I need to gather up the 'fics. . . . And pictures if Luna will let me put 'em up. ^^ And Randal didn't deserve this treatment. I'm sorry, Randal. I hate myself for writing this meanie of a fanfic. NOTE: It's late, so I'm not looking for any typos. :p Please overlook them. AND I obviously no nothing about killing myself. That, also, I suppose is a good thing. All feedback welcome.