Chapter Text
Sometimes, when the weather turns dark and rainy, Wick will drink his coffee out of cup decorated with daisies as they sit on the sofa, reading. He cradles it gently as he drinks, more careful than the other cups. His eyes pass right over Iosef on those evenings, as if he weren't there, even as Wick goes through the motions of feeding him.
On the bookshelf, not far from the framed picture of the dark-haired woman, there's a greeting card. It has daisies on it.
The dog's collar, it had a tag…..
At night, when Wick has returned Iosef to his prison cell, neatly tucked away like a toy that has been played enough with for the day, Iosef dreams of his mother. Of her soft voice, singing him to sleep, telling him not to be afraid.
Buuvei, buuvei…..
During the day, he dreams of breaching the gap between him and the Baba Yaga, of reaching out and holding on, no matter if the other man tries to push him away. Maybe his rigid stance would go soft. Maybe, he'd find himself being held like something worth it.
He dreams of making himself small, small enough to fit into a space that was meant to hold things named after a little white and yellow flower.
He never tries though.
There's memories of himself that loom too large, of a man knocked down onto the ground at his feet, grunting in pain, bleeding, and a dog whining, scared, and of bones breaking.
In the book he's reading, the hyena kills the orangutan, and from that point onwards, his hands shake ever so slightly as he turns the pages. The Baba Yaga, focused on his own book, either doesn't notice or doesn't care.
The orang-utan is not an orang-utan, just like the note written into the margins said, and Iosef desperately wishes it had survived. That night he wakes, cheeks wet from crying, the memory of his father shaking off his hand as he reaches out to him, as he tries to hold on during his mothers' funeral, making his heart stumble and the blood in his veins turn to ice.
Not even Viggo could love a hyena.
He laughs to himself then, soundlessly, the force of it wracking his body in a series of suppressed hiccups so harsh, he wonders if they'll split his chest.
Had….had me pegged….had me pegged for a problem….even as a kid. And why not? Preschool? He used to laugh about it, ruffle my hair. 'Til I tripped up the teacher….what was her name again? Marley? Markham? She looked so ridiculous, lying on the floor, skirts up, her granny panties showing. Thought that would get the biggest laugh outta him when I told him. Broke her leg though, got me kicked out. Kicked outta Viggo and mama screaming at each other in the kitchen when he told her he'd teach me a lesson, teach me to not be such a f*cking monster. Could hear them even with my hands over my ears. He won. Took the bruises weeks to fade. And he sent mama away until they were all gone
Always got into trouble.
And after that thing, that awful thing…. after she was gone? ….barely saw him. Mostly when I got into more trouble than nyanya and Victor could handle. Until I got into freshman, and nobody was payin' attention to me. Got shoved around in the hallway couple o' times too, but wasn' gonna let people Judge looked like he bit into sour grapes when he sentenced me to juvie. Viggo looked at me like I was Let me do the full time too, for not takin' care of business in a more civilized manner an' makin' a mess.
The bed Wick bought him is soft and cozy, a bed fit for the finest and largest of breeds, and he lets his hand slip into the fold where he hid the bone, his fingers playing along the smooth length of it. Viggo'd always talk about our mob bein' like pack of wolves. But I wasn't a wolf, was I? Never strong enough to join the hunt, never brave enough to take down the big prey, scavenging on the edges instead, tryin' to make it big, but only getting' respect because I was the pack leader's get….an' because you stay away from rabid crazy.
And….the crazy is still there. He can feel it, crawling under his skin, writhing like a nest of snakes. Even if he's being a good boy now, doing his exercisese, reading his books and coming to heel when called.
When Wick feeds him, some delicious morsel held between his fingers, he wants to bite them until he draws blood, then lick it all off. He wants to hear Wick gasp when he breaks skin and moan as he takes him down deep into his mouth, sucking him in. Wants to roll onto his back, spread himself wide and vulnerable across the blankets as Wick takes him apart, whispers his name as he touches him.
Dreams. Nightmares. What good are they for a little fox? For a little pet?
That's all he is.
Today. Tomorrow. Forever.
It itches under his skin, like fleas eating him alive.
In what must be the early hours of the morning, closer to midnight than to sunrise, he pulls one of his legs under his body, twists it so he knows it'll fall asleep, then takes the bone from its' hiding place, gently starts rubbing one end across the concrete in the smallest of movements, in a place that he figures, best he could, would be away from any cameras. It doesn't take long for his mind to go blank with the soothing, circular movements and he only stops once the leg he tucked under goes from numb to pins and needles.
It's small, stolen moments, hopefully not long enough to attract attention, and within a week his patient and cautious work rewards him with a shiv, sharp as a snake's fang and long enough to bite deep.
Maybe deep enough to free him of the trap he's been tangled in.
