Damn Psycho

There were a few things Ricky took into account staring at Louis and the cop.

Louis was up. The cop was up. The cop was mute and his face was bleeding, but best believe he could fight for a moment. He was outnumbered. And he was shit out of luck.

He turned his back to them for just a moment to catch sight of Andy, who was looking desperately for something to use as a weapon. "The most you're gonna find is a broken umbrella," he snaps, though he really had no basis for his annoyance. It wasn't exactly like he had a plan of sorts when he started killing, was it?

He just killed to keep from being bored, and if he was going to be honest, it had gotten a little repetitive. Of course, it wasn't exactly like he could stop now. He had people on his ass now. Now was not the time to consider a new hobby.

The cop came for him first, but considering he just got his fucking lips sewn shut, he was a bit weaker than he once was, making for an easy pin to the floor. He got a few good punches in, sure, might've even broken Ricky's nose with one of them, the fucker. But, ultimately, Ricky knocked him to the ground and held him there with his foot, glaring at a beaten and broken Louis next, daring the Brit to try something.

There was a yell from Andy, drawing Ricky's attention. He was charging, arm pulled back and blue eyes narrowed and he spat, "You sick fuck!" and before Ricky could count to five there was a fist in his face, a stupid fucking Batman ring catching his cheek. He heard Louis walk away from them, leave the cop and Andy and Ricky all on their own so he could do whatever it is he had to do.

Good. Ricky knew he wasn't leaving. His stupid amount of care for other people was too strong to let him run. And if he escaped, so fucking what? Ricky was good at lying. But he wouldn't. His heart wouldn't let him. And he was leaving his precious boyfriend behind.

Ricky made quick work of Andy, throwing his fist at Andy's throat and elbowing him in the ribs. With that one on his side and his hands at his neck, he turned to the cop with the mouth sewn shut. Quinn was trying to stand, but achieved absolutely nothing but a moan when Ricky kicked him in the stomach. He dropped back to the floor, weak and dizzy and struggling for the strength to succeed. Ricky let him do whatever.

He had to pull Louis back under his control. Having one of his victims roaming freely did not sit well with him. He needed them all under his thumb where they belonged, goddammit. Struggling was fine. Running was not.

He didn't hear the steps to head up, so Louis was still down there. There was no escape to the basement, for Ricky would've heard the thud of him running down metal stairs. Louis was on that level. The only places were the dining room and kitchen.

He left Andy and Quinn to their own devices and sought out Louis, kind've wishing he brought those guns he stole from the officers back up with him. Oh, well. Louis was borderline delirious and pretty fucking weak. He wasn't going to prove much of a challenge.

The dining room was empty.

Kitchen.

Ricky started to taunt him, started to say, "Harry couldn't escape, you know. How could you?" His victims were almost as boring as the rest now. He could hear Andy coughing in the living room. Pathetic.

The young Brit rounded the kitchen table with two knives: one bloody and one pristine. Ricky figured the soiled blade came from the cop he stabbed in the basement; somehow Louis had the balls to wrench it out of the man's skull. Good on him.

"You killed Harry," he murmured, his eyes narrowed. He almost looked threatening, covered in dried blood with bruised wrists and a bruised face and two knives. And yet, even though Ricky felt his downfall was the inescapable end result, all he could do was laugh.

"Yeah. I know."

All these people did was state the obvious.

He felt another presence behind him and one quick glance over his shoulder told him it was Andy. Oh, joy. He snarled, "Now just what do you want? I didn't kill anyone you liked," all while keeping his eyes on the blade-wielding toy before him.

"I can't believe I ever liked you in high school."

Ricky rolled his eyes, getting into a fighting stance. "Was that supposed to make my heart melt?" He heard Andy snarl behind him but big fucking deal, he could do that, too. He didn't, though. No reason to.

Louis threw the bloody blade with what originally appeared to be poor aim and Ricky smirked in the face of it until it sliced his leg. He spit, "You fucking brat," glaring at Louis while attempting to apply pressure to the wound. Andy grabbed him from behind, held him straight up and whispered in his ear, "Wait 'till you fucking get it."

"Yeah?" He let out a sharp bark of a laugh and added, "Kill me and you'll be just like me."

"I don't think so," he murmured. "You killed for the fun of it, didn't you?"

"I was bored."

Ricky began to try and worm his way out of Andy's grip, even with his leg burning like hellfire and dripping blood. The house was a mess by then, and it really wasn't very nice. He didn't much appreciate it. Not to mention his victims were slipping out of his control. That wasn't quite nice, either.

"You're fucking twisted," Andy grunted, struggling to keep his hold on the shorter of the two. Ricky was clever to some degree; he didn't think just trying to push against Andy's arms was going to do anything, did he? "Fucking hold still."

Louis stood in place, the new knife just going to waste in his hand. No longer did he look the slightest bit threatening, only upset. Broken. He didn't have the strength to ram the blade into Ricky, didn't even have the strength to spit at him. He peered over the two fighting to keep his eye on the cop, who appeared to stop moving all together. Ricky didn't really care much about him. He was boring, anyway.

Apparently, Andy overestimated his own strength, because Ricky broke free relatively quick. He was the only one not scarred for life, after all, it probably was a fucking breeze for him. He pushed Andy away, right into the counter, shoving one nuisance out of his path before focusing on the next. Louis stood there still, aiming the knife just barely. Ricky grinned him, taking a cautious step towards him.

"I can reunite you with your boy, y'know?" he said, talking soft, lulling the damaged boy into a sense of security. "You wanna be with Harry, right? Your heart?"

"You killed him," was Louis's shaky response, actual backing away.

"I know." He held his hands out, feigning surrender so Louis could just drop the goddamn knife. That thing was new, and all he was doing was holding it with dirty hands and wasting time. Christ. "I'm sorry. But it's not really my fault, is it? Why didn't you stop him from coming here? I wouldn't have killed him if he never came here."

Louis's face fell as a crushing sadness hit him, sat on his shoulders and nearly broke his spine. Andy tried to speak up, said, "He's just fucking with you," but got a good knock of the head into the side of the counter got him quiet. Intervening little asshole.

"And we can't forget how far you pushed me, can we?" he murmured, just loud enough for Louis's ears. "I told you what was gonna happen. And you tried to fight me on it. And Harry died." He paused, just long enough to take in Louis's absolutely shattered expression. It was amazing. "I killed him. You said I wouldn't. Said he wouldn't die. And he did. He fucking kicked the bucket. 'Cause of me. 'Cause of you. He—"

There was a scream, maybe some words mixed into it, but they were discernible. Louis had been pushed over the edge, knocked into action. He cried out, tears tumbling down his cheeks, and shoved the knife as deep as he could into Ricky's shoulder. Right between his arm and his neck sat the handle of that blade. "I'd never hurt Harry," he spat as he pushed the blade impossibly deeper, his breath coming in short gasps. "Fuck." With that one, he ripped the blade out. "You!" And with that one, he stabbed it back in.

"Holy fuck," Andy mumbled, dizzy and aching but coming back. He kicked his leg out, striking Ricky in the ankle. Watching the psychotic young man hit the ground filled him with something dangerously close to a sense of power. He thought about staying away from that; wasn't that what Ricky was looking for? Power? Okay. He got to his feet, grabbed Louis by the wrist. The kid was paralyzed again, the adrenaline pouring out of him. "C'mon," he said as Ricky reached for them. He kicked Ricky's hand away, kicked his face, trying to keep him down as long as possible as he yanked Louis out of the kitchen.

They ran back into the living room, finding the cop unconscious. Great. Andy attributed it to the blood loss and hefty emotional trauma. That was probably enough to knock anyone out for a bit. He immediately demanded Louis grab the cop so they could "get the fuck out," and Louis, with tears in his eyes and an expressionless face, did as he was told. They hefted up the cop, working even faster when they heard Ricky yell a few choice words and a threat along the lines of making sure they stay.

Louis had one of the cop's arms slung around his shoulders, Andy with the other. They dragged the man that was really nothing more than dead weight at the moment and all but tumbled through the front door, panting and looking up and down the road and both wondering the same thing: 'What now?'

"Mrs. Hood," Louis suddenly muttered, his voice hoarse and breaking. "Across the street. Go." And he nodded forward, blinking back tears because with them falling, he couldn't see. Andy complied, not knowing a damned thing about a "Mrs. Hood" but if it got them away from Ricky and his…whatever was wrong in his head, then fine by him. They pulled the officer along and Louis beat on the door of the mysterious Mrs. Hood, but unable to scream for her to please come help. He just prayed the banging would be enough.

After what felt like years of the two of them glancing back across the street to see if Ricky had pathetically hobbled his way out – thankfully, the answer remained no –, they were met with the soft and tired face of the one and only Mrs. Hood. Her eyes widened in horror at the disaster that stood on her porch, questions tearing through her head, but all she could manage was a short and small, "What happened?" It was directed towards Louis because she didn't know Andy. Andy took no offense.

"We need help," Louis responded quickly, panicked, his body trembling. "Please."

She moved back, allowed them in. Across the street, she could see Ricky, the son of the dysfunctional Olsons, keeping himself steady at the front door by leaning against it. He smirked at her, blood running down his neck, chest and arm, and though he only stared at her for seconds, the image was burned into the back of her eyelids forever. She always knew something was a bit off with him, but. The blood. The beaten boys before her.

Andy slammed the door closed, snarled at Louis to call for help once they eased the stitched-up cop onto the couch.

"That guy's a fucking nut," he mumbled, glancing at Mrs. Hood for a moment before slapping the cop's face lightly. "C'mon, dude."

She looked at them, bit her lip as Louis desperately pleads on the phone for help. She walked to the front closet, reached for the ugly winter coat no one wears, just in case, just in case, and—

There was a bang.

There was another. Someone was at the front door. She heard a sharp, "Oh, Mrs. Hood! Give me my boys back," punctuated with another fist against the wood. "I'll give you yours."

She froze up, looked toward the door as her face fell into something akin to desperation. Andy stopped playing with the cop — finally, he was coming to — and looked to Louis, who was no longer on the phone. She held her breath, looked like she was considering opening the door and Andy could truly smack her but he didn't get the chance because Louis snapped, "No!"

He was glaring at her, his fists tight. "Don't open that door." Then he softened considerably, his face back to the sad, sorry one he crawled to her door with. "He can't give you anything, Mrs. Hood. Calum's dead."

Andy grimaced. That woman's son was dead, too, at the hands of an old high school crush. How many people did Ricky murder?

"I'm sorry-he-I-that's why Harry and I were here, we were looking for Cal and Ricky, he threw us in the basement and-and we saw him and…" he paused, his voice cracking because he just couldn't help but choke. Mrs. Hood stared at him, slowly understanding. Her son was killed by the boy across the street. He probably killed those cops, too. She had never seen Louis without Harry until tonight and now she knows why. And he probably almost killed these lads before her.

Louis dropped to the floor, the gravity of the situation too much for his tired body. Andy looked to him with sympathy before looking at the cop, who was fading away again. Was he going to die, too?

"Please don't open that door," he mumbled, his voice lower than ever. "He's a damned psycho."

"I know," was Mrs. Hood's response, back at the closet. She snatched something out of that old, ugly coat, heading to the front door. Andy opened his mouth to stop her, but she whipped around, "He killed my fucking son," and Andy shut up immediately. Never mess with a mother scorned.

She practically ripped the door off its hinges to reveal a darkly grinning Ricky, a rip in the skin near his shoulder. He opened his mouth as he went for her throat, nails scratching at her skin, but never got the chance to speak, two bullets lodged neatly in his chest. Mrs. Hood held her smoking gun shakily, her body trembling. He tore small scratches in her neck as he dropped to the ground, dead and silent.

"Self defense," she whispered. "He attacked me. Self defense."

"It ain't me you gotta convince," was Andy's response, cautiously placing his hand on her shoulder. "It was you or him. I think you did the right thing, if it matters. I'd shoot the asshole, too, throwing me down some steps."

All Mrs. Hood could say was, "Fuck."

That summed it up pretty well. Andy looked around the room once again, soaking it all in. The cop lie still on the couch, eyes closed again. Blood no longer dropped from his wound. Maybe he was drained. Louis was on the floor, knees at his chest, his face splattered with blood, staring shell-shocked at the scene before him. His head was broken. It was going to take a hell of a lot to heal him, if he was to ever heal at all. He was murmuring something. If Andy listened close, he could make it out.

"Harry. I want Harry. I want Harry."

Andy wondered if he fully understood that his boyfriend was dead.

Mrs. Hood, her name was, she shook tremendously, dropping her gun to wail into her hands. Her son was dead. How old was he? Was he a good kid? That didn't matter. That was her son. And she would never get him back.

And finally, Ricky, splayed out on Mrs. Hood's porch, a river of red pouring from his corpse. Andy wished he had suffered more, went through more pain than a couple of quick bullets. He deserved so much more.

"Fuck," summed it up perfectly.