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What is he doing again? Right – grabbing the key off the guards' body in the motel room.
He has the door key, he knows what room it is, he’ll grab what's needed and drive off like before. Like how many times before? It’s unclear at this point, but at the very least he remembers what will happen, is happening, where to go. He unlocks the motel room door, hands remembering that it sticks ever so slightly due to disrepair, have to really shove it in – in his mind's eye he can already picture the corpse on the floor and where the key he needs is. Maybe it’s a bit fucked up that the corpse doesn’t surprise him anymore. It’s set dressing now.
Except, the corpse isn’t there.
And there’s Mr Scratch on the bed.
Relaxed, sitting, like he was waiting.
“Hey, buddy—Woah, hey now--”
Scratch winces as Alan trains his flashlight on him, his relaxed pose on the bed now tense, a hand covering his eyes quickly. Briefly, Alan notices the way the light reflects off his iris’s, almost glowing in that split second, and he tightens the grip on the gun in his other hand. A reminder that the person on that bed isn’t really human. The room isn’t completely dark at least, there’s still a lamp on by the bed, casting a warm glow into the room, but he wonders if that’s just more for him than it is Scratch.
Distracted. Focus on the unpredictable story beat that’s been dropped into the screenplay he thought he knew off by heart.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Alan spits, not quite raising his voice but there’s clear annoyance in his tone. Swears to cover up the fact that this whole thing is unnerving. He really should just focus the beam of his flashlight and shoot Scratch in the head right this second, but something is stopping him. Curiousity? It killed the cat, though.
“Relax-- fuck, can you stop with the flashlight?” Scratch is wincing, similar annoyance in his own tone, a reflection back, and while he can take a bit more of the flashlight than the Taken can, clearly it’s still smarting. Probably like looking into direct sunlight for him – Alan thinks for a second that it’s been so long since he’s done that, look at the sun, and his grip on the gun tightens ever so slightly at the thought.
He takes the chance to stare into Scratch’s face while he’s distracted by the light. So similar, it’s still just as uncanny the first time seeing a double of himself, but there’s also differences now. It occurs to Alan that over the past couple of years, Scratch has been developing in a sense. The way a story changes a character over different books, chapters, the character becomes something of their own self. It’s in the small details that Alan takes this moment to look over – annoyingly, he can’t help but notice how much better rested his double looks, skin looking softer, no bags under his eyes, no waking up and tumbling in the Arizona dirt and debris. It reminds him of the way they would prepare him with make-up and a stylist for an interview.
Against all thoughts in his brain telling him to not, he switches the flashlight off. The click of the button is loud against the ambiance of the motel room, the sound of the neon sign just outside, of the generators and vending machines. Distantly, he hears the sound of crows.
“Answer my question,” Alan demands in return for turning it off, his arm holding the flashlight lowering slightly but still at the ready, his gun still trained on the other. Going for intimidating but all Alan gets for that is a roll of the eyes once Scratch has blinked away the light, the sunspots, and can finally look at Alan directly. Something is off though.
Surely his pupils should be smaller if hit with light like that?
Scratch rubs at his eyes with two fingers and the moment of noticing that detail passes. Watches instead as Scratch tilts his head to one side, then the other, popping something after tensing up, trying to return to that relaxed demeanour of earlier, stretches his arms back behind him, propping him up on the bed.
“I’m taking the night off,” answers Scratch eventually, clearly enjoying drawing things out, making Alan wait. Can probably tell the situation is off-putting and wants to dig into that.
“What?”
“You can hear perfectly fine,” Scratch makes a little sound of amusement, a huff, “I’m not doing this all tonight, I got other plans – which I was going to kindly invite you to join if you relax for five fucking seconds.”
“You can’t just--” Alan takes a deep breath, feels the balance of being unsettled and being pissed off leaning more into the pissed off. “There’s no ‘tonight’ and this isn’t something you can just, take a break from?”
“Who says? You? You’re not actually in control here, remember?” There’s a smirk on his doubles face, turning into a grin, all teeth, as he starts to laugh to himself.
“What’s so funny?” Alan tries to not sound petulant but it comes out like an insult, spat out; he’s always been sensitive to someone laughing at him. He thinks he should’ve gotten better at dealing with that with years in the spotlight, but it still always rubs him the wrong way. Made even worse by the person laughing at him being Scratch.
“How many times do I have to tell you to relax, oh writer of mine? Don’t you want to know the plan I’ve got for us instead of the same old song and dance? You’ll like it, really,” Scratch ends that with a wink that could rival any skeevy salesman and Alan grimaces. Doesn’t have time to dwell on comparisons or similes however, there’s the sound of a loud click, an automatic lock, the motel door being shut behind him.
The sound reverberates in the room - the motel doors are surprisingly heavy.
Alan is quick to react - looks at the door with a snap of his neck, a slight turn of his body, but experienced enough by now to keep his gun trained on Scratch, lifts back up the flashlight arm too, finger on the on/off switch like it’s second nature. Is now the time to just blast him with light and shoot? Probably, but he can’t help but furrow his brow and focus on the tendrils of black receding from the door and going back to their owner under Alan’s own feet. Explains what shut the door, except finding out the explanation doesn’t stop Alan feeling sick over not noticing Scratch making a move at all.
A vague feeling of repulsion as the tendrils slip by under his feet – he feels like he should be able to feel them but they’re like a moving shadow, an outstretched silhouette that’s forgotten what humans are shaped like. The hairs on his forearms are raised either way, a slight shiver down his spine as he watches the moving shadows creep back over the carpet, the bed, then eventually disappear when they reach Scratch.
“Locking me in doesn’t make me want to hear you out, just letting you know,” Alan has his full attention back on Scratch, flashlight at the ready. He’s developed trigger finger but for a flashlight and he feels his hand twitch, ready to flip the switch at any second.
“It does the opposite, actually.”
“Noted,” a pause, Alan can hear the ‘but’ coming, “but not everything I do is some nefarious trap, Wake. I just don’t want anyone to interrupt us, that’s all – you're really tense all the time lately, you know that?” The grin is still on Scratches face but somehow it feels even more annoying than before, like he’s just done a feat worthy of praise. All he did was shut a door and he’s pleased with himself. “High strung as hell – kind of a downer, if we’re being honest with each other.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly helping with making a relaxing environment. If we’re being honest with each other.”
He gets another laugh in response.
“Well, I am now,” he makes a motion to the bed, to the chair near said bed, both looking unappealing in their own ways, “come on, pull up a seat, buddy. Take a moment to sit down, take a load off,” and there’s another little chuckle, “god knows you need that too.”
“I’d rather just stand,” Alan ignores that last remark but he feels his forehead furrow. He’s reminded of the way Alice would tell him that he was going to develop wrinkles earlier from how much he frowns like that. Thinks about that instead.
“Fine, fine, suit yourself,” a little shrug, a raise of an eyebrow in return, like Alan is just being difficult on purpose and he finds it all hilarious, “just stand there and watch.”
“Watch what--”
Scratch shushes him, an annoying sound that reminds him almost of the hiss of the rattlesnakes outside and Alan frowns even harder.
The grip on the flashlight becomes tense again. He should just put an end to this.
Except, he can’t stop watching, it’s not quite a car crash but there’s something compelling about there being a new direction to this scene. Scratch starts to slide over to the side table by the bed and Alan wonders what his double is going to grab – a weapon of some kind? It could be anything, but Alan knows Scratch favours close quarters, intimate killing, knives, probably not reaching for a gun at least, he’d have time to shoot before Scratch gets close--
He’s grabbing the bible off the top of the side table.
An old thing – the pages look waterlogged, stuck together inside, slightly wavy and uneven in their damage. Alan can picture a scene where it was once thrown into the small, dirty bathtub of the motel bathroom in a drunken stupor in some other time and place in the world. The cover is faded, only vague hints of text and a cross on the front the only indication of what it is. Even in the fictional Desert Shore Motel, it can’t escape the American classics.
Alan can write the narrative about it, but that doesn’t explain why Scratch is reaching for it.
Then it becomes clear.
“You’re a fucking cliché, you know that,” Alan can’t stop himself from commenting as he watches Scratch pull out a smallish plastic baggie from inside his jacket, filled with white.
“Hm, not going to take comments about clichés from talentless hack Alan Wake, the man who wrote the same book six times,” Scratch replies back idly, no real bite to it, just like it’s an obvious statement. He seems too busy to really put any weight behind an insult, focusing on balancing the bible on his lap and pouring out some of the contents of the baggie. “Keep insulting me and I’m not going to share.”
Alan scoffs. His arms are relaxing from their position, no longer exactly ready to strike, just really thrown off by the whole situation. Scratch could attack him right there and then and he’d only have himself to blame but his indignation is overpowering his survival sense. Always been a little of a problem for him, he knows that, but Alan would argue for anyone else to not do the same when it’s an endless stream of things coming out of left field. He lives in the left field at this point, has the zip code and all.
“What makes you think I want anything to do with that shit?”
Another noise of amusement from Scratch, like a single note of a laugh mixed in with a scoff, like he can’t even be bothered to properly laugh at Alan for that.
“You know, maybe instead of another boring detective novel, you should’ve just switched to comedy,” again, off hand, like Alan isn’t as interesting as cutting a line. Alan can’t help but notice he’s using his driver's license to do so - he feels that nausea again at being reminded that this double is going out into the world as him, physical proof of his identity being stolen, and it’s being used for this.
Not the first time it’s been used for that exact purpose though.
Fuck. Scratch is still him in some way after all.
“Is this your grand plan? To get high?”
“Yeah?” Scratch looks up at him for a second, eyebrows raised, like Alan is asking a stupid question. “Why I said you’d like what I had planned – though, ah, do forgive me, I’ve already started without you,” the laughing and blown out pupils make sense now, a little side note written in the margin, “but you were taking so long. You know, with how bad you are at running from things chasing you.”
“Maybe don’t send shit to chase me if you’re going to complain about it—That's,” Alan is holstering his gun back into his jeans, the flashlight back into his belt, his hands coming to rub at his face as he tries to think. There’s so much to say. “That’s besides the point, I don’t like this at all and– is that. Is that even real? Do I even want to know, christ--”
“You’re getting worked up again, Wake, deep breathes for me, bestseller,” condescending in his tone, Scratch finally has his attention back to the writer, a smile on his face. “You’re asking me if it’s real because you hope it is, right? From the world beyond this lake, finest quality I could find, I assure you. Or at least I hope it is. What would you rate some of those unlisted numbers on your old phone, Al? Reliability in that department I mean.”
Alan doesn’t say anything to that. Lips a tight line.
Scratch’s smile grows wider at that but soon his face is blocked by him bringing up the bible to his face, leaning down to snort up the line he’s made. Efficient, quick, clearly no stranger, the same way he used to do it and the thought makes Alan look away, suddenly interested in the wallpaper that’s peeling off the old motel walls. It’s too much like looking at the hidden camera footage that Barry would show him sometimes back then, the clips that were paid off to never seen the light of day. Like the photos that Barry didn’t manage to pay off and were in tabloid mags all over. Scratch may have stated that this is a night off from their usual battle but Alan is wondering if Scratch is just changing up tactics – a new kind of torment.
He crosses his arms in hopes that he can ignore the slight twitch in his fingers. He thinks back to how it felt the moment after a line and it doesn’t help he can hear Scratch sniffing, rubbing at his nose, luxuriating in the act, the moment.
Eyelashes fluttering, pupils dilated, a softer and more genuine smile with his head thrown back just a little – euphoria, if Alan was to be purple prose about it, but it feels wrong to use such a word for a scene so seedy.
Alan is looking again.
“That hits the spot,” it’s a soft purr from Scratch, genuine pleasure and appreciation at something, reminds Alan of moments from those tapes that haunt him during these loops. Oddly intimate, like the tone is just for Alan and Alan alone. “Come on, it’s good, there’s plenty for the both of us, and hey, wouldn’t it be nice to feel good? Maybe we can see if the TV here has any porn – you know, nostalgic for you right? When you’d be too much of a pussy to actually touch another guy and sit around jerking off together and refusing to make eye contact--”
“I could’ve guessed you’d get more annoying high,” quick to cut that line of thinking off, Alan fails to keep a look of disgust off his face. Slightly performative, Scratch isn’t wrong, but he’d rather just stand around outside and let a Taken kill him and let the whole loop start again than admit it. A small voice in his brain tells him he should do that anyway, that he’s not going to get anywhere this loop with the way it’s going, that he’s stupid to indulge all of this but. There’s another small voice, deep down in the dark depths that is almost like the distant call of a siren, leading him to ruin. A faint whisper that says if he leaves now, he’ll miss out this chance that may not happen again for a very long time.
Hates that he could even consider doing coke lines in a run-down motel with his antagonist a chance to not miss out on.
Hates that he can’t keep his eyes off the way Scratch has his hands on the bed, behind him, leaning back into it like he’s halfway to just letting himself drop down against the covers. Fingers gently caressing the covers underneath ever so slightly, like it feels good. It probably does, the texture, the sensation in his fingers, he knows what it’s like.
Scratch meets his eyes, must’ve felt Alan’s gaze on him, the eye contact feels off – probably from how darker Scratch’s eyes have become from the dilation, like a reminder of the shadows that lurk hiding within. Reminds him of other things too, something else, something more human and fitting the scene of this motel tableau.
Alan doesn’t want to think those thoughts into existence, wary about his influence on directing events in a scene even just thinking things sometimes.
“If you hate this so much, I’ll unlock the door for you and you can go out into the night, doing your useless little things that you do.”
“... Sounds like there’s a catch.”
“I mean, I’d obviously get some Taken to keep you company, you know, don’t want you feeling lonely.”
Alan feels self-conscious just standing in the middle of the room then. It’s ridiculous to keep pretending he hasn’t already made a decision, but it feels like a safe middle ground for him to steep in that denial.
Not that he’s decided on doing a line. No, he’s still-- He can resist temptation, he’s not that old self anymore, even just a couple of years in The Dark Place, he already knows he’s changing as a person. Who that person will be after he gets out, he’s not sure, but a hero's journey usually changes a person for the better. He wants that for himself, maybe it’ll make all of this worth it if he can come out the other side a better person for the people he loves.
No, the decision he’s making is to also take the night off. Yeah.
He takes a seat in the chair near the bed.
The cushion feels old and lumpy but it feels good to sit down either way. Maybe there’s stains hidden on the armchair that is only visible to UV – can't stop thinking like a murder novel sometimes, motels are a classic for that too – but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s probably just blood. It’s not stopping him from leaning back into the old cushions and letting his arms relax on the armrests. It only hits him how much they ache, constantly raised up, gripped tightly on his light and gun, the recoil travelling through muscle and bone.
“Looking pretty comfy there – seeing things my way, finally?” Scratch sounds giddy at the idea, had turned his body to follow the tracking shot of Alan walking over to the chair. Slides across the covers eventually, on his hands and knees, bringing the bible with him, until he’s on the opposite side of the bed like he can’t deal with not being completely in Alan’s sightline. He takes a moment to reach over to one of the lamps on the side table, dims it down.
Alan doesn’t protest.
Takes that moment to rest his eyes for a second.
God he’s tired.
Knows exactly what could change that but ignores that thought.
“You look like you’re about to fall asleep – sure you don’t want any? Put the Wake back in Alan Wake? Ha,” Alan knows Scratch can’t read his mind but damned if that doesn’t make him open his eyes again at feeling like he just did. Alan watches as Scratch pours a bit of the baggie on his hand, thumb curled into his fist, balanced in a small little pile.
Offers it.
The offer hangs in silence between them – there's the hum of an old AC unit that’s probably pushing more dust into the room than cold air. Alan feels hot, wants to blame it on the Arizona night.
The moment passes and Scratch mutters out a ‘suit yourself’ with a small shrug before snorting up the bump himself. Again, rubbing at his nose after, eyelids fluttering, sniffing sounds - Alan thinks about the way a little bit of white lands on the lapel of that suit jacket, white stark against black, like a fucked up snowflake.
Silence hangs over them again, uncomfortable, enough to compel Alan to break it.
“It was never about just getting high.”
“I know,” Scratch leans back onto the bed again, even lower than last time, legs spread wide and his waistcoat riding up just a bit. Tilts his head back, like he’s staring at the ceiling, seeing how dirty it is from cigarette smoke. “Save me the whole spiel, the sob story. You have some issues in the brain, we both know that, and the coke helped, right?”
“Don’t need to say it like that, asshole--”
“Made you feel like you could do things, yeah? Write a bit more, stay up a little longer, deal with that interview or award show a little bit better.”
“Exactly,” exactly, right, if there’s someone to know about it, it’s his double. He’s had this conversation before, trying to explain himself to Alice, to Barry, but he always felt it just came off like an addict trying to justify themselves. “Wasn’t just to get high for kicks.”
“You want to know what I think?” A shift in position, straightening up, no longer interested in the ceiling but back to watching Alan. Clearly preparing to watch a reaction to whatever he’s going to say, Alan knows he’s not going to like it.
“No.”
“A regular, boring bastard just goes to some doctor and gets some meds – wouldn’t have turned you down, you know? Obvious case – the fact you got more money than you know what to do with doesn’t hurt either,” Alan is sure it’s being spent unwisely, if Scratch has access to said funds, but that’s a problem to deal when he’s back to the real world. “You just enjoyed the drama, didn’t you?”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Tortured artist Alan Wake found caught with white powder all over his face and it’s not flour, folks! You loved it, right? The self-sabotage, the spiralling to get people to fuss over you, there’s a kind of glamour to it too, no? Like a writer of old, defined by their scandals than their work. Bad boy Alan Wake isn’t like those other writers, he’s got demons.”
“Let’s change topic--”
“You liked being high too, don’t lie,” there’s a little bit of a sing-song lilt to that last word, like a kid taunting someone, teasing them. “Great excuse to let yourself do things you were too afraid to do sober,” Scratch ghosts a hand over his crotch, leaves the faintest stain of white against the black suit trousers, “I know you, Wake.”
“Do you ever shut up,” it’s not a question, Alan already knows the answer, he’s the stupid one here. Knows it’s a bit of a weak response but he feels small all the sudden – it feels like the nightmares he used to have that weren’t of murder cases and darkness but anxiety dreams over being made to sit in a therapist's office. Someone explaining to him all the ways he’s fucked up and he just has to take it.
“Hey, you’re the one who started going off on the justifying spiel – which, I’m the one person you don’t need to do that with, you know?”
True. It’s... true.
Silence heavy in the air again and Alan shifts in the chair, once, twice, brings a hand up to rub at his jaw, looks to the side, then back at Scratch. They’re in the Garden of Eden and his double is a snake offering an apple, but Alan knows if he actually wrote that out he’d have to rip out the paper and start all over again – there's nothing holy here, just a story of a fucked up writer who’s looking at himself through a broken mirror.
“You know what? Fine.”
Alan gets up from the chair and walks over, the steps of his boots loud on the carpet, sand and dirt mingling with the fibres, each step feeling heavy. He could describe the scene something akin to walking up to the gallows but really, he’s just going to do coke with his evil doppelganger, does he really have to be so dramatic about it? Except the grin Scratch is giving him as he gets closer makes it all feel like a mistake.
“Hand it over.”
“Oh no, that’s not how this is going to work, Wake,” Scratch is laughing again, a gentle laugh, like he’s too high to bother with anything louder. Widening his legs, beckoning him closer with a finger. “It’s been a while, yeah? Gonna need to start you off slow.”
With a huff, Alan moves in closer until Scratch seems happy, right in-between said legs. Then, Alan feels Scratch’s hands yank at the bottom of his flannel, t-shirt, his sides, trying to bring him down and Alan is quick to bat them off, slapping them back harsher than is probably needed.
“Come on, on your knees, or you’ll get nothing.”
“What if I just take it?”
“Hm? Want to try?” Scratch sounds excited at that. Too excited.
Another huff and Alan starts lowering himself down to rest on one knee – not quite kneeling, he’s not going to give Scratch that, and it seems the whole thing is entertaining to Scratch enough to let it pass. He watches as Scratch starts to pour more cocaine out onto the bible, using it as a small table of sorts, the book to the side of him on the bed. Makes a little pile, like icing sugar, dips his first two fingers into it, coating them. Alan feels himself lick his lips in reflex and god he’s glad there’s no one around to see this.
Another hand raises up to gently hold onto Alan’s jaw, Scratch’s body curling inwards to reach down to the writer, creating a little space of just the two of them.
Alan feels the way Scratch’s fingers are caressing his skin, like they can’t seem to get enough of the texture of his stubble. A back and forth, like gliding fingertips over velvet – a thumb briefly touches Alan’s bottom lip and Alan can’t stop himself from parting his lips ever so slightly.
“Open up.”
If anyone asked Alan, he’d say he resisted more. Fought hard with the Herald of Darkness, refused him, struggled and tumbled until Scratch forced everything onto him.
The reality is that Alan just opens his mouth, easy as, and lets Scratch’s fingers enter without much protest. He feels them go for his gums, rubbing the white powder into them, feels the tingle and taste of the drug combine with the taste of flesh. He doesn’t keep his mouth open wide but neither does he bite down - maybe he should bite down, catch Scratch by surprise, he can imagine the sound of crunching bone being satisfying in its own way but. It’s starting to feel good – that slight numbness in the mouth hitting and the sensation of being touched, it’s hard to pull away from. Even as fingers start to explore his mouth beyond the function of rubbing the drug into his gums, Alan doesn’t pull away, lets Scratch caress his tongue, the sides of his mouth, the top, like Scratch is just as enamoured by the texture of his mouth as Alan is to have any sort of physical contact after so long of nothing.
He feels a little bit of drool escape his mouth and lets out a loud exhale. Not quite a moan.
The moment is ruined when Scratch reaches back further, tries to shove his fingers down Alan’s throat and the writer gags.
“Fuck off,” Alan splutters, pulling away, coughing. Scratch in return is laughing, loudly this time, like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen in a while. Scratch leaves his hand up and between them, covered in saliva, an uncomfortable reminder and Alan has to look away.
“Was that necessary?”
“Sorry, sorry,” trying to calm himself down from the fit of laughter, “just. Ha, I’m sorry, I forgot you’re terrible at giving head. That you gag even when brushing your teeth sometimes.”
“You didn’t have to,” it’s difficult to find the words without giving a name to what just happened, “do all that.”
“It felt good, though, yeah? You moaned a little.”
“I did not--”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re so manly and don’t make pathetic noises in bed, sure – whatever, want some more?”
Frowning, Alan glares at Scratch in silence.
Scratch just raises his eyebrow back.
“Can we just be normal about this?”
“Fine, fine,” Scratch straightens himself up again, pours some coke on a fist again to offer as a bump. Thankfully, the hand being offered isn’t the one covered in Alan’s saliva, but the hand that’s pouring – well, Alan can see said it leave wet marks on the little baggie and it’s filthy in its own way. He’s feeling hot again but now he can’t tell what it’s from – the drugs now entering his system or something else.
Best to ignore it.
Alan is quick to lean over to the bump being offered and snort it down once it’s in range.
Fuck.
It hits alright.
Sniffs once, twice, three times, pulls his face up and away for a moment, comes to rub at his nose like it’s irritated. He was never a big fan of rubbing it into his gums anyway, never really hit in the same way as snorting did, and it’s a head rush like no other. A direct cause and effect – the feeling hits like drinking a cold bottle of water after a week of thirst in the desert. The warmth he was feeling starts to get overpowering and almost as if his doppelganger can read his mind, Scratch starts pushing the flannel off his shoulders, leaving trails of residual drool and coke on the black and white checkered fabric.
It drops to the floor but Alan still feels hot.
“Hey, easy now, it’s strong stuff,” Scratch is back to using that tone again, not quite a whisper but it’s quiet, gentle, a voice only for Alan to hear but there’s no one else in the room with them. It’s teasing too, but with less bite than before, like Alan is in on the joke this time.
“I can take it--”
Another laugh from Scratch at that, and Alan knows he should be annoyed by that sound, is usually annoyed by that sound, but he feels a smile tug at his own mouth.
“Bad wording.”
“Yeah, you’re a master at that, bestseller,” Alan realizes in that moment that Scratch never pulled his hands away from his shoulders and arms after pushing off the flannel. He feels them now, rubbing against the t-shirt, bare skin, Scratch leaning down just a little bit more, closer than before. It feels... nice. The way the others hands are stroking up and down his upper arms, his shoulders, like they can’t get enough of the feeling. Not quite a massage but the tension under his skin does feel like it’s loosening. It feels electric when Scratch’s fingertips move from t-shirt fabric to bare skin, the flesh on flesh contact intensified, and Alan can feel every small difference between them again. Scratch’s hands feel softer than his, his nails feel more evenly manicured as they scratch down ever so slightly.
Alan looks into Scratch’s eyes and he wonders if his look exactly the same now.
The hands leave his arms and Alan tries to not let out a noise of disappointment at that, fails if the smirk on Scratch’s face is anything to go by, and watches as the other grabs the baggie again. Pours some out onto his tongue, like it’s sherbet, making a dramatic scene of it with his mouth opened wide and tongue sticking out, then starts to lean back down again, making his intentions clear.
Alan rises up and meets him half-way.
Later, when he wakes up among the debris of the cabin, in the dust of the valley, when a loop begins again, if he remembers – he'll blame the drugs. He’ll blame Scratch, he’ll blame The Dark Place, he’ll blame everything but giving into his own weaknesses. What was it that Alice used to say? Progress isn’t linear? This isn’t what he imagined that meant though. Maybe he won’t remember, maybe this is all just in his head. It is all in his head, isn’t it? He’s in that room somewhere, an owl watching him, can see those eyes watching him in the back of his mind. Judgement or approval?
The hot mouth on his own feels real though. The tongue that’s rubbing more coke into his gums feels real, and the taste of the drugs and the other self is vivid, high definition, now in technicolour. Draws him out from his head, to focus on just the physical feels like a relief and it’s been so long since he’s been allowed to exist in some kind of present when time is going backwards and forwards in ways that doesn’t make sense, overlapping on itself in a winding spiral. It’s easier to think of the way he can taste Scratch over the chemical taste of the drugs – a hint of whisky, something else, tastes human even if the doppelganger is not. Alan would like to pretend that there’s something there to remind him that Scratch is a being of darkness, his mortal enemy in this episode of an old budget TV show, but there just isn’t. It’s like kissing anyone else. Except it’s not anyone else, it’s himself, and the way Scratch reflects back what Alan does with his tongue, his lips, is an unusual sensation but not unwelcomed.
They pull apart with their breathing synched and both of their lips wet.
Before Scratch can get a word in, he’s pushing his double down onto the bed, raising up and slotting himself in-between those long legs that go around his hips like it’s second nature. Pushing the blazer off his shoulders, it hits Alan that he wants to rub his hands down the others arms in the same way as earlier, does exactly that when the blazer is off, a useless pile underneath them, probably going to get wrinkled but Scratch doesn’t even bother complaining.
Or well. Alan doesn’t give him time to complain. Kisses him again and there’s not even the excuse of it being just a way to pass the drugs between them, as flimsy as an excuse as that was to begin with.
Scratch lets out a small moan and it feels like Alan has just touched a hot stove. Breaks off the kiss early, feels like he’s been pinched. His hands were in the middle of unbuttoning Scratch’s waistcoat and they pause, like they were caught red-handed at a crime scene.
“I,” Alan starts dumbly.
“Oh shut the fuck up, whatever you’re gonna say.”
“Look--”
“What? Not the first time you’ve done coke and started making out with whoever was closest,” a snort, mocking, like Scratch is annoyed at having to deal with another one of Alan Wake’s crises. Vaguely, Alan wonders if this isn’t the first time. Scratch sounds bored of it.
“You’re literally the reason my life is hell--”
“And I’ll take you to heaven if you’re good to me, yeah?”
“Fucking awful pick-up line,” Alan hisses out but then Scratch is pulling at the back of his head, fingertips entwining with hair, pulling Alan back in for another kiss and the writer doesn’t stop it.
It’s easier to go along with it if it doesn’t feel like he’s the one making the pro-active decision. Except, Scratch isn’t forcing his hands to continue unbuttoning that waistcoat, Scratch isn’t forcing him to glide his hands across the material hiding underneath. The dress shirt feels soft under his fingers - feels expensive – as he drags his hands up and down the planes of the others body. The fabric goes with it, tightening and loosening with the movement. Vaguely, Alan feels the others nipples harden and his hands start to slow down to savour the feeling of them with each pass. He feels the hand in his hair tighten, fingertips on his scalp scratching, feels the exhale of breath against his face, against his mouth, the kiss turning sloppier as they both begin to focus on other sensations.
Alan thinks about reflections again and breaks off the kiss.
Reaches a hand over to the pile of white on the bible and dips his fingers into it, brings them up to Scratch’s face and something flutters in the pit of his stomach at the way Scratch looks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes that speak of hedonism.
“Open up,” Alan orders but it’s a whisper.
Alan shoves his fingers into Scratch’s mouth as soon as it opens and starts to re-enact the scene from earlier. Except, where Scratch had been gentle in his caresses, Alan doesn’t give him the same treatment, rubs harshly into gums, grabs the tongue between his fingers, shoves into the sides and stretches out the mouth in a way that makes the other look stupid but Scratch doesn’t stop him. Could bite down just the same. Could probably bite down harder than Alan could and there’s the feel of a sharp canine brushing against his fingers as a reminder but no pressure. Just takes it. The thought of that phrase makes Alan even feel hotter and he’s compelled to see just how similar they are as he starts to reach further back towards Scratch’s throat.
Alan expects a gag, a cough, but there’s nothing.
Shoves down a little harsher, there’s just the feeling of warmth swallowing around his fingers and Alan shivers, a spark down his spine, feels his own mouth part at the sensation. He feels Scratch’s hand has left his hair, has gone to the writers wrist instead, holding it in place loosely – no real pressure from the grip, neither pushing or pulling Alan’s hand away, just holding. They’re in this together.
Alan starts to move the fingers back, then in again, working up a rhythm. He’s looking for the limit now, wants to prove they’re the same, but all he gets is a quiet rumble of pleasure, a sound that’s like a gasp and a moan, it’s hard to tell with the way Scratch’s mouth is full. Alan takes in the others face, the drool down his chin, at the sides of his mouth, threads connecting his fingers with the others tongue, the way Scratch’s eyelids are struggling to stay open. In the dim light of the room, Scratch’s eyes look nearly all black now, from the drugs or pleasure, it’s hard to tell.
Is this what others saw?
An image of himself except it isn’t. This is a version of himself that never existed in the real world – at least. He hopes. He thinks so. Except, the memories of the past are blurry sometimes and now they’re overlapping with what he sees before him, changing the narrative to make him question everything.
God it’s fucked up how hard he is over this.
He finally pulls his fingers out from the others mouth and the connecting saliva is obscene, like something out of a bad porno. Scratch licks his lips once Alan has removed his fingers, tongues at his gums, he’s smiling and acting like whatever just happened was normal, expected.
“Surprised I didn’t choke like you did?”
Alan says nothing, wipes his hand on the front of Scratch’s shirt, makes sure it rubs over a nipple and Scratch bites his lip at that, laughs, but the way he’s had his throat fucked just now makes it sound more like a rumble.
“Oh, is someone a little mad that I’m better than you at something, yet again? I told you, Al, I’m better at being you than you are,” hands reach up to Alan again, sliding over his shoulders. Feels the way Alan’s back is tense from the position of leaning over Scratch, it’d be easier to just lay properly on top of the other but something like pride is stopping him. “I’m the you that isn’t afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I also don’t need to breathe.”
“So you’re just cheating.”
“Is that what you’re upset over? Or is it just seeing what you’d look like if you gave into what you want that scares you?”
“It’d be nice to not be psychoanalysed every five minutes.”
“Says the guy getting freaky with his evil clone, kind of comes with the territory, writer boy,” a slap on the shoulder, like he’s being fucking supportive. Alan raises himself at that, shoving off Scratch’s hands, looks down at the other. He could grab the gun out from his belt right now and see what would happen if he shot Scratch right in-between the eyes. Would it even do anything? Or will Scratch just laugh again. Will the blood from his forehead just spill down his face and then when they inevitably kiss again, what will it taste like?
Can Scratch even bleed? Would it even be red?
He thinks of the warmth of blood against fingertips and then the warmth of that mouth, that tongue.
Instead of his gun, he reaches for his belt buckle, the metal clanging loud in the room, metal hitting metal, the sound of leather against denim. Vaguely, he hears the thump of his flashlight hitting the carpet below as his belt loosens its hold on it but he doesn’t stop to pick it up. The bulge of his hard-on is obvious in his jeans.
“I like it better when you can’t talk.”
“Oh Alan, you sure you want to do this? There’s no take backsies.”
“What?” A frown, Scratch returns it with a smirk.
“I just mean – you'll have to prepare yourself after you fuck my face, okay? Cause I’ll do the same to you after, and I’ll be even harsher – and you actually have to breath, it’s going to be so much. You’ll probably cry--”
“Shut up--”
Alan feels his cock jump at the words, feels himself bite his lip. It feels like it’s taking forever to unbutton and unzip his jeans, like his fingers have gone completely numb but he knows he hasn’t done enough coke to be at that stage, it’s something else.
“You use me and I’ll use you just the same, but you’ll like that, won’t you?”
Yes. He wants to shout it out, wants a moment of catharsis to finally just be honest with himself, literally himself, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Scratch almost looks disappointed, the smirk no longer there, a small frown instead. Maybe in another loop they’ll get there, it seems to say, maybe Alan just isn’t ready yet, but it’s okay, they have so much time. Alan is writing the internal dialogue of the antagonist in his head, reading into that look Scratch is giving him but maybe it’s all just shit he’s making up while high and horny. Nonsense. A draft to bin after he rereads later – just projecting onto another character yet again. Still, the thought is sticking, frightening, but just ever so slightly exhilarating, that in another loop, time, place, there’s an Alan that isn’t afraid to admit to what he wants.
But – he's agreeing in his own way. Even if he doesn’t say anything.
He takes his cock out from his jeans, his underwear, starts to climb onto Scratch. Takes hold of Scratch’s head from the back with one hand, keeping it held up, knees either side of it, lets his fingers break up the waxed perfection of the others hair. It feels like a brittle shell that breaks apart at his harsh grip, revealing a softness hidden underneath. His other hand holds his cock, directs the tip to the others lips, lets left-over dried-up drool mix with precum and the prickle of stubble on his sensitive flesh makes him quiver.
“Not even going to set up a line on your dick for me? I’m disappointed.”
“No one actually does that.”
“I suppose your dick isn’t long enough to be worth trying it--”
Alan shoves in.