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He can't run anymore. The fire shooting up his leg has become unboring and he can tell he is slowing down.
The Vocational building is a fucking maze, and he had gotten turned around one too many times for his own liking. But with Eddie on the prowl there wasn't much he could do.
Limping into a dusty hallway, Waylon realizes he hasn't seen these rooms yet. Unsure how far behind him The Groom was, he pushed forward. Noticing most of the doors were blocked with various furniture, there was only one way to go.
The lack of consistent light made the double doors at the end of the hall look ever more ominous. Though, Waylon knew he didn't have much choice. With his leg in this shape, he didn't want to risk climbing over the precarious stacks to reach a possibly locked window at the top. It would just be a waste of time.
Waylon placed his hands softly against the door, his ear soon to follow. Listening for any sign of movement, any sign of what lies beyond.
In the distance there is screaming, which while not uncommon, made Waylon jump all the same. It sounded close. Close enough that the software engineer knew it was within the Vocational wing. Eddie had found some poor sap, and from the sounds of it, the Groom was in too much of a state to even think this person could be a suitable bride.
"Great..." Waylon thought. Lamenting the taller man's utter devotion to the idea as him being his perfect bride.
Knowing Eddie was behind him, the blonde man pushed forward, noticing only one of the doors was actually unlocked.
The room on the other side was startling...
It was, clean...
Well, as clean as it could be while in a rundown, overrun, insane asylum. But the room he found himself in wasn't like any he had passed before.
It was like it was untouched by the rest of the building outside of it. It was only by looking closely that Waylon would even notice the dust gathering on the shelves, or the rust starting to set in around the exposed piping. But the slighter man didn't notice, too wrapped up in what he was seeing.
It was like someone created a house inside the asylum. There was furniture, a couch, armchair, arranged around a low table. Behind it, set back in the spacious room was what appeared to be a dinning room and kitchen area. Cans upon cans of industrial sized foods stacked neatly along the shelves hanging from the walls.
Turning to his left, Waylon could see a closed door. An old sign half hanging off of it that said "Changing Rooms" in perfectly typed letters.
To his right, an open door, that just beyond Waylon could seem a makeshift bed. Mattresses and mismatched linens spread out, a bed big enough for a king. Or, an overly large man and his spouse. The blonde man can feel his body tightening up.
Turning slightly back towards the door he entered, Waylon stopped. Eyes widening in alarm. In the corner of the main room, set away from the rest, a table with assorted fabrics. Sewing supplies littered around, and a lone clothing model with a simple dress hanging delicately from it's form.
He walked right into Eddie Gluskin's fucking house! The sad imitation of a happy home, right in the middle of possibly the worst fucking place on earth!
He could feel his breaths coming faster now. Panic starting the set in, the rooms before him making Eddie's delusions all too real.
Spinning on his feet, almost blind with terror, Waylon miscalculates and tweaks his already searing leg.
"Ahhh... Oh f-fuck!" The blonde can't keep the cry in, and just barely keeps himself standing as he bends to clutch his leg. Hands uselessly trying to stem a pain too deep to reach.
It's then that he hears the rushed footsteps. Loud and pounding as the speed down the hallway.
"WHORE!"
Waylon jumps at Eddie's below, body starting to shake as he hears his would be murderer coming closer to the door. Frantically looking for a place to go, a place to hide, Waylon hurries over to the sewing corner. Trying to see if he could fit under the table.
But with the openness of the room, there wouldn't be a hope in hell for the muscular variant to miss him underneath it.
Eddie already knew he was here. This was Eddie's house, his home. He would know where to look for an intruder.
Feeling the pit in his stomach yawning open, his gruesome fate rears closer and closer with the rhythmic pounding steps and curses heard beyond the doors.
Waylon had nowhere to go.
Taking one last look around, Waylon couldn't help how the area around him reminded him of old TV families. The perfect house, the perfect husband, the perfect... Wife...
Spinning around as quickly as he could the blonde looked back at the dress on the form.
It was a blue a-line affair, with an off white trim at the bottom of the skirt, and a full button down closure in the back.
Waylon would marvel at the craftsmanship if he wasn't so busy ripping it from the form. Shedding his shirt and pants as quickly as he could and pulling the garment over his head. The slighter man just had enough time to throw his old clothing in an out of the way corner and limp over to the makeshift kitchen, before the door burst open!
The crashing bang of the metal door hitting the wall behind it was The Groom burst in, echoed around the room and deep in Waylon's bones.
He had no idea if this was going to work, and staring down into the blood shot eyes of a blood splattered Eddie Gluskin did not make him feel anymore confident.
Stalking forward, hulking form ready to strike, knife dripping blood across the floor as his shoes trailed it in prints behind him, Eddie started across the room.
"YOU FUCKING SLU-!"
"EDWARD!"
Waylon's voice bounced around the room, full of authority he didn't feel, cutting the Groom off and stopping the man in his tracks.
Putting his hands on his manly, non childbearing hips. Feeling the soft fabric beneath his fingers, the blonde cocked his hip and starred down his would-be husband.
"What do you think you are doing, Mister Man? Tracking dirt into my perfectly clean home!"
Blue eyes, ringed in blood stare at him dumbly. Arms limp at his side, but still coiled tight and ready to strike. With a breath, Waylon grabs a less than clean looking rag from the counter, and slowly approaches. He has no idea what he’s doing. No idea if this will save him or kill him all the faster.
"I spent all day making this house livable, and I will not have you mucking it up with dirt from work." Putting at much conviction as he could in his voice. Steps as steady as they can be with his leg still bleeding. Waylon couldn't believe the words coming out of his own mouth. Couldn't believe he wasn't already stuck on the end of the large knife clutched at the side of the mentally disturbed man in front of him.
Coming within arms reach of The Groom was terrifying. This whole situation was terrifying, but being so close was like staring into the abyss. It chilled him to the bone, but he was too far in now. Nowhere to run, Eddie between him and the only exit he knew of.
In for a penny in for a pound.
Limping right up to Eddie, Waylon leans his slighter form forward. His chest against the others hulking form, the slighter man brings up the rag and starts dabbing at a blood stain on the white patch work shirt underneath the mock suit vest. It's futile, like he had any hope or idea at possibly getting the stain out.
Waylon was sure that shirt was a lost cause, but whatever helped the fantasy.
With an exaggerated pout, Waylon looked up at the other man staring holes into him. Eddie had not moved an inch. It was like he was stuck in time.
"This is going to be a mess to get out..." Sighing Waylon patted against the large chest in front of him. Trying to put as much affection into the placating gesture as he could. Hoping the other man couldn't see right through to how he was totally winging it.
"I know you work so hard, dear. But I do wish that you wouldn't have to bring so much work home with you." The nearly subvocal whine that comes from deep in the taller man's throat when Waylon says "dear" is almost sad.
Eddie Gluskin... Looking for love in all the wrong places.
Pushing forward, Waylon goes up onto the tips of his toes. Hiding a grimace and using more of the other man's strength for balance than he would ever admit. He sets the lightest of pecks on Eddie’s square jaw. Its light, almost non-existent, but Waylon can see Eddie’s eyelids droop. So enraptured with Waylon, with his delusion, the variant can't even see the world around him for what it really is.
Hands back on his hips, trying to convey the epitome of stern matriarch, Waylon gestures towards the changing room door.
"Off you go, Mister. Clean up while I get dinner ready." Turning around without another word, the slighter man heads towards the shelves of food.
Everything in his head is screaming at him for getting so close, for turning his back on a predator. And the complete silence from behind him doesn't help.
The hairs on the back of his neck are up on end, and he has to fight the urge to hunch his shoulders and make myself small. Waylon fell Eddie’s eyes on him, boring holes into him as the blonde pretends to look at the food offerings on display.
It goes on for far too long before he hears it.
It's said so low, with an air of self deprecating laughter, that Waylon almost misses it.
"Heh, women."
He can practically see Eddie shaking his head, a rueful smile on his face. But he can't mistake the sound of footsteps, not coming closer, but moving further away. Toward the left side of the room.
Waylon looks over his shoulder just in time to see those large shoulders disappear into the room, a glimpse of sinks and lockers, before the door swings closed. He can hear water turn on, and the soft sound of The Groom humming to himself.
An unwanted shuddering sigh burst from his lips, muscles all relaxing at once, forcing Waylon to lean against the counter, lest his knees buckle.
"Shiiiit..." he whispers.
Staring at nothing but mind a whirlwind of thoughts, Waylon can't help but want to laugh and cry. This whole situation now sooo fucked, and none of that should have worked.
But... nothing here should be the way it is. Waylon shouldn't be a patient. Patients should be getting proper care. Eddie shouldn't have been tortured. The Walrider shouldn't even be possible... But they were. All of these things were real and happening, and they were all trapped.
So wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost misses the sound of the water turning off.
With a stealing breath, he focuses on the canned foods. The thought of running flits past his mind for only a moment, but he doesn't dwell on it. There is no way he can run anymore. He hasn't eaten, his leg is shot to shit, and he is so very tired.
He'll never make it out like this. Hell, he may never make it out at all.
...but if he can buy himself some time. Give himself a chance to heal and gain some strength, maybe he could have a chance.
Play the perfect wife, survive Eddie Gluskin, survive Mount Massive.
Bring down Murkoff.