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deleted scenes part one

scenes from the original manuscript that didn't stick. More fanfiction vibes. VERY old writing, cringe warning ahead. Kat goes by Sicarius mostly in this version.

  Kat comes home drunk to a very high-strung Mortem 
	Mortem sinks deeper into the couch cushions as the man on the television storms off set. He’s been desperately trying to keep his focus on the fictional, on this black and white world of trivial problems and romantic nonsense. But so much shit happened today and it’s hard to focus on anything. Sicarius has been gone for hours and it’s strange that he’s more scared now than when he’s around. Everything is different. He doesn’t know what to think, but he wouldn’t mind his weirdly flirtatious actions right now, even if it’s just for the purpose of distraction. Being alone is eating him alive.
	The door to the apartment opens, and it takes Mortem a moment to realize the sound is coming from the real world and not from this big box he’s been glued to. He swivels his head around as Sicarius stumbles in, bruised and battered. 
	“What happened to you?” Mortem asks, but Sicarius doesn’t answer. He throws his coat onto the bed and stumbles into the kitchen. 
	The blue glow of the tv casts large daunting shadows on the wall as Mortem watches Sicarius return with beer bottle in hand.
		“Are you...drunk?”
		Sicarius shrugs. “Tipsy,” he says, and slumps onto the couch. He takes a swig from the bottle and plops his head on Mortem’s shoulder. Mortem stiffens. 
	“Whatcha watching?” Sicarius asks. 
	“I-I’m not sure. Something stupid,” Mortem stammers, leg bouncing up and down with each syllable. The empty nozzle of the beer bottle stares back at him, and he’s suddenly desperate for the lingering taste of this man’s lips. He points to it. 
	“Can I-uh, have some of that?” 
	“Knock yourself out.” Sicarius sways the bottle in his direction but doesn’t let go. Mortem grips it, half his hand on Sicarius’ warm fingers and the other half on cold glass. He takes a sip. He needs to be way looser to do this. The flavor is unpleasant, but it’s not unexpected. His lips pucker and Sicarius laughs. 
	“You’re cute,” he says, his breath hot in Mortem’s ear. He shudders. Is it bad that he’s getting turned on by this? Man, now is not the time to be hit with all this pent up sexual frustration. 
	Mortem strokes a hand through Sicarius’ hair, only to be met with matted blood and an unusual bump. Sicarius winces. 
	“Jesus...does that hurt?” Mortem withdraws his red-tinted hand. 
	“A little,” Sicarius admits, continuing to nurse his beer. There’s something oddly mesmerizing about the action. The motion of the liquid rocking back and forth in its container, the way he throws his neck back and gulps audibly with each swig, his big veiny hands gripping the bottle, the closeness...
“I-I’m getting you an ice-pack,” Mortem says, slipping his shoulder and eventually the rest of his body free. He grabs one of the many ice-packs stocked in the freezer, and an assortment of first aid supplies scattered around the apartment. 
	When he returns, Sicarius is staring blankly at the ceiling. His body is somehow extended to fill the entirety of the couch, his legs sprawled this way and that, one arm hung over the couch’s rim and the beer bottle dangling from the other. Mortem pries it from his fingers and places it on the floor. 
	“Hey, I was...I was drinking that,” Sicarius utters. 
	“I think you’re done,” Mortem says, and kneels in the small open space between the man’s legs. If he wasn’t beat up and drunk this could be a lot more fun. 
Sicarius cocks an eyebrow. “Is that for me?” 
	“Yeah, that’s...for you.” Mortem hands him the ice-pack. When it makes contact with the back of his skull he hisses like a teapot releasing steam.
	“What is that from, anyways?” Mortem asks, dipping his feet in the art of casual interrogation. 
	“From a fight,” he says, adjusting the pack so he can lean on it hands-free. He sinks deeper into the couch and spreads his legs out further.  
	“No, duh. What did you do?”
	Sicarius laughs as he reaches for the bottle. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
	Mortem grabs his wrist.“Try me.” 
The staredown begins. His heart races.What the hell is he doing? 
	“Alright, then. How about...got attacked by a crazed cyborg. That sound believable to you?” 
	Mortem scoffs. “You’re more drunk than I thought.”  
	“Ok, how about...sexy lady with a robot arm. Is that more on your level?” 
Mortem doesn’t know why that makes him stop but it does. The silence makes him feel sick and he laughs nervously to fill in the spaces. What has he been doing all night? What is he trying to prove? 
	“Be more serious, won’t you?” 
	“I am being serious. What do you want me to say?” 
Mortem holds his breath. His instinct is to say “the truth” but that isn’t what he wants. If Sicarius has been fucking around with women all night he doesn’t want to know. But why? Why is he so frustrated? Why is he so angry? Why is the only thing he wants right now is for this man to touch him and only him? 
Suddenly the tv roars to life and he nearly jumps off the couch. He forgot the thing was on. He takes a deep breath.
	“Just...forget it,” he says, and he grabs a travel-sized bottle of peroxide and shakily unscrews the cap. He pours way too much on a washcloth and presses it hard into the side of Sicarius’ scratched up face. The man tenses but otherwise doesn’t move.  
	Mortem’s breathing is heavy and his heart is pounding and everything is all mixed up. He feels like his brain has been re-wired and he can’t figure out what goes where. 
	Sicarius puts his hand over the cloth and Mortem pulls away. An obnoxiously loud toy commercial plays through from start to finish. 
	“Why did you save me?” Mortem whispers, breath hitching as he blinks back tears. 
	Sicarius cocks his head in confusion. The blue glow from the television illuminates his face like a flash of lightning, then he sinks back into low-light and flickering shadows. 
	“Why didn’t you let me die?” Mortem yelps, and the floodgates open. So much energy is being rerouted to his tears that he barely registers the hand on his cheek. But when he does the warmth sends a jolt through his body. 
	“Why…” he repeats, lips quivering. 
	“Did you want to die?” Sicarius asks. Mortem stays silent. 
	Lips press lightly against his and everything feels lighter. How can someone so psychotic be so gentle? Another hand is trailing down his lower back and his brain shuts off. When they separate he feels like a toy that’s just had its batteries ripped out. Mortem whines pleadingly.
	“What was that for?” 
	Sicarius shrugs. “I’m selfish, I guess.”
	“Selfish…?” Mortem repeats. 
	“Well I’d rather you didn’t die.”
	“...you’re an idiot.”
	“So I’ve been told.”