Writeoff

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It was over with far too soon for his liking.

Broken highway lines reflected his headlights as he put the miles between himself and the crime scene, leaving it all. Leaving him without having made him pay in full. A few minutes of confusion, and then oblivion: this was not enough to cover the years of terror, pain, and humiliation Del had suffered.

It was certainly for the best, though, from a practical standpoint. He'd thought it through, all of it, and chosen the safest route. Franklin Delano Robertson had never been in trouble with the law, and he'd made damn sure it would stay that way.

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As always when he did these things, he kept tabs on every surface, every item he touched during his visit. There weren't many. Kutner's Xbox, and the bottles of Dos Equis he'd fetched from the fridge. Setting up the game, oblivious, old Larry - oh, sorry, Lawrence - hadn't noticed him gripping the handle of the refrigerator door with the dish towel. Larry'd never seen it coming, but then nobody ever really did.

Del looked harmless, like the accountant he was, and nothing at all like a guy who did dangerous work on the side. He'd been small as a kid, and never had grown very tall or very wide, but he'd learned his way around a weight room. He was stronger than he looked beneath his long-sleeved dress shirts. Ironed, neat, like the useless twerp he used to be when Larry found out his middle name and started calling him Roosevelt, then Velvet, then Rosie. Like his fucking alcoholic stepmom and her good-for-nothing shithead son weren't bad enough. That was when school turned into a worse hell than home, because Larry was so fucking funny and the other kids wanted to be just like him.

Del had learned so much since then. Nobody'd dared to call him Rosie for a very, very long time.

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Larry didn't say Rosie either, when he showed up at Del's door like a gift from God. Little Larry Kutner had grown up, watched too much My Name Is Earl, and now he wanted to make it all okay. Del decided he could live with that.

He'd bitched about messy remodeling work at his own place in order to get Larry to invite him over instead; he'd held exactly the right tone of unforgiveness as he said the food and beer would be on Larry's tab that night. And he'd gone and traded stories, and he'd learned what Larry was these days, other than sorry.

Larry was a big fucking dork, for starters. This wasn't relevant, just interesting, until Del's eyes lit on the one significant object amidst the guy's collection of overpriced fanboy crap. A polished wooden case sat on that shelf, its lid propped open to reveal the Bourne Identity logo inlaid in brass, and a black velvet lining that cradled an honest-to-god Walther P5C. An excited prickle ran straight up Del's spine.

"Aw, man, Jason Bourne?" he said, with an admiration he'd never feel. "That guy was a badass." He reached for the case and sure enough, Larry stopped him.

"Um, careful with that," he said, taking it out himself to show it off. "I gave the prop one away, put the real thing in. Keep an actual, loaded pistol in plain sight and nobody freaks out." He obviously thought he was clever, that this was funny. "Especially useful if you work for a guy who likes to break into people's houses, including yours if he feels like it, and snoop around."

"Thought you were supposed to be a doctor."

"So's House," said Larry, and grinned, a big damn sappy puppy-love grin. "My boss. He's pretty much an asshole, but he's a genius."

"This, I need to hear about." It was the first completely true thing Del had said to him.

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Tonight was the third night of three. He sat for the last time beside the guy who used to grind his knees, elbows, and once even his face into the dirt, the guy who'd trapped him in a locker because back then, Del used to fit. It got so much worse than that, worse than Larry ever knew because the school district shifted and he disappeared, but by then it was way too late. The shit Larry started did not fucking stop. It got worse and it got worse until Del finally worked out how to end it without going to jail for what he'd done.

In a sense, he owed his current career - the illegal one, not the accounting gig - to Lawrence Kutner, but it wasn't something he'd thank the guy for. He sat there smiling on that sofa, and played two games at once. Larry was only aware of one of them, and he was winning that one until the Rohypnol began to kick in.

They staggered together into the bedroom because Larry thought he ought to lie down. He was blurrier with each step, and didn't notice Del's surgical gloves, or that he'd taken the gun from its case as they passed the shelf. It was perfect, seamless; the only sad thing was that, at the end, Larry wasn't capable of the fear he should have felt when Del put the gun in his hand, wrapped his fingers around it, and pressed the barrel to his head.

He'd been giggling softly right up until Del forced his finger inward and the gun went off.

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And so here he was, heading home, his mission complete and himself unsatisfied. He craved nicotine worse than he had in months, but he drove past the Holiday station without slowing down. No sense letting Lawrence Kutner cause him trouble now.

And that was the thing, the reason he'd done it this way. Trouble. What he really wanted was to let Larry live a year or two, playing with him from behind the scenes. He'd fuck up Larry's life so skilfully that the guy would go batshit insane. Larry's colleagues would start to distrust him, mock him and exclude him. His work would suffer; sooner or later he'd get fired. Hell, it might not even have had to end with Larry dead. Ruined and miserable would have been as good or better.

If only Larry'd been lying about his crazy-genius boss. He wasn't, though, and it required only a couple hours' research and one look at a photo of the man for Del to know. If he fucked around with Larry for any length of time; if he left too many tracks in Larry's world? Near certain odds House would get curious. House would dig, he would figure it out, and then he would do something.

Plan B it was. Get in, get the thing over with, get out clean. Not nearly as much fun, but Del wasn't an accountant for nothing. He knew that planning ahead was more important than getting kicks; that shoddy math and arrogant gambles were what made the big men fall. He knew his own balances, what he was willing to spend on revenge. This much, and no more.

He took the exit he needed, the one with the big defunct Super 8 where he could pull into the parking lot behind the darkened building and change his clothes, unseen. He'd dump the shirt and pants and the empty beer bottles into the edge of the woods where they'd be nothing but junk left behind by the homeless. Just another small mess for someone else to clean up.

The headlights of the rented Prius swept across the weedy parking lot before Del bumped his way to a stop and shut off the car, mentally going over the books on it all.

He was sure he'd removed all his prints, and he'd outwitted enough cops to know they wouldn't test the body for drugs. Nobody bothered with an autopsy on such an obvious suicide. Cops didn't have the time for that; too busy busting college kids for pot.

Del turned opened the car window, turned off the lights and the radio, and listened for cars or other people. Nothing. A rat, or something, skittered on the edge of the lot. Somewhere beyond that, an owl let out a low call. Done, and done, he thought. Get this part over, go return the rental, sign the fake name on the forms one last time, go home and have another beer. This wasn't the ending he wanted or deserved, but Del was pragmatic and would take what he could get.

"You still owe me, asshole," he said, and began to unbutton his collar.