R3 - Pt.13

Frankie was startled by the shift of the body on the bed next to her, and she gripped the bladed weapon in her hand as best she could without shaking. The unfaltering tick-tock heartbeat of the man gave away nothing; she couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or not just by listening to it. Of course, she could always check by actually looking at him.

“Ungh... F... Frankie?”

The girl froze, holding her breath. She knew it was inevitable that she’d have to talk to him at some point or another, but it was still dark outside... and she was all alone. Alone, with the clockwork monster.

Alone, with the Big Bad Wolf.

“Frankie... where am I?”

She felt a twitch in her fingers, as her muscles spasmed with tension. Oh, how she so desperately wanted to turn and run from this man. But then, where could she possibly go? She was stuck between a rock and a hard place. A multibillionaire troll and a violent timepiece.


“Frankie...” came a soft voice. She felt warm fingers gently brush her shoulder, and the mattress creak as the man sat up. She stiffened, gripping the blade so tightly in her hands her knuckles turned white. And then...

What are you doing? Act naturally. Speak to him.

Fighting every urge to scream and cry, the little girl turned her head to look at the ticking man. She exhaled gently, and dragged her gaze upwards to meet his own. Impossibly dark brown eyes observed her, and she thought for a fleeting moment that he perhaps already knew. But as she looked longer at him, she realised that there was no cruel smile. No cutting gaze. She collected herself and said in as calm a voice as she could muster:

“You’re back in my flat. The paramedics brought you back here... after you passed out...”

The man frowned.

“They know I’m staying here?” he asked concernedly.

“No,” Frankie said without hesitation, because it was one of the few truths she was able to tell now. “Mr. T said he’d... make sure they wouldn’t tell.” From the look on his face, she was sure that he was able to work out what that actually meant. What she wasn’t so sure of though, was whether it was a look of sympathy, or just plain relief.

The man’s eyes flicked down to the weapon in the girl’s hands, and if he was surprised, he didn’t show it.



“... That’s my knife.”

The human looked down at her hands, at the serrated knife clasped between her still slightly trembling fingers. The blade was somewhat weightier than she expected, and caught the little glimmers of light from the street outside wickedly on it’s teeth.

“... I know. I went and got it back for you...”

A half-truth this time. She hadn’t really been expecting the weapon to survive the explosion he’d caused at the warehouse, like he’d said it would, but she went back to check nevertheless. The whole place had been reduced to an unstable and blackened wreck, the ground saturated in water from when the fire services had put out the building.

It hadn’t taken her long to catch sight of the glint of the knife amongst the ash and debris, and pulling it out from under the wood and metal hadn’t been as difficult as she’d thought. But really she hadn’t retrieved it for him. No, this was more for herself.

True, she could have used any of the knives in her own flat, but Frankie secretly hoped that in bringing it back to him, she could gain his trust a little more. That’s what Mr. T had told her anyway.

Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that the man had moved closer to her, quietly saying:
“You’re shaking...”

She sniffled slightly. This was too much for her to handle. He was going to find out. God,  what had she gotten herself into? Maybe she could tell him, and he wouldn’t be angry at her.

Yeah, right. She would have believed that before they’d gone out that evening, but now... She hadn’t really taken him seriously when he’d threatened her in his entranced state. It had shocked her, and scared her, but some rational part of her had told her that he wouldn’t really do anything like that. With his charming demeanour, polite manners... it almost seemed that the man who had existed behind the screen of her television was just... fiction.



Not anymore, though. Not that she’d seen what he was capable of.

She hadn’t been rational. She’d just been naive.

Tears brimmed at her eyes, but she stopped herself from crying just yet, managing to choke out a question she had been meaning to ask him since he had woken.

“... Malcolm...” she began, her voice barely louder than a whisper and shaking as much as her hands were. “... Are you...” she gulped, “going to... k-kill me?”

“... Only if you give me a good enough reason to,” he said gently.

“And h-have I?”

The girl looked back up at him, expecting a sigh perhaps, from the man. A sombre look on his face enough to tell her that she was right. Or maybe even his hands around her neck, like he’d promised her.

Wrong, again.

It was worse.



His cold, handsome smile broke across his face, his eyes flashing with something akin to delight, and he replied clearly and with dark, mocking, seriousness:

“Trust me, if you’d already done so, I’d be posting your body parts back to your father right now.”


That was it. That was all the excuse she needed. The tears burst from her eyes, and she sobbed loudly, feeling more like a child than ever. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably as the sobs turned to cries, and the cries into wails. She wept even harder when she felt the knife being taken from her non-functioning fingers, expecting him to end her life then and there. She didn’t protest when the blade was finally eased away, instead simply using her freed hands to rub at her eyes and hide her face from him.

She was so distraught that she barely noticed when he tentatively, and without word, pulled her closer to him, gathering her in his arms and hugging her gently to his chest, as if he’d done this action a million times before.

“Shhh...” he hushed gently, his hot breath buffeting against the girl’s forehead. “It’s okay, my little human...”

“No...” Frankie shook her head, conflicted between pushing him away or letting him soothe her. “Y-you... s-scare me...”


... I don’t... mean to...


A soft, warm, genuine laugh bubbled from his throat, as his arms remained in a loose embrace around her.
“Ahahaha... Emaline used to say that too...” he murmured, more to himself than her.

Frankie sniffed, wiping her tear-soaked face with her equally tear-soaked hands.
“You n-nearly... k-killed... Oh my God... his head... was...” she gasped, feeling her breaths shorten in her panic at recalling the events that had transpired that night.

The girl sensed him shift slowly, before she felt his long fingers trail along her cheek, effortlessly brushing away the tears from her face with far more success than her own wet fists had. She felt as though she ought to have flinched, to push his hand away. But she didn’t. She was just so tired now.

“Frankie...” His voice was low and calm, as he dropped his hand from her face. “I meant what I said before: I like you...”


I like you, Frankie…


“But... you’d still... h-hurt me... wouldn’t you?” she replied, a slight bitterness weaving it’s way into her tone.

What!? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Stop antagonising him.

He paused for a moment. She assumed that maybe he was thinking of an appropriate reply.

“... I’m not a nice person, Frankie...” he mumbled, reaffirming the embrace he held her in, gently and slowly. “But... that doesn’t always make me a bad one...”

“If you would let me...” he continued tenderly, “I truly would like to be your friend.”

Frankie refused to reply. It could just be more lies. She couldn’t tell anymore. Really, when she thought about it, they were both as bad as each other. She picked at the skin on her fingers, fighting back another bout of sobbing.

“Or... I suppose...” he whispered sadly, “I could just leave, if that’s what you want...”
She noted how his arms loosened with each word, his unhappiness so apparent that it hurt her to listen to him.

“Would you like me to go, Frankie?”


You're just like me. You're lonely too.


She heard the intake of breath through the receiver she’d been given, undoubtedly the voice of whomever it was at the other end about to tell her to persuade him to stay. But she wouldn’t let them speak.

“N-No!” she shouted, her throat dry from the crying she’d done. She clung to the clockwork stranger and hugged him tightly, pressing her face into the fabric of his hoodie and letting fresh, but quiet tears spill from her eyes. “No... don’t leave me...”

And she meant it. She didn’t need anyone whispering in her ear urging her to stay with him.

The truth... was that she wanted to be his friend too. As much as he would hate her if he found out about her betrayal, she had to get to know him one way or another, and she’d rather do it because she wanted to, rather than because she’d been told to.


His arms tightened around her shoulders, his body cocooning hers, as he returned her embrace just as strongly. Frankie sighed against his shoulder, feeling a welcome drowsiness overtake her. She hadn’t been imagining the raised body temperature when she’d been sewing his skin up earlier; he felt a comfortable few degrees warmer than she was.

She inhaled shakily, taking in the scent of what she thought was the clothing he wore. It smelt of... lavender, was it? The girl frowned to herself. There wasn’t any such thing as wild lavender anymore. She recalled seeing some at a botanical garden she once visited with her Dad, but even that had been genetically modified in some way or another. Either way, it was one of her utmost favourite childhood memories.

Her Dad, in Brighton....
She missed him so much. The old him. The one who used to smile.

He’d left her too.



Sleepily, on the brink of falling into slumber, she mumbled into the warmth of the wolf’s chest:

“I’m tired... of being left alone...”

With that, her eyes flickered shut, succumbing to the heat and the aroma of lavender, nostalgic and calming, and she was certain, just before she dropped off, she heard a small, sad voice reply:

“... Me too.”