Cut away
After a few days of captivity, Dave comes back from his telemarketing job.
The kitchenette with its peeling linoleum flows directly into the cramped living room without any real division; just a sad excuse for an open floor plan. It's a layout that offers no privacy, nowhere to hide.
His eyes immediately land on Kirk, still bound to the chair in the center of the living room area, head bowed. The sound that fills the confined space is unmistakable; muffled sobbing beneath the strip of duct tape.
Dave tosses his keys onto the counter with a sharp clatter. Five steps is all it takes to cross from the door to where Kirk sits trembling.
Dave sighs and it takes everything inside him not to roll his eyes.
"You kidding me right now?"
He rips off the tape from Kirk's mouth violently. “What the hell’s going on?” He asks aggressively.
Kirk barely looks up. “What's going on? Isn’t it obvious?” He chokes out between sobs. “I’ve lost everything; my band, my freedom, my life…”
Dave's fists clench at his sides, knuckles whitening. "You think this is easy for me? I've been trying to help you, Kirk. I fed you, clothed you, took care of you! And this is how you fucking repay me? By crying like a fucking child?"
Kirk finally looks up, his eyes red-rimmed but suddenly blazing. "Help me? You're the reason I'm here in the first place! You kidnapped me, Dave!" His voice fractures. "You ruined my life..."
Dave takes half a step closer. "Ruined your life? You think you had it so good with Metallica? Those assholes would've chewed you up and spit you out just like they did with me. If anything, I'm the one who's keeping you safe!"
"Safe?" The word escapes Kirk as something between a laugh and a sob. "You've hurt me, humiliated me, and stripped me of everything! How is that keeping me safe?"
Dave’s temper flares, and before he could stop himself, he grabs Kirk by the shoulders, shaking him. “You don’t get it, do you? They don’t give a single fuck about you, Kirk. They never did and nobody fucking will. I’m barely the only one who does now!”
Kirk’s voice cracks as he tries to pull away. “You’re insane! You're nothing like what they told me, you're far worse!”
He releases Kirk abruptly and steps back, turning toward the kitchenette. He frowns and sighs, looking at Kirk's back. He leans against the counter, and stares down at his hands. The accusation echoes in his head, probably louder than it should be.
Why does it hurt this much? Why does this guy's opinion matter at all?
And he knows he shouldn’t care. Kirk is supposed to be his captive, someone he could mold, control, and keep for himself. Yet, hearing those harsh truths from that guy's mouth feel like a dagger twisting in his gut.
It's not supposed to be like this.
He glances around his small house. Before Kirk, the emptiness of the place had been suffocating. Now, Kirk's presence fills every corner. And it's not like Dave likes him or something, no. He's quite annoying, but is giving much less trouble than Dave thought he would. And most importantly, his presence fills this house, and Dave couldn’t imagine it any other way. Kirk was his now, and whether he liked it or not, he was going to stay. Forever.
Kirk would learn to accept it. And until then, Dave would do whatever it took to keep him here.
Dave's eyes burn with renewed rage as he yanks open a drawer and pulls out his revolver. He crosses the short distance back to Kirk, untying him with quick, angry movements.
"Get up," he orders, grabbing Kirk's arm and hauling him to his feet.
Six steps and they're at the sink. "Wash the dishes," he barks, the muzzle of the revolver pressing harder against Kirk's back.
Kirk's hands tremble as he turns on the faucet. In the kitchenette, Dave stands close enough that Kirk can feel his breath on his neck.
"You're fucking useless, you know that?" Dave says, his voice low and venomous. "Metallica really scraped the bottom of the barrel with you."
Kirk sniffs, blinking rapidly as he fumbles with a plate.
“You're beyond pathetic,” Dave whispers.
Kirk grips the sponge tighter, soapy water streaming over his wrists, stinging the raw, red marks left by days of restraints.
Dave keeps pushing: "Worthless son of a bitch. You're only good for washing the dishes."
Finally, Kirk can’t take it anymore. He slams the dish back into the sink, turns around, and glares at Dave.
"Shut up!" Kirk shouts, his face inches from Dave's. "You think you're so tough with that- that goddamn gun? Huh? Fuck you."
And with that, he spits directly in Dave's face.
Time freezes. Dave reaches up in shock, wipes the spittle away with his thumb, and examines it as if studying an unfamiliar substance.. Without thinking, he tosses the revolver into the sink behind Kirk and lunges forward. His hands find Kirk's throat with practiced precision. They crash into the counter, knocking a coffee mug to the floor where it shatters into jagged pieces. They slide to the wooden floor, Dave straddling Kirk's hips, his weight making it impossible for Kirk to escape.
"What made you think you can fucking talk to me like that? Huh?" Dave shouts, pinning Kirk to the floor with his strong hands. Kirk gasps for breath, his vision blurring as he claws at Dave's hands. In the back of his oxygen-deprived mind, he thinks this might be it: the end of this nightmare. Finally.
Maybe it's for the best.
But suddenly, Dave's grip loosens.
Not entirely; just enough to allow Kirk to draw in a desperate, ragged breath that burns his lungs like fire. Dave remains atop him, his hands still wrapped around Kirk's throat, but now they're merely holding him in place, a human collar.
Dave leans down, so close that Kirk (surprised by not being able to smell any alcohol in his breath for the first time) can count the flecks of amber in his rage-dilated pupils. "Open your mouth," he commands.
Kirk stares up at him, confused and terrified. When he doesn't immediately comply, Dave’s grip tightens back slightly. “I said, open your fuckin' mouth.”
Reluctantly, Kirk obeys and his lips part.
Then, with deliberate slowness, Dave leans in and spits directly into Kirk's open mouth.
Humiliation burns through Kirk like acid, hotter and more painful than any beating. His eyes clench shut, tears leaking from the corners despite his best efforts to contain them.
Dave forcefully closes his mouth. His hand moves to cover Kirk's lips. "Now swallow it." His hand is so big (or Kirk's face is too small, Dave doesn't know yet) that he covers every feature in Kirk's face from the tip of his nose to the tip of his chin.
Kirk’s eyes clench shut, humiliation and disgust burning in his chest as he swallows hard, tears stinging his closed eyes.
Dave leans back, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. He softly slaps Kirk's cheek for good measure. "Yeah, that's for thinking you can fuckin' spit on me without consequences," he mutters, rising to his feet and leaving Kirk sprawled on the floor, gasping and broken. Dave retrieves the revolver from the sink.
He looks down at Kirk with the detached interest of a scientist observing a specimen. “You’re filthy,” he says coldly, eyeing Kirk with disdain. “Go take a shower. You fuckin’ stink.”
Slowly, Kirk pushes himself to his feet, using the counter for support. His legs feel like they belong to someone else, disconnected from his commands.
He makes his way towards the bathroom, painfully aware of Dave's eyes following him, dissecting each movement.
Kirk steps in, and Dave stands in the doorway, blocking the only exit, his body filling the frame.
“Take off your clothes,” he orders coldly.
Kirk freezes, his heart suddenly a jackhammer in his chest. A new kind of fear blooms in his gut, cold and sickly. “Dave, um, are you… are you gay?” He asked cautiously, gently, without meeting Dave's gaze.
Dave's expression changes, shock widening his eyes before anger narrows them to slits. It's as if Kirk has slapped him, the question striking deeper than any physical blow. "What? No! Of course not!" The bare thought of Kirk questioning his sexuality, offends him. “Why the hell would you even ask that?”
Kirk shrugs nervously. “No, I’m not judging you, I don't care… I just-”
"I'm not fuckin' gay!" Dave interrupts, his voice rising to a shout that bounces off the bathroom walls. Something in his tone would almost suggest like he's trying to convince himself as much as Kirk. "Goddamn it. Just shut the fuck up and get in the damn shower."
Reluctantly, Kirk begins to strip, his hands trembling as he peels off the borrowed clothes.
The vulnerability of standing naked before his captor makes his skin crawl, goosebumps rising on his arms despite the warmth of the small bathroom.
Dave watches him with an intensity that's truly for Kirk difficult to read. His eyes track Kirk's movements, lingering in places that make Kirk want to cover himself. When Kirk is fully undressed, Dave gestures towards the shower with the revolver. "Get in."
Dave reaches for the faucet and turns it to the coldest setting. Water cascades down, hitting Kirk like liquid ice. He gasps, his body instinctively recoiling from the shock.
“This will wake you up,” Dave sneers.
Kirk hugs himself, teeth chattering as the freezing water continued to pour down. For a moment, he tries to reach out and twist the knob to make the water warmer, but Dave slaps his hand away.
"D-Dave," he stammers, his voice breaking, "it's- it's too cold."
Dave squirts some shampoo on top of Kirk's head. “Good,” he replies. “Maybe it’ll wash away some of that shitty fuckin' attitude of yours.” He steps away and leans against the doorframe, one hand casually holding the revolver, watching Kirk naked as he suffers under the freezing water.
Kirk squeezes his eyes shut, rapidly trying to spread the shampoo on his hair.
The dynamic between them confuses Kirk. There's something in Dave's expression, in the way his eyes roam over Kirk's body. He thrives on the power he holds, clearly relishing the way he can manipulate and break Kirk down.
For Dave, he tells himself, it's not about desire. It's about control, about keeping Kirk submissive and feeding his own ego. But the way Dave forces him to strip, the way he watches with such intensity, the way he seems to enjoy Kirk's discomfort on a level that goes beyond simple cruelty; it makes Kirk wonder if there's something more, something Dave himself might not even be aware of.
The cold water sluices over Kirk's body, washing away the shampoo from his hair. His muscles contract painfully, his body fighting against the relentless chill. He tries to cover himself, to preserve some shred of dignity, but it's a futile effort.
“You’ll be getting freezing showers from now on until you start showing some goddamn respect,” Dave declares firmly.
Kirk opens his eyes and glances at him through wet eyelashes. “No- I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he mutters, his voice barely audible over the sound of the water.
“You don’t even fuckin’ know what respect is. You don't know shit,” he shoots back, “but don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
Kirk's gaze drops to the floor, watching the water swirl around the drain. He remains under the punishing spray, grateful for the momentary solitude. He allows himself to sit down, his buttocks go even colder against the freezing porcelain. His body trembles from both cold and the aftermath of adrenaline. He closes his eyes again, trying to find some quiet place within himself where Dave can't reach.
“You should really get a haircut. At least for those bangs of yours. You look like a fuckin’ mess.”
Kirk doesn't respond, too weary and defeated to argue. He focuses on cleaning himself as quickly as possible, desperate to end this freezing shower. His fingers are numb, skin prickling with goosebumps beneath the relentless spray.
Dave leans against the doorframe, studying Kirk's dark, wet hair. Unlike his own meticulously maintained ginger locks—always clean, always styled—Kirk's hair hangs in neglected tangles. The curls are frizzy, some tight and defined while others have surrendered to formless waves.
It's 1983, and long hair is practically a requirement in their world, fine. But there's a difference between intentionally styled metal hair and whatever this mess is.
When Kirk is done, he dries his arms half-heartedly with the towel hanging next to the shower, his movements stiff, mechanical, like a wind-up toy running down. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a part of him whispered that at least the shower was over, that at least this sliver of vulnerability had ended.
But then comes the sharp metallic snap.
Dave reappears in the doorway, scissors in hand. His crooked grin is as sharp as the tool he carries. "Uh-uh. Don't bother drying off too much," he says. "You ain't done yet."
Kirk freezes as Dave snatches the towel from his hands. His eyes flick to the scissors, then back to Dave's face, searching for some hint of humor, some sign that this is just another cruel joke.
Dave steps closer, gesturing with the scissors. The thin blades glint under the harsh bathroom light. "Turn around and sit on the edge."
There wasn’t even a flicker of resistance left in Kirk. He sank down onto the edge of the tub, his head lowering as if in preemptive surrender.
Dave tosses the scissors onto the sink counter and disappears for a moment. He returns with a comb in hand, his own precisely styled bangs falling perfectly across his forehead. He positions himself behind Kirk, the comb raised like a weapon.
"Jesus Christ," he says, looking at the wet tangles. "When's the last time you actually took care of this shit?"
Without waiting for an answer, Dave attacks the wet curls with the comb, starting at the bottom and working his way up. The teeth catch in the tangled mess, yanking Kirk's head backward. Kirk winces, his scalp burning with each rough stroke, but he remains silent. Dave isn't being gentle, far from it, but Kirk had expected much worse; had imagined Dave tearing through the knots with sadistic pleasure, not this almost methodical approach.
"You know," Dave says, working through a particularly stubborn tangle, "with actual fuckin' effort, your hair could almost be decent."
The comb snags again.
"Hold still!" Dave cries out when Kirk's head jerks back and a small squeak escapes Kirk's lips before he can catch it. Dave's fingers work through the knot, separating the strands with surprising dexterity. Kirk realizes that Dave actually knows what he's doing, and the thought is somehow more unsettling than if this were purely about inflicting pain.
When the tangles are finally worked out, Dave's fingers linger in the dark curls for a moment longer than necessary. He runs his hand through the now-untangled length, and it feels nice for the split of a second, reminds Kirk of his mom's touch (that's how gentle Dave's fingers were), but then Kirk gulps, remembering it's Dave, goddamnit.
Dave gets the scissors from the counter. "Keep still," he says again, his voice dropping lower. The scissors hover dangerously close to Kirk's nape, and Kirk holds his breath.
The first snip echoes in the tiled room, followed by another, and another. Dave takes a couple curls, pulls them, stretching the hair until it loses its natural curve almost completely, and then cuts it. He works with the aggressive precision of someone butchering meat rather than cutting hair.
Wet clumps of hair tumble down onto Kirk's shoulders, some sliding off and landing on the floor. Dave's cutting objectively more than Kirk needs (his bangs are the only real issue) but he seems determined to remake Kirk in his own image, or at least into something he finds more acceptable. This isn't entirely about making Kirk look better, it's about marking him, changing him, owning him.
"Christ, you're pathetic," Dave scoffs. "Sitting here like a kicked puppy, letting me do whatever the hell I want. And you know why, don't you?"
Kirk's lips part, but no sound emerges.
"'Cause you're basically my property now, Kirk," he answers for him. "And there's not a damn thing you can do about it."
Strands of hair hit the ground, and Kirk clenches his fist against his thigh, nails digging into his damp skin. With his other hand, he tries to cover his exposed genitals. He feels Dave's breath on the back of his neck, hot and heavy, a stark contrast to his own cold, wet skin.
Dave pauses, examining the dark curls between his fingers. Kirk's hair could be something to envy; thick, naturally curly, with that darkness that makes women want to run their hands through it. But Kirk treats it like an afterthought, lets it grow wild and untamed. It offends Dave's sensibilities. Even in his worst moments, even during his heaviest drinking binges, Dave never lets himself go like that. His appearance matters. Control matters.
"You're lucky I'm even bothering to clean you up," Dave says. "Maybe now you won't look like such a fucking charity case. Hell, maybe you'll even look decent enough to keep around."
Kirk closes his eyes, his humiliation burning hotter with every word, every uneven snip of the scissors. He wants to disappear, to sink through the floor and escape this moment, this man, this life that felt less like living and more like surviving.
"Turn around and look at me," Dave says, grabbing the towel.
Kirk turns around and opens his eyes reluctantly. Dave crouches down to eye level, handing him the towel, and Kirk only uses it to cover himself for now. Dave studies his face with narrow-eyed intensity, then raises the scissors again. With careful precision now, he trims Kirk's bangs, the blades uncomfortably close to his eyes. Kirk doesn't dare breathe as Dave works, his gaze fixed on the concentration in Dave's face, the slight furrow between his brows.
Finally, Dave steps back, tossing the scissors onto the sink with a clatter. “There,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans as if he’d just finished an unpleasant chore. “At least now you look half human.”
Kirk doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. His hair now ends just above his shoulders, the weight of it different, lighter. The good thing? His bangs aren't attacking his eyeballs anymore at every chance they get, at least.
Dave hasn't just cut Kirk's hair; he's reshaped it, imposed his will on it. Basically made it his.
Dave smirks, crouching down so they're eye level again. "What do you say, Kirk?" He asks, mockingly sweet. "Aren't you gonna thank me?"
Kirk’s throat tightens. He forces himself to nod, just once, and then: “Thank you.”
Dave's smirk widens, and he reaches out to run his fingers through Kirk's newly trimmed hair, pushing it back from his face with a gesture that's almost possessive.
"Yeah," he says. "Stay there," he commands, as if Kirk has anywhere else to go. He disappears from view to get Kirk new clothes, his footsteps receding down the hallway, leaving him alone in the bathroom surrounded by the pieces of himself Dave has so carelessly cut away.