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adambarrettz · 13 days ago

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Bigger Than This

Fandom: Abigail (2024)

Word Count: 2.6K

Rating: T (Alcoholism, Brief Violence, References to Bullying)

Summary: A prequel fic/character study of Terrence "Peter" Lacroix, exploring the crime that placed him on Abigail's radar and the months leading up to the events of the film.

Author's Notes: I love Peter's character a whole lot and knew I just had to explore what we learn about his backstory a little further!! I'm grateful to this film and this tragic silly guy for inspiring me to write something again. I hope you enjoy it!

Also available to read on on AO3!

—

January, 2024

It’s just my job.

It’s just my job, he thinks to himself, as he hears the familiar crack of bone.

It’s just my job, the thought repeats, as he lets go of the last man’s head and watches him crumple to the floor like a rag doll.

It’s just my job, is all he hears, as the silence of the dingy warehouse finally sinks in. The blood on his hands is starting to dry up, and he wipes flakes of it off onto his pants with a practised motion.

The phrase repeats itself again and again, ringing around his skull until it turns from comfort swiftly to a new form of torment. This one’s no different, a new thought hisses. You’re still weak, after all this time.

Terrence stumbles out of the scene in a daze, almost as though stepping away from his brutal night’s work would make it all vanish. Leaning heavily against the doorframe, he looks out across the city lights and instinctively zeroes in on the unassuming headquarters of the family he’d signed his life away to. Whether it was fifteen or even twenty years ago, he doesn’t recall – it’s impossible to retain memories of this job, even if he wants to. Already, he feels his muscles stiffen in protest as he entertains the thought of glancing back at the bodies littering the floor behind him.

He had learned a long time ago that there was no sense in regretting, nor even thinking about his work for any longer than necessary. We didn’t hire you to think, he’s often reminded. It’s just as well, really – apparently it’s not his strong point.

Terrence clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Willfully wiping his brain is basically child’s play, but the physical aftermath is a harder beast to tame. His mouth is dry, his head is pounding, and senseless though it sounds, he swears he’d kill ten more people for a drink. All he had to do was go through the motions and report back to the boss, and then he could get his fix.

As he proceeds down the hill, he mentally rehearses what to say when entering the office: something classic like they’ve been taken care of would suffice, he reckons. He can already see his boss’ curt nod of acknowledgement, and the less-than-genuine smiles of his fellow enforcers. The thought of them ties his stomach into knots, as it ever did – but tonight, the feeling is subdued by the twitching smile that spreads across his face when he reaches a hand into his pocket.

They still don’t know what you did.

—

December, 2023

“Christ, that moron’s still alive?”

“Come on, now. Say it in fewer words, so Lacroix will understand.”

“You get dropped on your head as a baby or something?”

“Good thing he’s the boss’ little killing machine – he’s no good for anything else.”

Terrence hadn’t realised he was biting his tongue until the taste of blood filled his mouth, prompting a hot rush of tears to cloud his vision. Hastily wiping an arm across his face, he knew he had courted the plan for far too long to back out now. This part of the city was dead quiet at night, but his mind was a cacophony of noise as it stayed stuck on the sneering faces of his crew, who belittled him every day as though it were easy as breathing. They deserve this. I deserve this.

Sitting on the cold stone edge of a fountain and trying in vain to halt his jittering leg, he grasped his cross pendant with both hands and whispered a call for forgiveness, before finally succumbing to the adrenaline of cold, blind revenge.

He’d broken back into the building and stolen from his crew that night, a plain and simple crime. Looking back, he’s still surprised he got away with it – one would think that someone of his stature and presence could never achieve the stealth necessary. But by some twisted miracle he’d pulled it off, and from the moment he dropped the first wad of notes into his rucksack, he told himself that they had it coming. He hadn’t given everything to get this big only to continue feeling this small. No, father’s words had made sure of that, and this time he wasn’t going to take it lying down. He wasn’t going to be weak, weepy little Terry anymore, and if that meant embracing the petty villainy that came with this line of work he lamented, then so be it.

All he could do now was sit with what he’d done, and hope to God that the money would last long enough to justify it.

—

January, 2024

Terrence opens the door of his usual bar with just a little too much force, the resulting sound alerting its patrons to his presence like a pack of frightened woodland animals.

“Sorry everyone,” he says sheepishly, raising a hand and laughing it off.

The low hum of chatter trickles back into the scene, and immediately he submerges himself in it. It’s comfortably busy for a Thursday night, and he plays a little game of how many locals he can spot as he makes his way up to the bar.

“Hi, Terry.”

A petite woman in her mid-thirties greets him. Her tone is warm despite her lack of eye contact, laser-focused on filling the second of three beer glasses for a group of rowdy men to his right.

“Good evening, Noémie. I’ll start with the usual.”

She looks up through her lashes and smiles, fondly rolling her eyes as she watches him rub his hands together in anticipation. Terrence smiles from ear to ear in turn, the toll of his day’s work already beginning to melt away as he shifts himself onto a barstool.

Though it doesn’t seem so to an outsider, Terrence is hardly friends with his bartender – all Noémie ever hears from him are a handful of impersonal anecdotes, and he receives about the same from her. She was welcoming and good-humoured, but not more so to him than any of the other regulars. He’s just another part of her working routine, and that’s ok.

As often as he tells himself this, there are moments that pique his nagging interest to get to know her properly: he’s always been curious about the floral tattoos trailing up her arms. But even he knows better, lest an innocent conversation lead her to discovering the horrors that drive him here night after night. For as long as he held a job that threatened to bleed into any good thing he touched, arm’s length was always for the better.

He’s snapped out of his spiral as Noémie pours a generous glassful of whiskey in one swift move, pushing it towards him without spilling a single drop. If he hadn’t been so stupid as to take the path in life he did, Terrence reckons he’d have enjoyed the life of a bartender.

Reaching into his pocket, his fingers clumsily curl around a stolen note. He winces on instinct when he brings it out into the open, as though the people surrounding him would be able to tell it wasn’t his. As he slides it across the polished wood and watches Noémie accept it with a flick of the wrist, the night continues on as normal.

Something churns inside of Terrence. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t committed much, much worse crimes as recently as an hour ago. Why did he feel so guilty? His branch had been up in arms about the stolen earnings, and he had taken silent, gleeful advantage of the fact that he was the last person they would suspect.

They deserve it.

His mantra rushes in to save the moment.

I deserve this.

Terrence chuckles uneasily to no one but himself, before catching his reflection in the glass he found himself staring down into. Right there and ready for the taking was an instant remedy for guilt of all kinds. Tilting his head up, he downs the drink at a speed that would concern the staff if his habits weren’t another part of the scenery by now. It burns all the way down his throat and into his stomach, as though someone had lit a fire pit there. Smoky-sweet and perfectly aged, he reels in the sensation it brings, exhaling with a groan. There were few comforts greater than knowing it was only the first sip of many.

The night that follows is as short as ever, made shorter still by the thick haze that descends upon his senses, turning hours to minutes. His surroundings are of no consequence, his skin is warm to the touch, and his mind is comfortably numb. Tonight, however, it’s not long before Terrence feels a sharp sensation prodding against his forearm. He shoots up with a gasp, blinking a pair of bleary eyes at the blur of amber light before him. He sniffles, unfolds his arms from atop the bar, and hears his back click as he straightens it out.

“Hey, brother. Don’t go passing out on me, ok?”

Noémie’s voice is a tinny echo between his ears, and it takes him a moment to process. He watches her clear a stack of glasses from beside him, tall enough to reach her chin, and he realises with a dull sense of shame that each and every one was his. No wonder he dozed off, with no recollection of it to boot.

“Mm… m’sorry,” he croaks out, tone flat and words laboured.

“S‘alright.” She gestures vaguely. “Do what you’ve gotta do.”

Terrence just nods, gripping onto the side of the bar as he steps off of the stool and turns around to face the empty space behind him. He lets out a sigh that seems to take his whole body strength before stumbling his way towards the door, head swimming.

“Goodnight, Terry.”

He turns around to see Noémie, now a few paces behind him.

“Th-Thank you. G’night,” is all he manages in return.

He grips the door handle after one or two unsuccessful attempts, stepping out into the bitter cold. He watches the sign on the door get flipped to Closed before turning in what he hopes is the direction back to his apartment.

—

March, 2024

The money had already run out. His guilt, too, was a distant memory. Now, the only thing he regrets is having stolen such a modest amount.

He had given a portion of it to his mom, under the pretence that he had gotten a long-overdue bonus at the bodyguarding job she thought he worked. He shouldn’t have spent as much of the rest of it as he did on booze, though it was easy to say that in hindsight. He should’ve known the excess money would only fuel the vicious cycle he was trapped in.

Today, he carries out no particular orders; simply keeping his eyes peeled as he traverses an allocated area of the Broussard family territory, and preparing himself to respond to any threats in an appropriately violent manner. This was until a colleague reached up to tap him on the shoulder faster than he could process the footsteps that preceded him.

“Lacroix. The boss wants to see you.”

The young man forgoes any further niceties and walks away. Terrence immediately feels his heart sink into his shoes, and he grasps for his pendant beneath his shirt. They couldn’t know he did it – no one had regarded him with any more than the usual air of suspicion since that day. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps they were ready for him. Perhaps there’d be someone waiting behind the door with a loaded gun when he entered.

Never having been one to refuse orders, Terrence begins to drag one foot in front of the other, steadily making his way towards the office in a daze of resignation.

“Lacroix.”

The air in the room of the Broussard patriarch is thick, but not oppressive. As Terrence turns to close the door behind him, he thinks it’s almost too good to be true that he’s not at the business end of a pistol.

“Yes, sir?”

Terrence meets the boss’ gaze, steel-eyed and sweat-inducing. The boss leans back in his seat, folding his arms as he continues.

“I’ve put your name forward for a job. Overseas. They’re looking for someone of your…”

He eyes him up and down.

“… skillset.”

Terrence’s mouth falls open. Even whilst trying to keep a low profile in the wake of his crime, he had somehow been recommended. For his first overseas job, no less. His anxiety instantly washes away, leaving room for only one concern:

“What are they offering? How much?”

“All of the information is enclosed within.” The boss pushes a blank envelope across his desk. “I trust that even you would have the sense not to turn this down.”

Terrence gingerly approaches, swiping up the envelope and holding it between his fingers. He tries to form the words for further questions, but not before the boss’ words cut the silence.

“We have nothing more to discuss.”

Wasting no time, Terrence exits the office with a swift word of thanks, and a sort-of bow he instantly realises is a bit too much. After a few steps down the corridor and a series of glances to ensure his privacy, he leans against the ornate wall and pries the envelope open with a clumsy, hasty thumb.

The text before him is skimmed: Kidnapping job. Anonymous, elite team. Billionaire’s daughter. Fifty million dollar ransom. It’s all he needs to know, for now at least. He chuckles slightly, then some more, before he finds himself unable to control his laughter, a husky sound that fills the space and blankets him in a sense of hope for his security he’s sure he’s never felt. With the cut of money he’d receive from this job, he could entertain the thought of early retirement for the first time in his life.

Once the rush subsides, he wipes his eyes and studies the information again, as if confirming its tangible existence. The word “daughter” now seems louder than before, and it finds his face slowly beginning to fall. It could mean anything, he realises, from someone his age to an infant. He imagines himself kidnapping– harming a child, and a sinkhole forms in his stomach. He was well-versed in finding ways to excuse the injuries and murders he carried out, but a child was a step too far – that much he had sworn from the start.

Terrence finds himself walking aimlessly towards the nearest exit, letting a thousand visions of the once unimaginable concept flood his mind. He knew how to be gentle. He was gentle: too much so for his father’s liking, at the very least. That had to count for something. The letter says nothing of killing the girl, after all. Though that horrific feeling in his chest returns once he realises that should his team fail, it would certainly fall to him to end her life. He could do that gently too, a part of him assures, and he perks up slightly. He could make this girl’s life and potential death as quick and painless as possible. That would be his role, and the intent would be enough to keep the guilt and dread from swallowing him whole. Well, that and the money.

He finally emerges from the building and raises his head to the sky, unusually grey and gauzy for a spring afternoon. A raindrop weakly falls upon his nose, making him flinch. He knew there was nothing else to do but go home and pack his bags, and once he did, there would be no looking back.

It’s just my job.

Before he commits, Terrence figures one last visit to the bar can’t hurt.

#abigail 2024 #abigail movie #peter abigail #terrence lacroix #kevin durand #I GOT TO READ THIS A FEW DAYS AGO AND ITS PERFECT BTW #my wonderful buddy nem and the perfect character study of the blorbo

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