mccoma

fic: convenient paramedic 2/2

2009-06-08T19:58:31Z

He reads Stephen King and finds a job filing books at a used bookstore that has a cat that lies on books in the sunshine. They only take him because he's not a student, and still look surprised at his lack of experience. They at least like that he knows how to read, and can list five books he's read recently by title and author that weren't published in the last six months.

He reads One Hundred Years of Solitude and finds a place to live. The floors are painted wood, there's a claw foot tub in the bathroom, and it has an unsecured entrance that overlooks a park.

He reads the Picoult two shelves from the bottom while Jamie denies ever having bought them, and packs up all the books he hasn't read in a box. Jamie tells him to take them, and it takes Sam three hours to take them all to the new apartment. Jamie doesn't offer to help.

He reads Beckett and puts his clothes into a duffel bag, turns out the lights, and leaves the key on the counter, next to a post-it that Sam wrote. It says I still love you, but Sam isn't sure he means it.

Jamie doesn't tell him goodbye, and Sam doesn't really notice being alone in the new place. It's not big enough to rattle around in, and once Sam puts the stacks of books around the outskirts of the rooms he feels better, surrounded, and even sleeps on his futon with a book held close to his chest. He doesn't miss Jamie then.

He lies naked on the floor and reads Hemingway and Kafka, and finds a book of e.e cummings that he lies in bed naked and reads. Sam thinks he's doing okay, even if he has to catch himself from calling one of the other guys at the bookstore Jamie.

It's a little hard not to tell everyone what books are okay to read naked and which ones aren't, but when Sam talks about books people actually listen.

He doesn't take walks anymore because he doesn't need the reason to get out of his apartment. He takes books to the park instead, sits on a bench and reads and reads and reads. He leaves Moby Dick on the bench once, and the last book that Jamie had on his shelf, the worn copy of Cat's Cradle with his name written in the front.

The last is what gets him in trouble, because Sam's heading back to the bench with Harry Potter after a long struggle of saying no to his coworkers at the bookstore. The book is small enough to slip into his pocket, and Sam doesn't notice Jamie standing there at the bench with the book in hand until it's too late and Jamie's spotted him, and he's coming over to meet him.

Sam stops short, because Jamie dumped him, after years and years and months of being supportive and understanding and it's worse because Sam doesn't actually dislike him, even after that.

"Sam," Jamie says, and his voice is different and he's tan and taller and he's still frowning, but Sam has no idea who this is.

"Hi," Sam says, and casually tucks Harry Potter into the pocket of his coat. It's the end of October, it's fall, and he's glad he's wearing this one. He's even wearing the scarf that Sandy from the bookstore knit him. It's gray, and his jacket is blue.

"How are you?" Not-Jamie asks, and runs his thumb against the side of the book, making the pages flip by with a soft noise.

"Um, fine," Sam says. He shifts from foot to foot, and wonders if this is the creepy guy who smells books at the bookstore, who both Greg and Sandy say exists but Sam hasn't seen. He's starting to think they're talking about him, but Sam just doesn't want to read a book that smells like cigarettes.

"You disappeared off the face of the earth," Not-Jamie says, and holds out the book. "This is yours."

"It's not," Sam says, but takes the book anyway. Just inside the inside cover is the name Jamie Peterson, and it's quite possibly the first book Jamie bought for himself. Sam doesn't know and won't ever find out.

"Yeah," Not-Jamie says. "I'm really sorry about what happened."

"Thank you," Sam says automatically. "About what?"

"Jamie," Not-Jamie says. "That night."

"Oh," Sam says, and then again, like it means something. "Oh."

"I tried calling you, after I saw you, to give you his things," Not-Jamie says. "The number you gave was disconnected."

"Sorry," Sam says. "I don't like telephones."

"You wouldn't, would you," Not-Jamie says, but it's not mean, like Greg would say it, it's more like he thinks it's awesome, like the way Sandy talks about Sylvia Plath.

"Do you have one?" Sam asks, because it feels polite.

"Yeah, here, this is my number," Not-Jamie says, and scrawls it onto a receipt and tucks it into the middle of Vonnegut.

"Thank you," Sam says carefully, and opens the book to look at it. The number is legible, but the Sam doesn't recognize the name.

"You should call me," Not-Jamie says, and when Sam looks up to tell him he doesn't have a telephone, he remembers Aarron in navy blue with his name on his chest.

"Oh," Sam says, and takes a step back.

"What's wrong?" Aarron asks, Aarron, and holds out a hand.

Sam shakes his head and Aarron freezes, hand inches away from Sam's sleeve. "I have to go."

"Uh, okay," Aarron says, but Sam's already walking away.

Later, Sam tells Sandy over hot chocolate and Truman Capote.

"I think that's sketch," Sandy says, bending the corner down in her copy and ignoring the way that Sam winces. "Like, he was there when you boyfriend gets shot, and then tries to pick you up when you're single?"

"He could've done it there," Sam says defensively, but realizes a little too late that it sounds wrong.

"You wanted to bone him at the crime scene?" Sandy's voice gets impossibly high and she laughs and laughs, even after Sam starts tossing marshmallows after her.

"You should call him," Sandy says, after she's stopped laughing and helped Sam pick up the marshmallows. The store's cat lies on the counter, ignoring everything. She's having kittens, and Sandy's already promised to take all of them.

"I don't have a phone," Sam says.

"That's right, I forgot you were Amish," Sandy says. "Quick, stop reading, you're too English."

"I don't know why you find those books fascinating," Sam says, and lets the store cat lick one of his fingers.

Sandy rolls her eyes and tells him to at least get a prepaid.

Sam doesn't. He goes home and takes a bath, reads the rest of Capote and starts on Trainspotting. The dialogue drives him about as crazy as Greg, and when he returns the book the next day Greg shakes his head like Sam doesn't get it.

Sam gets everything, and when the store cat has kittens - six of them, two orange, two striped and two black - he takes an orange one and names it Telephone, but only when Sandy can hear. Otherwise he calls it Bell, and he reads it The Great Gatsby and Robert Louis Stevenson out loud.

Midway through November, Sam discovers the movie tie-ins, and he's behind the counter reading both The Prestige and the Star Wars adaptation when Aarron comes in, scarf wrapped around his neck and faking surprise at seeing Sam there.

"Oh, hey," Aarron says, and sets a box on the counter. "I heard you guys buy used books?"

"We do," Sam says, and he knows he sounds surprised when he says it. It's not news to him, but Aarron makes him feel all kind of different.

"Well, I have some books that I don't read anymore," Aarron says.

"Really," Sam says, and he's surprised for a different reason. He can't imagine giving away any of his books unless he hated them, but figures maybe Aarron is a more careless reader like Greg is.

"True story," Aarron says, and smiles easily. "Wanted to pick something new up to read, and I didn't have any space."

"I can't promise we'll be able to use everything here," Sam says. He doesn't want to look at the books at all, because he figures Aarron will have comic books and paperback novels about crimes, and they don't take the first and have too much of the later.

"We do offer money for books," Sam says stiffly, because he thinks it's a terrible policy, because they are not a book graveyard, no matter what Greg says. "But you get better credit if you want to exchange for books on our shelves."

"I'll take some books," Aarron says, and taps the edge of the box. His hand is way too close to Sam's fingers, and Sam pulls his hand back like they'd actually made contact.

"Fine," Sam says, and when Aarron moves away to look at books, he finally takes a chance to look inside the box. He's nervous when he picks up the first book, and then takes a look at some of the other titles and starts to get this prickly feeling over his shoulders, and he really, really wants to use his monthly book allowance completely on this box that Aarron's brought in.

"So," Aarron says, when he circles one shelf and comes back to the counter. "Will you take anything?"

Sam looks down at the titles, and sets the book he's holding tightly back on top. "I, uh, sure."

"Awesome," Aarron says. "There's a few things here I'd like to take home with me."

"Me too," Sam says, and he's looking down at the books again so he misses the sharp look Aarron gives him.

Aarron disappears around the corner, into the back room of the bookstore, and Sam opens up the cover of the first book, with a street on the cover and written about grief, which is also the title. Sam's never heard of it, and when he opens up the well-worn copy he flushes, because it's not what he was expecting.

He sets each book on the counter after he reads the back, and ends up with only two he can't take, because the store already has three copies of Watership Down and two of Ragtime. They're both original covers, and Sam hesitates on the dark blue cover before he sets the two books back in the box, and stacks the others on the counter.

"So what do you think?" Aarron asks, putting a couple of books on the counter and tapping on the glass. "Anything salvageable?"

Sam nods, looking down at the books instead of at Aarron. "Did you find something?"

"What? Yeah, a few," Aarron says, and he sets his hand on the top book. The spines are turned to him, so Sam can't judge him by his reading selections.

"I'll be a few minutes," Sam says, and pushes the box over the counter. "You can keep these."

"No love for Doctorow?" Aarron smiles when he says it, and leaves the box there. "Where do you keep your biographies?"

"Go down the stairs in the back," Sam says, and can't help wrinkling his nose.

"What, is that bad?" Aarron says, and starts towards the back.

"Biographies are stories people are too lazy to tell themselves," Sam says, and starts typing in the titles of each book the store's going to buy.

Aarron laughs, and disappears down the stairs.

Sam doesn't like the basement, it smells musty and they don't have a really great light down there, but Sandy claims all the best books are down there. They always debate the accuracy of that statement, but everyone can agree that at least eight of the boxes down there are unsorted, and the claims of being full of biographies are unfounded.

Sam tries to read more of his movie tie-ins and can't concentrate until he hears Aarron coming back up the stairs. Aarron could get about sixty bucks cash, or eighty for in-store credit, and when Sam tells him, Aarron looks curious.

"So with these," Aarron says, and pushes five or six more books over the counter. "Do I owe you, or do I have more credit?"

"About even," Sam says, and then notices that like three of the books are marked down to ten cents and that means Aarron has more to spend again. "Um."

"Can I come back?" Aarron says, once Sam has the books run through and he's about to rerun the transaction for the correct percentage of cash back. "I might want more, you know."

"This isn't a library," Sam says stiffly, and then has to ask whether Aarron wants a bag, and hands over his cash back.

Aarron almost closes his fingers around Sam's and the quarters, and Sam can't tell from the look on Aarron's face, but he'd say it was on purpose.

"I'll see you later," Aarron says, and sets his new books in the box and turns to go. He's barely by the door before Sandy's swooping down to the counter.

Sam covers the new acquisitions protectively, sliding them to his side of the counter and sets his elbow on the top book, terribly casual.

"Oh my gosh," Sandy says, and doesn't even spare a glance to the books. "He was so checking you out, Sam."

"He was not," Sam says. He wants to take a better look at the books, or just take them all home in his backpack.

"Totally was," Sandy repeats. "Checking you out like a new release."

"This is not a library," Sam says irritably, and pretends he's not listening or blushing when Sandy tells Greg about the hot guy that was checking Sam out.

Sam's shift is over at five-thirty, and he has the books he wants to try for this month's allowance in his bag. They're allowed to borrow books, as long as they return them quickly, and that's never been Sam's problem.

"So, man," Greg says, picking up Sam's backpack and setting it on the counter with a loud thunk. "What do you have in here, books?"

Sam stares at him, not sure if Greg's kidding.

"Books about bricks, masonry, the like," Greg says. "Kidding, man, don't look like I just kicked your cat."

"Sorry," Sam says, and reaches for the strap on his bag.

"Not so fast," Greg says. "Sandy says you have a secret admirer?"

"I wish he was secret," Sam mutters, and realizes too late that's he's basically admitted it.

"Knew it," Greg says. "Blond guy, brown eyes, a cop or something?"

"Paramedic," Sam says. He winces, and tries to tug his backpack over the counter but Greg holds on.

"I'll check him out," Greg promises, and finally lets go of the strap.

"Greg," Sam says, and he doesn't know where this is coming from, he and Greg usually argue about books and talk through Sandy when they fight and stay mad.

"Dude, no," Greg says. "We're like family here. You're my, uh, Sandy's our. Okay, so Sandy and you are like brothers and I'm the dude that lives over the garage."

"Brothers," Sam says, and doesn't even think to duck when Greg takes a wild swing at him. It hits Sam in the side of the face. It doesn't hurt, he just blinks as it stings a bit.

"Sorry," Greg says, but he's smiling. "Go on, go home. Talk to your cat, don't ever tell Sandy I just slapped you."

"She wouldn't believe it," Sam says, and heaves his backpack up and heads home. It really is heavy, and he's panting by the time he can hear Bell's noise on the other side of the door.

"Hey," Sam says, while Bell twines around his ankles and meows. By the time Bell gets over it and chases around a stack of books, Sam's ankles are covered in orange cat hair.

He drops his backpack and pulls out the first book, a well-worn copy of A Clockwork Orange. It's not a book he's ever wanted to read before, but Aarron's copy is well worn and when Sam gets through the first chapter, he starts noticing little notes Aarron's left. They try not to take books with writing, and he's into the story shortly after that and decides to keep it.

Bell starts making noise when it gets dark, and Sam finds that he's still sitting in front of his apartment door reading the book, squinting to make it out by the light that's always on in his kitchen. He gets up and stretches, and he's stiff and nearly trips over Bell when he tries to get to the kitchen. He drops the book on the counter and marks his place with the sticky note on the fridge reminding him to return A Hundred Years of Solitude to the bookstore.

He dumps out Aarron's books onto the floor and stacks them by his shoes, and puts the books he's returning in the bottom.

He finishes the Burgess before he's tired, and Sam picks up another one of Aarron's books while he takes a bath to relax, and he's already under the water when he realizes the book's about gay vampires, and Sam's too comfortable to find another. He's not sure what he thinks about gay vampires when he's in the middle of it, but the bath water is hot enough that he gets sweaty and uncomfortable and then just lies on his bed naked and damp to finish the book.

There's a fire at a place three storefronts down from the bookstore, and Sam stays on the street with the crowd to watch the last efforts to put out smouldering coals or sparks.

Sandy finds him after a couple of minutes, linking her arm through his and pulling him away from the crowd but closer to the parked police cruiser in the middle of the street.

"We've decided to stay closed," Sandy says, when they've got a better vantage point. The windows are wrecked and the brick has a dark trail of soot leading up from the windows.

"Oh," Sam says, and looks up at the other windows.

"We would have called you and told you to stay home," Sandy says, and squeezes his arm meaningfully. "But you still haven't made it to the twenty-first century."

"Maybe," Sam says, and he's thinking about what he'd do with a phone if he had one.

Aarron sneaks up on them and then Sandy's turning Sam around to face him.

"Uh, hi," Sam says, and flushes, because he'd gotten a bit of a rise out of Aarron's books the night before, and feels like Aarron can tell just by looking at him.

"Hey," Aarron says. "How's the store?"

"Fine," Sam says, and realizes too late that he has no idea. "Um."

"It's fine," Sandy steps in, and squeezes Sam's arm. "Hey, do you know anything about cell phone plans? Because I don't, I mean, my dad got mine for me, but Sam, he's decided to get a phone."

"I have?" Sam says, at the same time Aarron asks the same thing.

"A bit," Aarron says. He's watching Sam too close, and Sam looks pointedly at Sandy, but Aarron stays focused on him.

"Okay, awesome," Sandy says. "You should take Sam to buy one."

"If you want," Aarron tells him, and Sam feels like a dick so he says yes.

They arrange to meet in front of the bookstore the following day, because Sam's going home to sleep right now or maybe read the second of the gay vampire books, he hasn't decided yet.

"I'm going to walk Sam home," Sandy tells Aarron. "Unless you want to."

"Can't, actually, though I'd love to." Aarron gestures back towards the ambulance. "Have a woman, inhaled some smoke. We're taking her for observation."

"He'll see you tomorrow," Sandy promises, and drags Sam off in the direction of his house.

"So," Sandy says, when they're out of sight of the ambulance and Aarron in his uniform. "Why aren't you going for it?"

"I can't," Sam says, and wishes that Sandy would drop it.

"Greg says he's a good guy," Sandy says. "And you can't honestly tell me it's because of your ex."

"We just broke up," Sam says. "I would feel weird—"

"Honey, you're over him," Sandy says. "He was a giant doucher anyway."

"We were in love," Sam protests, but he says it quietly so Sandy won't laugh at him.

"Sam, that was something, but it wasn't love," Sandy says, and squeezes his arm again before letting go. "Go for it. Aarron clearly wants more than just your bod."

"Ew, Sandy," Sam says, and ducks his head.

"Honey, he reads. He told me about that one book, it was yours, the Gatsby, I think," Sandy says. She looks up to the sky as she thinks, but doesn't miss the way Sam stumbles.

She doesn't ask, and Sam doesn't tell her that he's thinking about how Aarron must have picked through all the books until he'd found one of Sam's old ones, and how it didn't take him very long, and about how Sam was reading Aarron's books and it's really kind of sexy, and then Sam stumbles again.

"I hope you're just exhausted, not drunk," Sandy tells him, and walks him all the way up to his apartment where she comments on how good Bell looks and Sam just collapses into his bed with his clothes on and his shoes hanging over the side.

--

Sam wakes up the next day and can't remember any life changing decisions, so when he's done work for the day and finds Aarron waiting outside, he's pretty surprised.

"Hey," Aarron says, and squeezes Sam's shoulder. It's affectionate, Sam would say, and only tries to dodge once.

It's enough for Aarron to let go, and Sam tries not to think of ways where Aarron might accidentally touch him again. Aarron talks about what happened for him at work, about saving lives and about one of the biographies he'd bought.

"I tried reading a biography once," Sam says, and just stops, because he can't remember what it was called or who it was about.

"Sounds awesome," Aarron says, and laughs when Sam turns to look at him. "I'm kidding, man. They're not for everyone. I like that you always know how it turns out, though."

"Only if the person's dead," Sam says, and it makes Aarron laugh again.

They walk to the mall, and Sam's uncomfortable even before they get inside. He's not really good with crowds of people, and when he tells Aarron that Aarron can't even fake surprise.

"Yeah, I thought so," Aarron says, and kind of hustles up behind Sam and stays close, directing him through clusters of people in the way. Sam's not really comfortable with it, but it doesn't take long to get used to someone standing so close in his space, because he's only trying to help.

"So any particular reason why you suddenly need a phone?" Aarron asks, mouth too close to Sam's ear. Aarron doesn't notice, and Sam just shrugs awkwardly.

"Sandy, mostly," Sam says. "After yesterday, they couldn't call to tell me not to come in."

"And here I thought it was so I can finally ask for your number," Aarron says, and squeezes Sam's shoulder before stepping away, because they're standing in front of the deserted looking phone place, and Sam feels even more uncomfortable when he can't feel Aarron pressed up against his back anymore.

Aarron talks to the sales rep about plans and phones and talking about things like 3g and rollovers while Sam looks at the phones attached to the display by wires. He flips a bunch of them open and looks at the stickers on their screens, and can't imagine actually owning one. Aarron comes over after he's been thoroughly informed by the sales rep, and Sam's pausing on one that's pretty simple, but the fake display shows a picture of palm trees. It flips open, and the display model is still shiny silver even after being handled so frequently.

"So," Aarron says, and Sam drops the phone he's looking at. The wire catches it, and it's plastic anyway. "Find one you like?"

"No," Sam says, and doesn't look at the phone he just dropped, but somehow Aarron figures it out and picks it up.

"I have this one," Aarron says, and flips it open with the ease of practice. "We could be phone buddies."

"Okay," Sam says, and winces, because he hadn't meant to agree.

"Awesome," Aarron says, and that's probably a cue for the sales rep, because he comes over and starts talking about plans. Sam gets a little nervous when the sales rep asks him questions, but Aarron takes on the role of translating.

The rep looks a little disappointed to hear that Sam only needs an emergency phone, and won't need much as far as minutes, but Aarron cheers him up with talk of unlimited texting. Sam has no idea what any of it means, but Aarron explains it as he goes, until Sam's walking out with a bag full of a phone and a month-by-month payment plan.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Aarron says, and walks into Sam's back when he stops short, not wanting to walk into the crowds he'd forgotten about.

"This'll be the easy part," Aarron says, and puts both hands on Sam's shoulders, and steers him through people. Sam wants to close his eyes but doesn't dare, and then Aarron's letting go because they're standing just in the doorway of a bookstore.

"Surprise," Aarron says right in Sam's ear, and touches his arm. "There's an exit right outside from here, but I thought you'd want to look at some books."

"Oh," Sam says, and follows Aarron as he heads to a section about travel books. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Aarron says, and stands there, waiting for Sam to do something.

"What?" Sam asks, and Aarron just shrugs.

"You can go ahead and browse, I'm looking for a book on Columbia." Aarron leaves Sam there, but doesn't go far. He starts looking at the titles, and Sam sighs when he looks at the rest of the bookstore. It's a large one, and he can look down one aisle all the way to the outside door.

Sam decides to find the fiction section, up a few steps and overlooking the rest of the store. It's a reassuring feature, because Sam can keep an eye on Aarron no matter where he goes next in the store. The books are alphabetized by author, which is a helpful feature, Sam thinks, and starts at A and works his way down the list. He's read more than a few of those books, but keeps getting thrown off with the new covers on reissues.

There's a few he'd like to read, and Sam carries two around with him, until he turns the corner into the romance section and finds Aarron waiting for him.

"Hey," Aarron says, showing him the cover of one book, of a guy in a suit holding two babies. "Do you ever think having screaming kids around is a romantic atmosphere?"

"No," Sam says, and looks away from the cover. "But I'm not a woman, so."

"You're not," Aarron says, and laughs when he puts the book away. "You find something?"

"I heard these were good," Sam says, and shrugs. One book is bright yellow, the other purple. "I've never seen them in the store."

"Hmm," Aarron says, and takes them to look at the backs. They head to the checkout by the outside exit, and Sam looks at the novelty post-its while Aarron buys his books about Sacramento, and Sam doesn't realize until they're outside that Aarron paid for his books too.

"You didn't have to," Sam says, when Aarron hands over his novels about white tigers and bad monkeys.

"I wanted to," Aarron says. He takes out a pack of gum and cracks out a piece, offering the package to Sam. Sam shakes his head, focusing on his books, but he can tell when Aarron starts chewing his that it's cinnamon flavoured.

"Before I forget," Aarron says, replacing the gum and handing a folded sticky note. "I found this in one of the books I bought from your store. I'm assuming it's a little late, but I hope you remembered anyway."

Sam takes the note, and feels relieved when it's just a note reminding him to buy milk. He's a little embarrassed, but not as much if it was one of the notes he used to write. He's thrown most of those out anyway. He says as much, and Aarron shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it," Aarron says, and points across the street to the park that's nearby Sam's apartment. "You want to sit and read up on your new phone? It's a beautiful day."

"Sure," Sam says, and he's a little surprised that he agrees to it. He and Aarron share a bench in the park, Aarron cracking open his book on travel in the southern states.

"I never started reading until I had my first job," Aarron says. Sam's still trying to get the instruction manual out of the box, and he pauses to look at Aarron.

Aarron's looking at his book, but he's obviously not reading. "In college I hated having assigned reading, but even there I'd say I'd watch the movie before I'd read a book."

"What changed your mind?" Sam asks, and finally gets the inside packaging out of the box and finds the manual.

"Combination of a what and a who," Aarron says, and left vague, it sounds a lot like Sam's reason for reading so much. "There was a book left around at the station, and I honestly couldn't tell you what it was, but we all read it at some point. The who was a co-worker who decided since we'd all read it, we should meet and talk about it."

"Oh," Sam says, and wrinkles his nose. He's never gotten into the idea of book clubs, even if he and Sandy compare notes when they read the same things or Greg says things are either awesome or not awesome.

"Exactly. We work the same hours, we're on call constantly, and I don't like talking about books. But I thought, hey, you know, reading is a private thing, so why am I watching movies and seeing someone else's interpretation?" Aarron shrugs and turns a page in the book Sam knows he's not reading.

"So you started reading?" Sam frowns when he squints at the tiny print in the manual. He finds the section calling getting started and decides it's an obvious place to start.

"Not a lot, not then," Aarron says. He gives up on pretending to read his book and closes it, turning to look at Sam and leaning in too close. Sam doesn't move, but he doesn't relax either."Baby steps, you know? I read a lot of Michael Crichton, Stephen King, Tom Clancy, but it wasn't really a choice, I just picked up books that were on sale. I bought a lot of hardcovers before they came out with the paperback versions, that kind of thing."

"We have a lot of those books," Sam says, and flips to another page in the manual nervously.

"What about you?" Aarron asks. He smells like cinnamon and his knee is pressing into the side of Sam's. "What made you start?"

"Um," Sam says, because he can't exactly remember. "The place I used to live, there was a huge wall full of books. I decided I wanted to read all of them."

He doesn't tell Aarron he read fast because he was always afraid of Jamie telling him to leave before he'd finished, or that he read in the first place because he wasn't allowed to do anything else.

"Thank god you didn't live in a library," Aarron says, and he keeps a straight face until Sam frowns, not sure if he's joking, and then Aarron laughs. Sam smiles, and turns to the manual.

They're quiet for a bit, Sam focused on learning about his phone and making sure there is a charger and service and wonders what the purpose of an sd card is, but plans on asking Sandy later.

It starts getting colder as the sun goes down, and Sam realizes a little late that his phone is showing the time as 8 and his stomach's growling uncomfortable.

Aarron closes his book when he notices that Sam's just sitting there, and hands Sam's books back. Sam shoves them into the bag along with his phone kit, and Aarron takes over the phone.

"I remember when mine was new," Aarron says, and fiddles around with it. "You can lock it, too, so you're the only one who can use it."

"I saw that," Sam says. He feels weird with Aarron playing with the phone, and wonders if that's something that the manual doesn't mention, because it goes away when Aarron hands the phone back.

"You should call me later, so I know it's working," Aarron says. "I put my number in your contacts."

"Oh," Sam says. "I can put you in my speed dial."

"Right," Aarron says, and he looks really pleased with that, and Sam isn't sure why. "Me too."

"Um, sure," Sam says, and looks down at his phone, then back up at Aarron.

They're really sitting too close. Sam meets Aarron's eyes for a second, but when they drop to the spot under Aarron's lip where he missed shaving Sam can't think of anything else but the smell of cinnamon. Aarron's staring at Sam's mouth, mouth open a little when he breathes in and out. Sam licks his lips, and Aarron leans in, enough to breathe cinnamon onto Sam's cheek. They're barely touching, just side to side, but Sam feels warm and solid, next to Aarron on the park bench.

Sam wants to close his eyes, because he knows how this works, he knows this part, but then Aarron sighs and leans back, and puts a bag on Sam's lap.

"From the hospital," Aarron says, and Sam blinks, trying to understand the change in subject when he looks down at the neatly wrapped plastic package.

"Why'd you give this to me?" Sam asks, pulling himself upright and away from Aarron's shoulder.

"It's yours now," Aarron says, and looks over the park, up at the street lights, anywhere but at Sam.

Sam flips the bag over and sees the hospital's name underneath the plastic, distorted by the tape holding the package together. "You should've given this to Jamie. It's his."

"That'd kind of defeat the purpose of hanging on to it for so long," Aarron says, still looking away from Sam.

"I don't know what that means," Sam says, and he shifts to the end of the bench. "Jamie should have this, it's his stuff. I don't want it."

"You don't," Aarron says, and he's focusing on the wrong part.

Sam sighs. "No. I'm just going to give it to him."

"Give it to him," Aarron says, and laughs. It's not the same kind of laugh when he thinks Sam says something funny, it's the sort of laugh that Sam usually gets for being completely oblivious, like when he told Sandy he doesn't have an email address.

"Yes," Sam says, and stands up. He shoves the bag under one arm and hooks his fingers through the bag's handle. "I'll—see you later."

Aarron stands too, but he looks confused. He doesn't know that Sam really wanted to tell him to come along, for moral support or to prove it to him, Sam doesn't care.

"Um, let me know how it goes, I guess," Aarron says, frowning. "You can call me."

"Right," Sam says, and turns around towards Dex Mills.

It takes longer than he remembers to get to Jamie's building, but the inside of the lobby still smells the same. Sam doesn't have to look hard to find the hidden key in the lobby to get inside the front entrance, and he's standing in front of Jamie's apartment door soon enough.

Sam knocks, and doesn't exactly freeze when some woman opens the door, but she doesn't exactly look thrilled to see him.

"Can I help you?" She asks, holding the door with one hand so it doesn't open all the way.

"Um," Sam says, and adjusts his grip on the bag. "Sorry, wrong floor."

"Okay," she says, and doesn't pause before shutting the door and locking it behind her.

Sam stares at the closed door for a minute, loosening his grip on the books and feeling irrationally angry at Jamie, that he'd kick Sam out of his life and then cut him out totally.

He finally steps away from the door and back to the elevator, and his hands are nearly shaking with the shock of Jamie being gone, just leaving, not even bothering to tell Sam goodbye, and has to sit down on the curb when he gets outside. He sits next to a blue recycle bin and a couple of black garbage bags, right on the curb. His shoes are actually on the street, but there isn't a lot of traffic.

Jamie's name was gone from the building directory, like J. Peterson never lived there. He's hidden by the garbage to his left, and Sam sets his bags to the side while he wraps his arms around his knees and sits there for a while.

Sam gets up after maybe fifteen minutes, maybe more, but it's long enough that he starts to feel cold and gets up. He leaves the package with Jamie's things inside it by the garbage, and scuffs the bottoms of his shoes against the sidewalk the entire way home.

Bell is almost frantic when Sam gets in, jumping to the counter so Sam won't miss him again. Sam drops his bag to the counter, runs his hand over Bell's orange fur and picks up a book by Gaiman from on top of the toaster. The bag makes a buzzing noise and Bell jumps to the floor.

Sam ignores it and starts filling the tub for a bath. He can see the counter from here, and every time Bell gets close enough to investigate the bag it buzzes and the cat retreats across the stove.

Stopping the water when it gets full, Sam pulls things out of the bag and gets his charger, plugs his phone in, and can still hear it buzzing when he's reading in the bath.

--

He and Sandy open up the next morning, and Sam spends the morning unpacking books. He takes the phone with him and leaves it in his backpack, and doesn't think about it until Sandy drops the bag to the counter and tells him to turn it on silent mode.

"I don't know what that means," Sam says, and takes the phone out of the zippered pocket. He shows it to Sandy, who starts laughing at the little orange envelope on the screen.

"You read more books than we're assigned in my grad program, and you don't know how to read a text message," Sandy says, and shakes her head.

"I never had to before," Sam says, and joins Sandy behind the counter to watch what she's doing.

"What are you, Amish," Sandy mutters, and shows him the screen. "Look. Sixteen unread texts from Aarron."

"So that's what that was," Sam says, and feels sorry for Bell, because the buzzing had kept up all night.

"Someone wants to get a hold of you," Sandy says, and shows Sam how to pick up the first text.

"I have unlimited texting," Sam tells her, like it means something.

"Looks like you'll need it," Sandy says, and leaves Sam to read his messages. They're all variations of where are you and call me and Sam rests his fingers on the buttons, tempted to call Aarron but something holds him back. He tries out a text message, mashes his fingers on the keys, and hopes that Aarron will be able to translate everything.

After he sends it, Sandy points out the T9 feature and Sam shoves the phone in his pocket, taking a box of new acquisitions and heading to the back to shelve them. When his phone buzzes, Sam jumps, but at least now he knows it's for a new text.

He flips the phone open clumsily, and sets the copy of another Gordon Ramsey cookbook on top of another stack of books while he reads the text. All it says is where are you and Sam almost answers out loud, and then he hears Aarron somewhere behind him and Sam's trapped in the room with the used cookbooks and outdated medical journals.

Aarron leans in the doorway, hands on either side of the frame, and Sam can't even close his phone.

"Hey," Aarron says. "Sandy said you were back here."

"I just got your text," Sam says, and feels really impossibly modern when he says it, and finally closes his phone. He sets it down on top of Gordon Ramsey's face.

"I just sent it," Aarron says. He comes into the room, taking a look at the spine of a book by Sam's phone. "How's it going?"

"Um," Sam says, and pretends like the back of Aarron's shirt is really interesting. Aarron turns to look at him after a minute, and Sam knows that he's still a terrible actor.

"Come on, you get a lunch break?" Aarron asks, and gives Sam his phone back before taking his wrist and tugging him out of the room and back up to the front. "I'm taking you out."

"I brought a sandwich," Sam protests, but Sandy tells him to go and enjoy himself, and Sam likes Sandy too much to disobey.

"Honestly," Aarron says. He lets go of Sam's wrist when they get outside, and Sam pretends not to miss it, crossing his arms over his chest. "You wait until this morning to get back to me?"

"What?" Sam asks, and follows close behind Aarron. "Sandy had to show me how to get my text messages."

"Sandy," Aarron says, and stops on the sidewalk. He shakes his head. "Of course she did."

"There's a difference between reading about it and doing it," Sam says defensively, and it's enough that Aarron turns around to face him.

"That's true for a lot of things," Aarron says, and raises his eyebrows. He's chewing gum again, cinnamon flavoured.

"The cat, um, the cat thought it was a toy," Sam says. Bell hadn't stopped investigating, even when he got scared at the noise the bag made when he touched it.

"And you?" Aarron asks. "What'd you think it was?"

Sam shrugs and doesn't answer.

"Okay," Aarron says, and pulls out his own phone. "I'm going to show you how to pick up your voice mail, just so you know."

"I can do that on a real phone," Sam says, but takes his phone out too.

"This is a real phone," Aarron says patiently, and takes Sam through the process step by step, until Sam's able to hear Aarron telling him how to delete messages while he's listening to a message Aarron left him last night, apologizing for not being there for him in a difficult time.

"How'd you know?" Sam asks, trying to tune out what Aarron was saying to him last night and focus on what Aarron was saying this morning.

"Know what?" Aarron asks, frowning as he looks at his phone.

"What happened," Sam says, and finally just closes his phone and hopes that he didn't break anything.

"Well, nothing specific," Aarron says. "Just that it's a tough time for anyone, moving on."

"He didn't even say goodbye," Sam says, and tries not to think of a strange woman living in Jamie's apartment and answering his intercom.

"Sometimes people don't get a chance," Aarron says. He lifts one hand, pauses with it lifted halfway up, and then puts it around Sam's shoulders, pulling him in for a comforting half-hug. "There isn't always time to say goodbye."

Sam frowns, wondering whether it's happened to Aarron before, if someone's done some passive aggressive to him, like something out of those Sophie Kinsella books that Sandy likes to read secretly.

"I know some counselling groups if you want to talk about it," Aarron says. "They're good, sometimes it's nice to talk about things with someone you're not so close — so familiar with."

Sam blinks, and can't think of what to say. He's not sure what Aarron's trying to say. Sam knows that this kind of stuff happens, Sandy says it's not common, but Sam isn't exactly a regular guy. Sam usually rolls his eyes at that.

"I, um, thank you," Sam says, and frowns. "I don't think I need it?"

"Sam, look." Aarron sighs. "Your boyfriend died, violently. You should talk about it."

Sam opens his mouth to laugh it off, but it's like he's not listening to himself, because he just stands there and stares at Aarron, and he can feel his wrists hurt because he's making fists so tight.

"Sam?" Aarron asks, squeezing Sam's shoulder.

Sam can barely feel it.

"Sam, sweetheart, are you okay?" Aarron repeats, digging his fingers in to Sam's shoulder and using it to twist him around until they're facing each other. "Sam, say something."

"I guess that's why he didn't say goodbye," Sam says, and fakes a smile. "I'm suddenly feeling kind of sick, I'm going to go."

"Sam, wait," Aarron says, but Sam's already slipped out from under his hand and crossing the deserted street. "Sam!"

Sam ignores Aarron calling after him, and doesn't feel upset when Aarron doesn't go chasing after him. Sam sets his phone to silent, changes his mind and turns it off, all before he gets home.

The cat's asleep in the sunshine from the window, and Sam takes as hot a bath as he can stand. When he gets out he feels lightheaded and tired, and sleeps until it's nine-thirty. He waits until eight am before calling in sick to work, and reads the grocery bag full of romance novels that the bookstore was going to throw out. The store isn't a library but Sandy keeps accepting trade-ins until they're stuck with books they can't move because they've been read so many times.

Sandy's a sucker for men in uniform that cry and fall in love with women who have weird taste in underwear, Sam finds out, because there's about twenty books in there that follow a certain formula. The books are kind of depressing, but Sam doesn't mention this around her. In the seventh book since waking up, another woman has sex with some guy who cries and then falls in love with her, and Sam rolls his eyes. After all, he spends most of his time in the bathtub. He has nothing to be arrogant about.

He reads the last of the books in a cold tub full of water, and finishes the second bag before lunch on the second day of being called in sick. Sam feels guilty then, because he has nothing to do, but drops the bags of romance books down by his landlord's door, and hopes that someone thinks that crying is a lot more of a turn on than Sam does.

Sam remembers the books on the counter then, and finds the book about white tigers. It reminds him of Aarron for a couple of minutes, until Sam turns on the clock radio beside his bed to drown out his thoughts and sprawls out on his unmade bed. Bell curls up on the small of Sam's back, and Sam wishes he'd put on a shirt when Bell's orange tail curls around his ribs. It makes him fidget until he gets halfway through the fourth chapter and finds a note from Aarron stuck there, written on the receipt for the books.

Aarron's handwriting is familiar, and more precise than Sam would've thought. The note tells Sam that he's awesome, that Aarron likes spending time with him, and that he hopes that he enjoys the book. Sam smoothes out the receipt, one corner bent up awkwardly, and looks down at it. Aarron must have done it while Sam was reading up on his phone, and Sam can honestly say he's never gotten anything quite like it.

He stays there and finishes the book, mind on something else. Bell eventually moves to his favourite spot on the stove, and Sam stays up too late reading the one about monkeys in hopes that there's another note. There isn't.

At four in the morning, Sam turns on his phone and leaves it on the stove, and falls into bed so tired that he hurts.

The next day is his actual day off, and Sam spends the morning doing laundry. He goes to the laundromat and no one talks to him there. It's next to a Dairy Queen so he has ice cream while he waits for the dryer to finish, and folds his clothes before heading home.

When he's home again he has a bath and doesn't take a book with him, doesn't feel like reading, crouched in the tub with his knees up to his chin and the water getting cold. He's there long enough that his fingers get soft and wrinkle and his feet hurt when he finally gets out and dries them. They feel tender when he walks across his apartment floor, and Sam doesn't get dressed because the thought of clothes makes his skin itch.

Sam falls asleep with Bell curled up on his stomach, bare legs soaking up sunshine and book abandoned by his side. It's a good sleep, better than he's had since he found Jamie was — that he thought he was — that Aarron said — and someone's pounding on the door and waking him up.

Stumbling a bit when he gets to his feet, Sam brushes off the cat hair and almost answers the door before he remembers that he's naked and he pulls on a shirt and his shorts and then he answers.

"Oh," Sam says, when the door's wide and Aarron's looking at him.

"Hi," Aarron says. He doesn't look like he's gotten much sleep either. "You weren't answering your phone."

"My phone," Sam says, and knows that he turned it on.

He turns to check and Aarron follows him into the apartment, closing the door after himself. Sam doesn't mind, the open door was invitation enough.

"Oh," Sam says, when he looks at the display — and it's on, he'd just forgotten to turn it off silent. The display shows he has fifty-seven missed calls and a hundred and nine unread messages. Sam winces, and Aarron's standing almost too close behind him.

"Good thing for unlimited texting," Aarron says, and sighs when Sam turns around. "Listen, I'm sorry. I know it's kind of an asshole thing to do, to just talk about it like that."

"No, it's fine, it's okay," Sam says, and shakes his head. It makes sense, of course it does, and Sam figures he should've realized that Jamie was dead, that he was a ghost or whatever and not still alive and kind of see through. It's like the ending of Fight Club, like Sam should have known it all along.

"So, we're good?" Aarron asks, and tilts his head to the side a little, and Sam never noticed how tiny his kitchen was, for all that it's just stretched along a wall in his apartment.

"Um," Sam says, and leans against the stove. The handle from the oven is digging into his back, and Aarron hasn't moved but Sam feels like he's getting crowded.

"I'm going to go," Aarron says, and takes a step back. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Sam straightens up, and Aarron walks slowly to the door, not looking back but hesitating enough that there's plenty of time to stop him.

"Wait," Sam spits out, and he says it too loud, but at least it's out there before Aarron actually leaves.

Aarron stops, but doesn't turn around.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Sam says, which is true, because he's never really had to do this before, it's always just happened to him.

"You're off to a good start," Aarron says, still facing the door. "Just stop thinking about it."

Sam nods, even though Aarron can see it. He comes up behind him, puts one hand on Aarron's shoulder, light enough that he can barely feel the heat from Aarron's skin under his sweater.

"Sam," Aarron says, soft and short, like he wants to say more but he's cutting himself off.

Swallowing, Sam feels like he's going to throw up, which isn't really the feeling he's looking for, but then Aarron's turning around and Sam lets his hand drop.

"I don't know if this is right," Sam says, mostly to Aarron's stubbly chin. "You didn't shave."

"More important things to do," Aarron says, and doesn't flinch when Sam brushes a thumb against the side of his face. Sam likes the way it feels against his thumb, equal parts rough and soft, and wonders why he'd ever thought Aarron looked like Jamie.

"Um, okay," Sam says, and slides his other hand over the back of Aarron's head, curling his fingers into his hair and something kind of gives him a push and then they're kissing, Sam's kissing Aarron and Aarron's kissing back. He backs Aarron up against the apartment door, slides his other hand underneath Aarron's shirt and squeezing his eyes shut and hoping that this is what he's supposed to be doing.

"Sam," Aarron mutters, when Sam pulls back to breathe. He slides his hands down Sam's sides and lifts him up, and he's strong enough to hold him up until Sam's back hits the wall with a thud, legs wrapped around Aarron's waist and fingers still in Aarron's hair.

"I think you're awesome," Sam says, when Aarron holds him there, up against the wall, and focuses on Aarron's bright blue eyes and this is all he's thinking of, what it's like to have all of Aarron's attention and to know exactly what he wants.

"You too," Aarron says, and Sam can tell he means it.

"No, I mean, like," Sam says, and he doesn't know why he can't think of something better to say, for all the books he reads. "You wrote me notes."

"I'll write you all the notes you want," Aarron says. He shifts and Sam tightens his legs around Aarron's waist.

"I mean, I want to," Sam says, and he just wants, enough to kiss Aarron again, wet and fast and good like it never was with anyone else, and Aarron chases his mouth when he pulls back again.

"I don't get what it is," Aarron says, sliding his hands under Sam's shirt and over his ribs, tugging his shirt over his head. "I mean, I shouldn't like you this much. This should be creepy."

"It is," Sam agrees, and doesn't know what he's saying, focused on unbuttoning Aarron's shirt. Aarron's wearing this necklace, delicate silver against the tanned surface of his chest.

"You're okay with creepy," Aarron says, resting his hand on Sam's face, brushing underneath his eye with a thumb. Sam blinks.

"I'm okay with ghosts," Sam tells him, and kisses Aarron again, squeezing his ankles together behind Aarron's back and pushing up the back of his shirt with one hand.

"Awesome," Aarron mutters, face rough against Sam's.

"My bed's like, right there," Sam tells him, and Aarron takes the hint, grabbing Sam under the knees and carrying him the few feet before dropping him onto the messy sheets.

"Can I, uh," Aarron hesitates, dropping to his knees to straddle Sam's legs. His shirt's hanging open and he has one hand on his belt, using the other for balance.

"If you don't," Sam starts threateningly, one hand already helping Aarron out of his pants, but doesn't have to finish, because Aarron does, and then Sam does, and Sam knows he hasn't had sex in a while, hasn't wanted to, but it's like he's never had sex before.

"I cuddle," Aarron warns, when he's wiped them both off with his shirt, tugging the blankets out from underneath their legs. Sam doesn't care, because Aarron wraps his arms around Sam's waist and he breathes soft and steady in Sam's ear. He doesn't fall asleep for a while, Aarron's jaw prickling on his shoulder and thinking about nothing.

Sam wakes up with a sticky note on his forehead that says good morning and Aarron making breakfast, which really should be clichéd and lame, but all Sam can think about is how romantic it is and about how he finally, finally gets it.

fic: convenient paramedic 1/2

2009-06-08T19:56:48Z

Title: The Convenient Paramedic
Word count: 14800
Summary: After Sam's boyfriend gets shot, it should be obvious what he's supposed to do. Instead he reads a lot and can't seem to stop running into the cute paramedic from the accident site.

"My head is killing me," he says, trying to hold the smashed pieces of his skull together.

"God, Jamie," Sam says, trying not to throw up. "That's disgusting."

"What?" Jamie says, looking up at him. There's blood dripping down into his eyes, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or blink, really.

"You — you're — we need to get you to the hospital!" Sam's frantic, trying not to gag. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, looking anywhere but at the dark spill on the curb.

"I'm fine," Jamie tells him, despite the fact his mind is looking out around his fingers. "Don't worry."

"Don't worry?" Sam says, pitched a little too high. "We've got to get you help before you die!"

"Okay, okay," Jamie says, and winces when he tries to sit up. "Don't freak out."

"Quick, I'll call a taxi," Sam says, flipping open his phone and stepping away from the curb. There's nothing around but parked cars and puddles. It was Jamie's idea to go this way, but Sam hadn’t had a problem following him down the alley, not with the promise of getting having sex in the dark.

"Don't go anywhere," Sam tells Jamie over his shoulder, like an afterthought.

"Okay," Jamie says, rolling his eyes. "I'll try not to."

Sam gives him a dirty look, and turns his attention to the call to 911, telling the operator that he has no idea what type of emergency it is, but his boyfriend's been shot. They finally seem to pay attention, and Sam kneels next to Jamie when he finishes the call. "The ambulance will be here soon."

"Thanks a lot," Jamie says, sarcasm escaping like the ooze down his face. Right now, they're not really getting along.

Sam huffs and presses the backs of his fingers to Jamie's cheek, stung when Jamie pulls back, and wipes the blood and — wipes the blood on his shirt.

It feels like forever before the ambulance arrives, pulling to a stop just in front of Jamie's worn sneakers. The back of the ambulance flies open, two paramedics jumping from the back with their gear to assess the situation. Sam gets to his feet, stumbling back against the trunk of a car as the paramedics brush past him.

There's a bunch of them, two beside Jamie, flashing lights into his eyes and checking his pulse, Sam doesn't know. With them distracted, he inches away from what he can see of Jamie's feet, flopping against the wet pavement. He gets as far as the open back of the ambulance and backs right into the third paramedic, the one driving.

He's tall and clean shaven, maybe blond, maybe brunette, and when he frowns he looks a lot like Jamie. He catches Sam by his arms, chewing cinnamon flavoured gum and frowning as he looks at him.

"You all right?" He asks. The name stitched above his heart is Aarron, and Sam has just enough time to remember it before Aarron's pushing him back against the side of the ambulance.

Sam nods, licking his lips and wondering at his suddenly dry mouth.

"Fine," Sam says, and looks to where Jamie's probably still out on the pavement. One of the other paramedics is talking to the cops that have come out of nowhere, and Sam flinches back from the flashing lights on top of the patrol car.

"You're Sam? The one who called 911?" Aarron asks, putting his hand on Sam's jaw to bring his attention back over.

"Yeah," Sam says. "That's Jamie. Jamie Peterson. He's my boyfriend. He was shot, he's going to be okay, right?"

"Everything's going to be fine," Aarron says. "All right? What's your name, sweetheart."

"Sam," Sam says, and winces when Aarron presses his thumb into a bruise on the side of his throat.

"All right, Sam, my name's Aarron," Aarron says. "You feeling okay, anything hurt?"

"No," Sam says, shaking his head. Aarron's hand follows along with the movement. His fingers are a little rough, and he switches his gum from one side of his mouth to the other. He looks over at one of the other paramedics, nods, and focuses back on Sam.

"We're going to get you to sit down, okay," Aarron says, and takes his hand away from Sam's face. Sam tries not to miss it, but the evening air is cold against his face.

"Okay," Sam parrots, and lets Aarron push him down to sit at the end of the ambulance.

"Good," Aarron says. "So how old are you, Sam?"

"Twenty-two," Sam says, and obediently takes the white tablet that Aarron drops into his hand. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight," Aarron says, and taps the underside of Sam's hand. "Eat that, all right? You feeling light headed at all?"

Sam frowns when he thinks about it, chewing the orange-flavoured tablet. It's chalky, and it makes it hard to swallow. "No."

"Okay. You eat that, and I'm going to ask you about what happened," Aarron says. He's holding a tiny flashlight like the one they were using on Jamie.

"Jamie," Sam says, and goes to get up. Aarron holds him there with one hand on his shoulder, and rests the fingers of his other hand right above Sam's eyebrow.

"We're taking care of him," Aarron says. Sam can't see past Aarron, but the other paramedics aren't rushing around, so they must not be worried about Jamie.

Sam relaxes a little, and Aarron lightens up on the pressure.

"Okay, Sam, so you're walking around with your friend, Jamie, right?" Aarron prompts, and switches the flashlight to look in Sam's other eye.

"Yeah, it was late, we were taking a — short cut," Sam says, and licks his lips. He's pretty sure there's white powder all over his mouth, but Aarron doesn't seem to notice it.

"A short cut, hey," Aarron says. "Where do you live?"

"Jamie lives right up the hill," Sam says. "Well, we do. I live with him. We live in Dex Mills."

"Dex Mills," Aarron says. "My friend lived near there in college. It's nice."

"Yeah, we want to get a dog," Sam says, and winces. "No, okay, we don't, but it's a good dog neighbourhood."

"You're right," Aarron says. He clicks off the flashlight and sticks it back in the chest pocket of his shirt. He looks good in blue. "A little far from here, though, isn't it?"

"We went to a party, at the bar. For St. Patrick's Day," Sam explains, and blinks as he watches Aarron pick up one of his hands and press his thumb to the underside of Sam's wrist.

"Was it fun?" Aarron asks, looking at his watch.

"Okay, we weren't having that much fun, Jamie wanted to go," Sam says, and shrugs. It makes Aarron smile, because Sam's pulse jumps when he hears the sound of car door slam.

"So you decided to come through here? It's a bad neighbourhood," Aarron says.

"Jamie said—” Sam stops himself, because Aarron is still holding onto his wrist, leaning into him and smelling like cinnamon and hand sanitizer, and Sam is not going to tell him about how Jamie wanted Sam to blow him in an alley.

"Jamie said?" Aarron prompts, and he looks at Sam, eyes bright blue and honest, and Sam's going to tell him anyway, can feel his cheeks turn pink already, but one of the other paramedics comes up beside them with a cop.

"This is Officer David," the second paramedic says. His name's stitched on his chest too, in silver thread that spells out Joseph.

"Okay," Aarron says, and lets go of Sam's wrist.

Sam shivers, and tries to focus on what they're saying instead of how he's feeling.

"Sam, this is Officer David," Aarron says, taking a seat next to him in the back of the ambulance. "He's going to ask you a few questions."

"Okay," Sam says, and swallows hard. His mouth is still dry, and Officer David is brandishing a notebook. He's carrying a gun in the holster at his waist.

"What's your last name, Sam?" Officer David asks, not looking up from his notebook.

Sam swallows again. "Um, Samuel."

"Sam Samuel?" David repeats doubtfully. He looks to Aarron and talks like Sam isn't there. "He get hit too?"

"Shock," Aarron says, and touches his fingers to the back of Sam's wrist. "Sam, sweetheart, what's your full name? What does it say on your credit card?"

"Jamie Peterson," Sam says, and looks to the officer when he snorts. "How old is he?"

"Sam," Aarron says. "Okay, what does it say on your driver's license?"

"Samuel Peterson," Sam says, because it does. It was Jamie's idea of a joke, but he doesn't drive in this state anyway.

"Got us a couple of —” Officer David cuts himself off when Aarron glares at him. "All right. This domestic?"

"I don't know what happened," Sam says, getting to his feet and ignoring the way Aarron's trying to hold onto his shoulders. "We're walking down the street, some guy starts yelling at Jamie, he has a gun, and then Jamie's screaming, he's on the ground, he's on the ground."

Sam trails off, and lets Aarron pull him back. Officer David had retreated when Sam got to his feet, but Sam just feels empty, kind of ridiculous with the cop watching him like that.

"Okay, sweetheart, we're going to get you to go with Officer David's friend," Aarron says, turning Sam away from where Jamie was lying and towards another cruiser. "She's going to take care of you."

"Um," Sam says, and nods when he meets Officer Sara Thompson, who tells Sam to call her Sara and tells him to sit in the back while they talk. Aarron goes back to the ambulance, and Sara has to keep saying his name so he'll finally look at her.

"What about Jamie," Sam says, and winces when he realizes he's interrupted the question she's asking.

"What about him," Sara says, voice carefully blank. She's hard-looking, hands like a smoker and wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes.

"I want to go with him," Sam says. "I have to tell him he's going to be okay."

"Listen, honey," Sara says, and then she starts mumbling something about dealing with it and acceptance, and Sam shakes his head. He doesn't know why everyone's treating him like he's stupid.

"Listen," Sam says, and shakes off the feeling that they're right, that Jamie's right about him. He's in control right now, and he clears his throat. His mouth is still too dry. "Someone shot my boyfriend in the face. He came out of nowhere, down the alley. I didn't see his face. I don't know what he wanted, but I think Jamie made him mad."

"Okay," Sara says, and scribbles it down fast in her notebook. It's the same kind as the one David had. "Anything else?"

"I'd really like to see him," Sam says. "He has the key to his apartment."

"I don't think you should go home alone," Sara says. "You've been through a lot tonight."

"I'm not alone," Sam lies, and meets her gaze head-on and steady. "He has a roommate. I have to explain what happened."

"You won't be able to go with him," Sara says. "The hospital should make arrangements with when you're allowed to go and see him."

"I'll leave my number," Sam says, and he presses his hands down against his knees when he gives her Jamie's cell.

"I'll go see if I can get that key for you," Sara says, and gently clicks the back door shut so Sam's trapped in the backseat.

He slumps against the seat, closing his eyes and trying not to see Jamie's face, the surprised look in his eyes when the gun had gone off.

The car door opens and Sam flinches, but it's just Aarron's leaning in and tapping his shoulder.

"Sam, hey," Aarron says. He's dangling Jamie's keys from the chain, finger hooked into the ring. "Officer Thompson said you needed this."

"Thank you," Sam says, and reaches up to grab the keys. Aarron curls his finger so the ring doesn't slide off his finger. Sam tugs, but Aarron just smiles.

"You okay?" Aarron asks.

"I'm fine," Sam says. He feels a little cold, but figures it's because he's not wearing a jacket and it's starting to rain again. "I'm going to go home and tell Jamie's roommate what happened."

"In Dex Mills," Aarron says, and smiles as he lets Sam pull the ring from his finger. "You should eat something."

"And I'll eat something," Sam says.

"Good," Aarron says. He's got a strange expression on his face, something Sam doesn't recognize, and shakes his head but doesn't manage to shake it off. "You going to take care of yourself?"

"Yes," Sam says, and holds out his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Yeah," Aarron says, and huffs out a laugh. "Too bad it wasn't under other circumstances."

"Yes," Sam says, and doesn't even jump when Sara gets back into the car.

--

Sara drops him off at Dex Mills. Sam waves to her and tries to let himself into the building using Jamie's giant collection of keys. She waits with her car running until he's gotten inside the front doors, and Sam takes a couple of minutes to find the right key on the jumble Jamie keeps.

He finally gets to Jamie's apartment upstairs, and everything's dark and quiet. There's a sticky note still on the fridge that Jamie hasn't noticed yet. Sam put it up, it says I love you with a little heart drawn underneath. Jamie hates them, takes them down and throws them out and Sam just puts more up, like someday Jamie's going to appreciate them.

Sam paces for a while, making sure that all the windows are closed and that everything's clean for when Jamie comes home. It's quiet being here without Jamie, and Sam eventually sits on the couch to wait for the hospital's call, reading A Farewell to Arms. He falls asleep on the couch before he hears anything.

The next day he wakes up, and the apartment's still empty and cold. The heater never came on the night before, and Sam shivers while he puts on Jamie's clothes and walks around with two pairs of socks on his feet. Jamie's dress socks are itchy, and Sam sits down to peel them off when he can't stand it anymore. He has a bath and it helps with the cold and his itchy feet, but they're almost out of towels. He puts up a sticky note on the bathroom mirror to remind Jamie to do laundry.

The laundry's getting full, but Sam doesn't know how to work the machine downstairs so he leaves it, and makes too much macaroni and not enough sauce, and chokes down more than he should because Jamie hates leaving leftovers in the fridge.

The next day Sam turns on the tv to get noise in the apartment, and learns about urban legends and serial killers and how tragedy has struck the midwest in ways that never get into the newspapers in the city. He finishes Hemingway and starts on The Catcher in the Rye and goes to bed at ten pm.

When he wakes up, Jamie's sitting across from him, glaring at how Sam has his feet pushed up against the armrest on the other side. The clock says three pm, and Sam has no idea how he'd felt tired enough to sleep for that long.

Sam immediately sits up, guiltily putting his feet on the floor where Jamie's always said they belong.

"I thought I told you about that," Jamie says. He's wearing the same clothes he was on Saturday night, blood staining the neck of his faded green tee shirt and speckling the shoulders of his leather coat.

"Sorry," Sam says, and folds his hands into his lap. "I thought the hospital was going to call."

"You were asleep, how would you know," Jamie says. His face isn't covered in blood anymore, but Sam can still see it up near his hairline.

Sam frowns, and doesn't think that Jamie and the paramedic really look that much alike. Jamie's still scowling, and he's wearing a knit hat pulled down over his eyebrows. It's one of Sam's, but not one of his favourites.

"I'm sorry," Jamie says, after a minute. "I'm not feeling like myself."

"It's fine," Sam says, even though it isn't. He feels better with the apology, and makes tea for both of them. He tells Jamie he's going to take a bath after the water boils.

The cup is still sitting there when he gets out again, but Jamie's gone. Sam drinks Jamie's lukewarm tea without thinking about it while he picks a book to read. It's by Faulkner. Sam finishes the book before he finishes the tea, and pours it down the drain.

Jamie doesn't come back that day, and Sam goes to bed alone with extra blankets piled on top of him to stay warm because the apartment can't seem to push past sixty-two. He leaves a sticky note on the outside of the bedroom door with instructions for Jamie to get into bed right away.

Sam wakes up alone, and Jamie comes back when Sam's about to eat something, still dressed in the dirty clothes and his face is pale. He doesn't say anything about the note he'd left up on the door, whether he'd read it or not.

"Where were you?" Sam asks, looking up from his toast. He's eating grape jelly on it, and remembers how Jamie used to kiss him for twice as long as normal after breakfast, saying he tasted sweet, good enough to eat.

"Out," Jamie says. He looks tired, and reaches up to scratch his head under the hat he's still wearing, but stops halfway up. "I'm going to bed."

"Sure," Sam says, and looks at his toast. He's not hungry for it anymore, but forces himself to eat as he reads Proust. He has another bath and thinks about the Dostoevsky on the next shelf down. He's on the second-last towel and goes to tell Jamie they're almost out.

"Hi," Sam says, when he opens up the bedroom door. Jamie's not sleeping. He's looking out the bedroom window with an odd expression on his face, one palm pressed flat to the glass.

"What do you want," Jamie asks, turning from the window reluctantly.

"Um, towels," Sam says, and he turns halfway back to the laundry hamper, but Jamie shakes his head.

"I have a headache," Jamie says, and Sam feels terrible for whining about the laundry.

"Lie down," Sam says, and hands over a few aspirin and reads The Cider House Rules quietly in the living room. It's still boring, halfway through, but Sam's determined to finish it.

The apartment's full of books. Jamie's more of a collector than a reader, and the book Sam's reading then hasn't even been cracked open. Sam's been working his way through the entire selection, starting at the books in the top left and going down.

When he finishes the book, Sam collects the laundry and spends the entire next day learning how to do laundry. There's a woman he's never met before who tells him how to separate his clothes by colour and type.

She's nice enough, but Sam still remembers that he's not supposed to talk to anyone in the building. It was one of the rules Jamie set up when Sam first moved in, and he still operates under the feeling that Jamie's going to know if he even says hello to anyone in the building.

Sam brings the clothes back upstairs and folds them the best he can. He's kind of proud of himself, when everything's back in the cupboards and the laundry hamper is empty for the first time in a week, but Jamie doesn't notice.

Instead of feeling upset, Sam has a bath and reads The Snow Goose while he soaks. It's sad and he presses his freshly-laundered towel against his face while the water drains out of the tub.

--

When he's made it through an entire shelf of books, Jamie takes up permanent residence on one side of the couch. He watches tv without noticing what's on, and Sam changes the channel every so often so he doesn't have to listen to the reruns.

Jamie's gone when Sam makes something new and experimental for lunch, and comes back just in time to push the pasta dinner around on his plate. Sam runs out of bread for toast when he wakes up the next morning, stuck eating the hard crusty ends of the bread, and casually mentions that they need groceries when Jamie turns away from the window.

"Right," Jamie says, like he's realizing that Sam's still there. "My credit card's on the dresser. Just pick up what you need."

"Oh," Sam says, and feels important with the visa in his pocket, and picks up things that Jamie's never bought before, just to try it. He likes the sweet potatoes but the brussel sprouts are disgusting. He buys things that he doesn't like, stores them in the cupboards and doesn't say anything when Jamie doesn't eat them. He throws out a lot of bananas, even after he wrote little notes requesting that they be eaten with smiley faces. The bananas get thrown out along with the post-it notes.

He starts getting groceries once every week, on Monday evenings just like Jamie used to.

Sam asks Jamie once if he wants to come with, but Jamie shakes his head and doesn't turn away from the window. He's been paler than usual, not looking like himself, so Sam doesn't argue, just goes by himself.

It's the time after that, when Sam decides to try being a vegetarian and buys soy milk just once to try it, and he's at the check out when the visa gets declined.

The cashier looks more embarrassed than Sam does, but he doesn't really get it. He goes home and eats one of the soft bananas on the counter, and finds out he still hates the dry way the fruit feels in his mouth.

Sam wonders if he should say something to Jamie about it. Jamie's been letting the mail pile up on his desk, and Sam finally goes through until he sees a bunch of unopened bills from the credit card company, one with a letter marked final notice and another saying they will be turning the account over to collections.

His hands are shaking when he sees that one, and the next time he sees Jamie, looking out the bedroom window and complaining of another headache, he asks about it.

"I must have forgotten," Jamie says, when Sam shows him the final notice. "Find my chequebook? We'll pay it."

"Okay," Sam says, and fills the cheque out for the full amount plus a terrible amount of interest. Sam feels bad for not knowing about it, and marks it on the calendar along with the laundry days and the grocery days, and wonders when Jamie stopped writing his important meetings down. He looks back and it's around the same time that Sam started putting up notes that Jamie had stopped throwing away.

He reads Love in the Time of Cholera, and feels optimistic when he makes it through another entire shelf of books, then marks progress halfway through the entire collection. Jamie never leaves the apartment with Sam anymore, and stops making excuses, even though he's never there when Sam gets back so he obviously has things to do. They're just not with Sam.

One time when Sam gets back, Jamie is standing by the window, and won't turn around when Sam asks him a question about where they keep the garbage tags. He's unresponsive, even when Sam gets close up behind him to touch, and Sam resists the urge to smack Jamie just to get him to say something.

He yells instead, just the once, and Jamie finally turns from the window.

"Maybe this is over," Jamie says softly, and they're not talking about taking out the garbage anymore.

Sam freezes, feeling the cold all of a sudden, and terribly alone even with Jamie standing in front of him. "No, don't."

"Sam," Jamie says, and starts moving towards the kitchen.

"Please, Jamie, please," Sam says, trailing after him. "I didn't mean it, I'm sorry."

Jamie doesn't say anything to that, and doesn't stop on his way to the door.

"Don't go, Jamie, please," Sam begs, and then Jamie's gone, and he doesn't see him for a week.

He feels kind of depressed the entire time Jamie's gone, and does one load of laundry every day, just to have something to do.

There's a woman waiting for a load in the dryer when Sam goes down after Jamie's been gone for five days. She makes conversation and Sam has a feeling this is when Jamie's going to come back and see Sam talking to her. She asks where Jamie's been and Sam lies, says he's been on a business trip and feels paranoid the entire time he waits for his towel in the dryer.

Jamie finally comes back after exactly a week. He comes through the door and tells Sam again, that maybe it's over, and Sam just stares after him and loses his place in The Jungle Book and can't remember which animal is teaching which lesson.

The first time Sam has an accident with one of Jamie's books, he's eating and reading Titus Groan, and spills tomato sauce over the cover. Jamie doesn't notice, and that's when Sam starts taking books in to read in the tub. He starts spending more and more time in the tub, whether it's filled with water or not, because Jamie never comes in to the bathroom.

Jamie tells him to go to the library, once, when Sam's almost done three-quarters of the books. He's sitting on the couch and Jamie's staring out the window, hand pressed up against the glass. It's good that he never leaves a print, otherwise Sam would be cleaning up after him constantly.

Sam doesn't protest, just slips the visa into his pocket and wears one of Jamie's heavy coats, because it gets cold when he has to walk long distances. He wears two or three shirts inside anyway, because the constant chill isn't as welcoming in October as it was in the sweat of summer.

He wanders the non-fiction section of the library before taking a look at the fiction. He doesn't take anything out, because he doesn't have a library card and he wants to finish reading Jamie's books before he moves on to anything else.

He's engrossed in the back of a book that he's seen on the very bottom shelf at the apartment, reading what the critics have to say about this second edition, when someone whispers hello and Sam jumps, dropping the book.

"Oh," Sam says, when he stoops to pick up the book. The guy looks familiar, and he's not sure why. "You started me."

"Sorry," the guy says. He's not whispering anymore, but his voice is still quiet enough that Sam has to lean in to hear him. "You don't remember me, do you?"

"No," Sam says, and sets the book onto an empty space on the shelf. "Should I?"

"Aarron," the guy says. "Paramedic, at, uh. From St. Patrick's?"

"Oh, right," Sam says, although it's all a complete blank. "Are you a friend of Jamie's?"

"Uh, no," Aarron says. "Listen, we should talk sometime. I have some things for you, from the hospital."

Sam takes a step back, and feels a little alarmed when Aarron follows, then a little pleased, because Aarron's looking at him the way Jamie used to. "I'm, uh, I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"It's good to get closure," Aarron says, and Sam shakes his head, because Aarron isn't making any sense.

"Listen, I have to go," Sam says, and turns around and walks right out. He starts running once he's gone down the library steps, and loses Aarron when he ducks down to the underground subway station that he uses to come up on the other side of the street. He takes off and never goes back.

Jamie doesn't ask how it goes, but Sam still feels guilty for feeling good when Aarron looked at him.

When Sam comes back to the apartment he's alone, and takes a long bath after his run home. Jamie's coat got too hot after he'd passed the twenty minute mark, chest heaving and hands trembling when he'd let himself back in.

Sitting in the tub, Sam doesn't think he can stand up anymore, and gets a wet thumbprint on the hundred and eighth page of Hamlet. He doesn't really get the book, and every time he sets it down it's impossible to get back into the language.

Sam doesn't mention what happened at the library, but he takes long walks when Jamie looks at him kind of long, or makes a nasty remark that Sam can't quite shrug off. He gets home from one walk with Jamie gone and Sam's hat lying on the floor.

Sam frowns when he picks it up, and sets it on the kitchen counter. He has a bath because he's cold inside and out, and when he gets out Jamie's standing in the kitchen, Sam's hat back on his head.

"So," Jamie says, and Sam hopes he's going to say something about the heat.

"What?" Sam asks, going for defence, but Jamie just shakes his head and when Sam gets back out of the bedroom Jamie's gone.

It happens again and again, and when Sam fakes Jamie's signature on another cheque to pay off the credit card the bank leaves a message, something about fees for non sufficient funds.

Sam has another bath and brushes his teeth while the water drains out of the tub, holding the towel up around his waist with one hand.

He opens the bathroom door and Jamie's right in front of him. Startled, Sam jumps and nearly loses the towel. He hadn't heard Jamie come back in.

"I think you need to move out," Jamie says, about as cold as the temperature in the apartment.

"What?" Sam actually does drop the towel, but he cares less about being naked than he does about being homeless.

"Let's face it," Jamie says. He won't move back, so Sam can get by. "You're over me."

"I'm not," Sam says. "Come on."

"When was the last time we had sex," Jamie says, and finally backs off, taking a seat on the couch. He's wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head.

"Um," Sam says, and can't immediately bring it to mind. "The day before St. Patrick's day?"

"Exactly," Jamie says. "This isn't a relationship anymore, you're just existing here."

"You're kicking me out," Sam says, and hates the way his hands shake, the way he fumbles with the towel to cover himself back up, suddenly noticing his nakedness.

"You need to live on your own," Jamie says. "I'm not helping."

"You are," Sam says, and comes out into the living room. "I can't do this without you, Jamie."

"Find a way, Sam," Jamie says, and looks almost sad. "I can give you that, at least."

"Jamie," Sam says. His voice sounds lost, and he can feel his hands tremble against their grip on the towel.

"Two weeks," Jamie says, and reaches up to pull the hood over his forehead more. His fingers are dirty, and Sam can't remember a time he's seen Jamie look this tired.

"Two weeks," Sam repeats, miserable, and doesn't have the energy to stand anymore, and touches his head to his knees. He crouches there against the carpet for a long time, and when he straightens up Jamie's gone.

part two

fic: gracious

2008-10-12T02:27:57Z

Title: Gracious
Rating: pg
Word count: 5000
Summary: Bloor gets mistaken for a guy named Donodan, and spends the day with Dar because he's too polite to explain the confusion. This may actually make him worse than Donodan.

So Bloor's enjoying a rather mediocre cup of tea in some overpriced pretentious coffee shop when he's startled by a hand on his shoulder. Actually, it's not so much the hand as what it's attached to, which is a well-muscled arm barely concealed by a faded green tee that's definitely seen better days.

Bloor would put money on the fact that those better days were probably back when Toyotas were considered luxury cars and that mint green color was still new and exciting. Right now, though, he sits with a stranger's arm around his shoulders and doesn't have the nerve to ask why it's there.

The guy's breath smells like coffee, kind of stale and gross and too warm on the side of Bloor's face. This, he can't point out either, because Bloor is nothing if not polite.

"So, Donodan," the guy says, whispering his coffee breath into Bloor's right ear. "You wanna tell me why you lied to me?"

"I, uh, sorry," Bloor says, even though he doesn't have a clue who Donodan is or why he'd been lying. He's just sorry because that's the way he is.

"Honestly." The guy punctuates this with a hard squeeze to the bones underneath Bloor's skin. "I had these plans, right? And then you give me fifteen minutes to cancel. Which I can't. So I find you here."

Bloor tries to shrug, finds the guy's arm still firmly weighing down his shoulder blades and ducks his head down instead. "I didn't know."

"I—shit," the guy slides his free hand over his face, pinching at his nose and his lips and settles too-bright eyes on Bloor's face. "You ever think of anyone but yourself, you selfish bastard?"

"Sorry," Bloor mumbles, trying to hunch his shoulders up to prevent future verbal attacks from scoring too deep a hit. It's worked in the past, so it really surprises him when the guy grabs the sleeve of his jacket and pulls him to his feet.

"Listen, you jackass," the guy keeps a fist full of jacket and drags Bloor after him. Bloor's taller than him by at least two inches, but it doesn't seem to matter because, remember, Bloor's polite to a fault.

"Sorry," Bloor apologizes again, just in case it wasn't completely obvious about the polite thing.

"I was going to spend this whole freaking day with you, and you're not going to shrug off just because you feel like it," the guy turns a bit to stab this one in Bloor's chest. Bloor flinches and hopes the guy doesn't notice.

"We are going to spend the day together. We are going to the market. We are going to buy something that requires assembly and we'll go back to my apartment to order Chinese and assemble it. Okay?" The guy lets go of Bloor's jacket almost as violently as he'd grabbed it, and expects an answer.

Bloor's just got his mouth open to reply when the guy narrows his eyes and freezes the words in his mouth.

"If you say sorry again I'll kill you, swear to god." The guy jerks his chin up once and waits until he sees Bloor agree, then resumes walking.

Bloor follows a few steps behind, wondering how to break it to the guy that he wasn't this Donodan, and even if he was, he probably wouldn't like himself very much.

They get into a red grand am, and Bloor waits for the guy to pull it out of a parallel park when a wallet falls into his lap.

Surprised, Bloor looks to the blond behind the wheel and doesn’t touch the wallet.

“Grab my parking card, would you?” He raises his eyebrows and points to wallet before turning quickly around the median like a slingshot.

Bloor nods and opens up the wallet, still warm from being in the guy’s back pocket. Bloor can feel his face heat up as he blushes at the thought, pausing for just a second on the driver’s license that answers the question of who the guy thinks he is.

Apparently he’s Darren Shepherd, and Bloor isn’t sure if he’s supposed to have a nickname for the guy or whatever. He settles on sliding the parking card out and handing it over to—Darren, so they can find a spot in a crowded lot.

The afternoon pretty much flies by, and Bloor can’t remember the last time he had so much fun with someone he just met. Darren—who keeps correcting Bloor, telling him to call him Dar—doesn’t act like they just met, no awkward silences or pauses that stretch on too long.

Bloor thinks this might be the best thing that ever happened to him—and then he remembers it’s actually the best thing that’s happened to Donodan.

&&

“Can you hit the floor?” Dar asks, his hands full of boxes. He nods towards the elevator’s number pad, little circles waiting to be turned on.

Bloor draws a blank unsurprisingly, and pretends to drop the paper bag of Chinese food he’s clutching to his chest.

“Honestly, Donodan,” Dar shakes his head, and then this girl steps between them in the elevator.

If Bloor was a praying man, he’d be sending up some thanks for the fact this girl has both her hands free and can push the button for both floors.

Dar asks her for the seventh—Bloor commits seven to his memory, even though it’s technically nothing he needs to know—and then glares at Bloor behind her back.

Bloor makes an innocent face, which is a lot like his polite misunderstanding face, which started out as a way to plan an escape without letting anyone else in on it. He’s perfected a few faces, and luckily this was one of them.

Rolling his eyes, Dar waits until the girl gets off at five before he steps right into Bloor’s space, pushing him back against the door until the greasy warmth of the paper bag is pressing into Bloor’s chest.

Bloor opens his mouth to protest, maybe even to say he’s not Donodan even though that’d mean forfeiting all the greasy goodness he’s paid for with his own credit card, but neither of them gets a word out before the floor stops at seven.

Dar gives Bloor a narrow-eyed look that means payback’s coming later.

Payback’s a bitch, Bloor remembers suddenly, and flushes when he realizes he’s actually said the word, even in his head. Keep in mind, he’s almost too polite.

“You wanna grab plates?” Dar asks over his shoulder, carrying his boxes towards the rear of the apartment.

“Uh, okay,” Bloor says, choosing left and finding the kitchen. He sets the bag of Chinese down on the counter, opening one of the cupboards in hopes of finding plates. His luck doesn’t hold, and he finds plastic cups instead. The next cupboard over is full of half-empty Bacardi, and then Dar walks back into the kitchen.

Surprised, Bloor shuts the door quickly and tries to look inconspicuous.

“If you didn’t want to help, you should’ve just said something,” Dar says, trying to hide his hurt look behind a snarl. Bloor recognizes it because hiding is something he’s good at.

“I—sorry,” Bloor says, hoping that it’s been long enough that he can start apologizing again.

“Whatever.” Dar doesn’t turn around, shoulders tense and plates set down a little too heavily on the counter. “Grab some forks?”

“Uh,” Bloor pauses, wondering where to start with all the drawers.

“Oh what the hell, man,” Dar says, yanking a drawer open and nearly pulling it free from the casters. “We were having such a good day, too.”

Bloor wants to correct Dar, tell him that maybe he has no idea where things are in the kitchen, but isn’t sure how exactly to say it. He just knows that dinner’s going to be awkward, even if he’s barely tapped into the reserve of polite conversation starters.

Dar slams the drawer back shut when he doesn’t find the cutlery he’s after. Throwing open the next one down, this one sticks and Dar jams it up and down while he tries to get it open far enough.

Wincing at the jangling noise the cutlery makes, Bloor takes a step backwards, away from the possibility of Dar spilling the drawer’s contents over the floor.

“Just great,” Dar mutters to the drawing, pulling back hard enough that the drawer hardware makes a squealing protest.

“Wait,” Bloor says, before he can self-censor, moving closer to stop Dar before it got even worse.

“What?” Dar pulls on the door one more time, glaring at Bloor past his shoulder.

Without thinking about it, Bloor takes a step back, then swallows hard. “Let me.”

Dar lets go of the drawer pull, holding his hands up with a sarcastic look on his face, like he knows that Donodan is even worse with stuck drawers than he is.

Bloor wonders absently whether Donodan would ever offer to fix Dar’s drawers, and promptly blushes as he kneels to stick his hand back in there to pull a plastic serving spoon free.

It’s cracking where the handle meets the spoon, and Bloor hands it to Dar almost apologetically.

Clearing his throat, Bloor wipes his hands on his jeans and stays crouched next to the counter. “I, uh, think it’s broken.”

“Yeah,” Dar says softly, bending the spoon back and away from the handle. “Looks like.”

Bloor waits there, kneeling on Dar’s kitchen floor, not sure what’s the next step.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Dar mumbles to the spoon, and Bloor frowns in confusion as he slowly gets to his feet, using the still-open drawer for leverage.

“My god, Donodan,” Dar says, pressing his thumb against the bowl of the spoon until it’s bent nearly double, still holding despite the vicious crack halfway through it.

Bloor blinks, biting the corner of his lip as he looks down at the spoon, feeling his heart start to beat a little faster as he knows that he’s got to do something. It’d be so much easier once he just got it out there, but he’s not sure how to start it, or even what it is.

“Dan,” Dar says, and despite the fact Bloor’s not Donodan he still makes eye contact.

Dar hesitates, and the silence is just about enough to make Bloor uncomfortable when Dar presses his lips together and then just goes in and kisses him.

Bloor’s taller by a few inches, but that doesn’t help him much with the counter digging into the backs of his legs and Dar’s tongue pressing insistently against his lips.

There’s really no polite way to handle this, Bloor knows, especially since he’s gone way past simple mistake and taken it well into too far territory.

Some part of him knows that kissing back is probably the closest thing to polite, so he goes with that. He’s a polite guy, after all.

Dar pulls back when Bloor’s teeth slip a little into his lip, mumbles a swear word against Bloor’s panting mouth.

“Sorry,” Bloor mumbles, keeping his hands on the edge of the counter so he doesn’t pull Dar even closer.

“Shut up,” Dar says, sliding a hand to the back of Bloor’s head and pulling his mouth back down.

Bloor doesn’t know what to do with his hands, digging his nails into the greasy underside of the countertop and keeping his tongue safely in his own mouth. Then Dar kind of pushes down against his leg, hard enough for Bloor to figure out that he’s not exactly politely expressing interest.

&&

Dar slides his tongue into Bloor’s mouth, kind of a tease against his teeth and Bloor forgets about everything but keeping his mouth open and the touch of Dar’s fingers on his neck.

“You,” Dar gets out, moving his lips from Bloor’s mouth to the side of his jaw, mumbling things that Bloor doesn’t understand for all that they’re in English.

“Sorry,” Bloor says, even though he’s really not. He’s maybe a little sorry for Donodan, whoever he is, because he likes this too much to tell Dar to stop.

With Dar’s mouth just below his ear and his hands skimming his hips, Bloor thinks of exactly one thing. He’s lucky to be here.

Then Dar pushes him away, pushes him back into the edge of the counter as far as he’ll go, which isn’t far. Bloor grunts when he settles, not far from where he started with Dar’s hands sliding off and away from him and even farther from that in his head.

“Shit,” Dar says, raising a hand to touch at his mouth and narrow his eyes at Bloor. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I’m sorry,” Bloor offers, wincing a bit when he remembers Dar’s earlier promise to kill him.

“I don’t care if you can fix my drawer,” Dar says, like Bloor hasn’t interrupted. “Or that you still kiss like that. You’re still an asshole.”

“I—” Bloor hesitates, wanting to say something about falling over without their clothes on, that it’s okay because he’s not the one Dar’s mad at, but Dar’s already turning away and ripping the greasy paper bag of their cooling Chinese. So he doesn’t.

He does decide to come clean at some point. While they’re eating—with forks, because Dar scowls hard at the cheap wooden chopsticks that come tucked in the bottom of the bag, so hard that Bloor doesn’t think about offering to show him how—Bloor phrases things out.

Things like this is all a big coincidence, please don’t get mad but and listen there’s something you should know but he forgets the rest. He keeps thinking about it the entire time they assemble a CD cabinet, even after Dar transfers his scowl to the extra screw that he’s convinced should go somewhere.

Bloor takes a reassuring breath that doesn’t work, takes another, and just opens his mouth to explain everything when Dar says something that kills that idea.

Dar sets the allen key down, too carefully, and sets his hands carefully on his knees.

The sinking feeling Bloor gets has nothing to do with the serious look on Dar’s face, but more that he’s missed his chance to make anything good about this again.

“Dan, I. Shit.” Dar shakes his head, and Bloor can’t help but meet his eyes, even though his stomach’s tying its way into a more complex knot. “You’re freaking amazing, you know that?”

“I, okay,” Bloor says, instead of what he wants, which is something like: I’m freaking amazing but Donodan isn’t, really.

“No, really,” Dar continues, licking his lips and pressing them together. “When you’re like this, this is how I know we should keep going.”

“Oh,” Bloor says, with a sigh that’s not just for him and what isn’t going to happen, but for Dar too, and what is.

“What?” Dar asks, the note of concern threaded in his voice drowned out by the pounding of Bloor’s heart and the way that he just knows that this is the worst moment of his life, because it’s the best moment of Donodan’s.

&&

After that tender moment, Dar gets kind of closed down and awkward, so he takes Bloor’s retreat kind of like a favour. Bloor goes home with his jacket collar turned up tight and a stilted goodbye. He goes home never to see Dar again.

There’s no way he’s going to try and change that, either. Bloor gets depressed first, even tucks his jacket to the back of the closet and wears one that isn’t quite so waterproof and sits in sodden misery in the new coffee place he has to find because he’s not going back to the place he went to before. Just in case.

The old place, it was expensive and the tea wasn’t that great, Bloor tells himself, even though this place isn’t as close to his apartment. The whole thing, it’s either enabling or pathetic, so Bloor just orders his tea with a side of scorn. The baristas add that for free.

There’s one, and Bloor’s not being an asshole when he thinks about it, but she likes it when he smiles and sometimes draws a heart on the lid if he gets his drink to go. Another one, he wears hemp necklaces and he likes it when Bloor gets soy instead of milk, and they all love it because he tips like sixty percent because he doesn’t ever take his change.

Bloor goes often enough to be recognized and have an established usual, and long enough to really start to like the place, even if it adds seven minutes to his day.

When he has the time he sits at the bar, at the counter with his back to the wall so the same thing doesn’t happen at the new place. He doesn’t want anyone to sneak up on him and totally like steal his heart or whatever, especially not by accident, and of course it doesn’t so eventually he stops paying attention.

He’s come by after work just twice, and it’s the third time he’s there after work that he’s sitting at the end of the counter reading an abandoned newspaper when Dar finds him, somehow.

Not exactly like that. Bloor happens to look up when he goes to flip a page, happens to catch sight of a familiar green shirt and nearly knocks over his trendy mug with his suddenly shaking hands.

The real Donodan’s there, Bloor can see, half-hidden behind the brushed nickel canisters stacked at this end of the counter, and the barista with the thing for his smile is making a coffee, something weird with lots of cream and caffeine that Bloor tries if he’s on his way out.

Just in case he doesn’t like it, that way no one knows because he even throws the cup out in a secret garbage far from here, after carrying the cup around and looking appreciative long after the liquid inside’s gone cold. He doesn’t want anyone to know better.

So Bloor panics, hiding behind the canisters and trying not to look like he’s doing anything but enjoying the cup of coffee Sheppard made him. Sheppard went on his break after that, though, so Ellie’s at the counter and smiling at Donodan who actually looks a lot like Bloor.

Raising the edge of the newspaper, Bloor hides his face but can still hear Donodan arguing with Dar, raising his voice to look-at-me levels that Bloor rolls his eyes at, can see Dar rolling his eyes too.

Ellie greets Donodan with her usual smile, reaching for the marker to sign the top of his cup and Bloor feels jealous for no reason, enough to make him leave the last mouthful of tea and stand up, head for the door.

He passes close enough to the counter to overhear what Donodan’s saying.

“This place is great, really,” Donodan tells Dar, who has his back to the door and to where Bloor’s standing. “They give me free coffee, you know?”

That surprises Bloor, not because sometimes he walks away with a free cup on his way out for the afternoon, but because they don’t notice the difference between his habits and Donodan’s demands and Bloor looks away for just a second too long and runs solidly into Dar’s back and the soft fabric of his tee.

“Hey,” Dar says, turning and freezing when he sees the expression on Bloor’s face, or maybe it’s just Bloor’s face. It’s enough that Bloor gets a chance to spin back around, too fast, and nearly slips as he heads out the door.

Bloor gets outside, takes one deep breath of the cold breeze as he stumbles around the corner, away from the plate glass windows at the front of the coffee shop and away from where Dar’s apparently still with Donodan, after Bloor accidentally proved that he wasn’t a huge douche or whatever.

Went back or stayed, but either way Bloor’s not touching that entire situation. It’s not until he turns the corner and leans against the brick wall of another building that he remembers he left his bag slung over the back of his chair, hiding behind the canisters of coffee and still kind of important.

He waits a few minutes, to see if Dar and Donodan leave, maybe take their coffee to go and go, but there’s nothing. Bloor figures, after a long couple of minutes in poor weather, that maybe they left right after he did.

Maybe—and Bloor’s reaching, he knows, but he can’t convince himself not to—Dar went after him, or something. Bloor counts backwards from ten, then back from twenty, and goes back into the coffee shop.

Ellie gives him a confused smile, like she’s glad to see him but isn’t sure why. Bloor just shrugs and goes to pick up his bag from his chair. It’s there like no one even noticed it.

Down at the other end of the bar, Sheppard is arguing with another customer, a regular, who has the name of some bird that Bloor can’t remember. He always fights with Sheppard about the soy, even though Sheppard is some raw veganism freak who grows his own vegetables in his bathroom sink.

Bloor waves to Ellie and doesn’t look where he’s going, so of course he nearly walks back into Dar, who’s standing in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest. He takes a step back, with a chair pressing into the backs of his knees.

“I, uh, I have to go,” Bloor says, and pushes past Dar—well, sort of moves sideways to avoid touching him and speeds up when he’s closer to the door—but he’s still walking when he reaches the sidewalk outside.

Dar’s too close behind him, Bloor can feel it, because Dar grabs his shoulder and holds on tight enough to turn him around so they’re facing each other.

They stare for a second, Bloor feeling terrible and awkward, and he’s about to apologize again when Dar shakes his head and lets go of Bloor’s arm.

“So why?” Dar says, just throws it out there onto the sidewalk between them, where Bloor looks down at his shoes and stares at it.

He answers after too long of a second to call it conversation. “It’s, uh, the least I can do.”

It’s not the wrong thing to say, Bloor knows it, but Dar scowls and acts like it was anyway.

“So that’s what it was to you? Some game to play on some random asshole?” Dar snorts and spits on the ground, too close to Bloor’s shoes.

Bloor flinches back and it’s not just the look on Dar’s face that keeps him back. It’s like Dar thinks he did it on purpose, or for Donodan or something, and Bloor can’t find the words to tell Dar that he’d never seen—well. That’s not exactly true.

Wincing, Bloor turns the words around in his mouth until he figures he makes sense. “I didn’t do it for him.”

“Shit,” Dar says, and turns away from where Bloor’s standing. “Just leave me alone, all right?”

“Okay,” Bloor agrees, even though Dar was the one who came into Bloor’s new coffee shop, and Bloor was the one who left so they didn’t have to talk each other.

Dar mutters something under his breath at that, and turns back to head into the coffee shop where Bloor figures Donodan is still waiting.

He calls himself a couple kinds of idiot because he knows two other languages and readjusts his bag. He’s not looking forward to finding yet another coffee place that Donodan doesn’t know about, and tries to work through the figures of how unlikely bumping into the two of them again would be.

&&

Bloor should’ve remembered he hated math, because the next day he’s back at his usual spot with his usual cup of tea and Sheppard is still arguing with the guy with the bird’s name—Finch, Bloor overheard it earlier—and everything is familiar.

The door jangles and someone else orders a coffee, but then he hears a cup sliding down at the other side of his counter and Bloor looks up to see Dar looming over him.

“Oh,” Bloor says, because he doesn’t know what else would work in this case.

“You should probably know that Donodan’s been getting your free coffee,” Dar says, like they have conversations like this every day.

“I, uh, I figured,” Bloor says. He lets go of the corner of the newspaper he was holding up like a shield, reaches for a cup he forgot he’d emptied already.

Ellie’s coming over with a smile and refill, though, and she gives Dar a look that Bloor doesn’t recognize, but he thinks it could be threatening.

It warms Bloor a little more than the coffee could, and it’s from a fresh pot.

“You figured,” Dar says, and shifts on his feet.

Bloor doesn’t ask Dar to sit down, and Dar doesn’t look like he would anyway.

“You figured,” Dar repeats, and moves his own cup closer. “You figured, and you didn’t tell the staff so they would stop doing it?”

“No,” Bloor says, because it doesn’t bother him. He was still getting free coffee, and it wasn’t like he missed the extras when he wasn’t here, but okay. Maybe the part where Donodan didn’t say thank you bothered him a little.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Dar asks, and Bloor shakes his head automatically as an answer.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Bloor says, but it comes out a little flat and neither of them believes it.

“You should—you shouldn’t let him do that,” Dar says finally, after Ellie gives them both a look. “Let him use you. It’s not—shit. It’s not good.”

“I don’t,” Bloor says, looking down at the business section of his paper. “I didn’t even know he existed until a few weeks ago.”

“Trust me,” Dar says with a snort, and the funny thing is that Bloor does.

“Um, sorry about,” Bloor starts, hesitates, and Dar doesn’t even seem to notice.

“I have to go,” Dar says shortly, talking overtop of Bloor’s soft apology, grabbing his to-go cup and Bloor watches him go out the door.

“So,” Ellie says, moving in front of him to take his empty cup. “Did he buy the evil twin theory?”

“No,” Bloor says. He tells himself he’s not disappointed, but he doesn’t believe himself either.

He catches sight of Dar—mostly through the windows of the coffee place and the back of his head or maybe hearing his voice from the other side of the counter—off and on for the next few weeks.

It isn’t that Bloor is avoiding Dar, not really, it’s just that Bloor has a lot of things to do that involve being in different places at the same time. There’s a couple of close calls that Finch warns Bloor about. He’s not so bad, as long as he’s not talking about the myrmidon qualities of the people who ask for soy milk in their lattes.

Eventually, though, Sheppard starts telling Bloor he should just talk to the guy, because Dar isn’t such an asshole once he’s away from Donodan. He says things like how Dar wants to start over, pretend none of it happened, but Bloor, he can’t.

He can still remember the way Dar looked when they kissed in the kitchen, the way Dar looked at him when he was someone else. He can’t tell that to Sheppard either, who doesn’t understand relationships because the only one who doesn’t know Finch is a vegan too is Sheppard.

So Bloor just shrugs and doesn’t tell Sheppard that Dar is the one who doesn’t want to talk to him. He pretends like it’s him. He’s the one with the problem, because that’s the way Dar seems to want it.

There’s one time, when Bloor is about to come in for a cup of tea for his walk home, when Dar looks up and sees him and his face actually brightens the way that Sheppard always says it does, when Bloor thinks about actually going inside instead of turning around the other way and going home cold and alone.

Ellie starts leaving pointed notes folded inside of Bloor’s newspaper, so when he’s reading it with a cup of tea he learns something new about Dar, like the way he slumps when Bloor doesn’t come inside. Even when she’s not working, Bloor reads about how Dar doesn’t talk about Bloor when he comes inside, but Ellie still knows what he’s thinking about.

Even when Finch stops signalling Bloor with an obnoxiously obvious bird call when Dar’s coming around, Bloor still doesn’t see a lot of Dar.

He doesn’t get suspicious about it until he’s sitting alone by the wall one day, tracing his finger along the lines of an article about proposed funding for a project he’s not interested in because that’s when Dar sits down heavily beside Bloor.

Bloor jumps, because he wasn’t expecting it, little droplets of tea jumping from his cup onto the pages of his newspaper. For all that he tells himself to stop doing it, he still spaces out and forgets to watch his back.

“You look familiar,” Dar says, setting his cream-coloured coffee mug on the counter. It’s only half-full, liquid kept safely inside the mug even after Dar sits. “Have we met?”

His hands are shaking. Bloor nearly drops his cup the last inch to the counter, flattens his hands on the wood and ignores the way the wood sticks to his palms. “I don’t think so, no.”

Dar offers his hand like an introduction. “I’m Dar. I think I’m in love with your face."

Bloor hesitates before taking it. “That’s too bad.”

“Really,” Dar says, squeezing Bloor’s sticky fingers and his mouth slants into a smile.

“Yeah.” Bloor looks down at their hands squeezed together. “Because I have a great personality.”

fic: someone hit the lights

2008-10-12T02:24:33Z

Title: Someone Hit the Lights
Rating: pg
Word count: 3000
Summary: For all that the assistant coach is going to give him shit for taking a dive when they needed him to skate it off, the blond forward is in the box and making eyes at him across the ice. All in all it's not a bad way to go.

Macs hits the boards with a grunt, the weight of an opposing player heavy on his back. He's got an arm trapped between his body and the glass and he can't turn his head far enough to see who's got him pinned.

Someone's got a stick digging and picking at his ankles, keeping his skates from hitting the boards, and Macs would push back if he could get any leverage. He can't, though. It feels like minutes have gone by but it's probably only been a few seconds. There's no whistle.

"How do you like that, huh, bitch?" The voice is hot and familiar in his ear.

Macs grins, because number seventeen is still trying after nearly thirteen minutes of game time.

"Shake and bake, baby," Macs tells him, slumping against the boards and just dropping when seventeen backs off. The whistle goes and Macs stays down for a second, long enough to recognize the black covered legs of the ref and the number on the back of seventeen's yellow jersey.

He hides a grin as he gets to his feet, letting Jay give him a hand and raising a glove when his entire team taps their sticks on the ice and the boards. For all that the assistant coach is going to give him shit for taking a dive when they needed him to skate it off, the blond forward is in the box and making eyes at him across the ice.

All in all it's not a bad way to go.

&&

The next time the fucking puck drops when he's on the ice, Del knows that they're keeping twenty three off on purpose. He doesn't care, though, because the cocky son of a bitch is pissing him off.

He's got a temper, he knows; there's twenty eight minutes of penalty time this season that attests to that. His entire fucking team will, too, because they've been subbing him off like clockwork whenever twenty three comes on.

Del doesn't even fucking know what shake and bake means, exactly, and it's not like he's looking for the fucking opportunity to ask. He doesn't do much talking anyway, and calling twenty three a bitch was a bit over the top. He hates the fucker, though, so he figures it's excusable.

He's lucky that no Titans have called him on it, because they haven't forgotten about last year's loss to the same fucking team, or about the fact he choked at a crucial moment, or that he has lousy taste in who he fucks. It might've only cost them a single fucking point, the goal difference increasing from two to three in the other team's favour, but Del still gave opportunity for a shot through the goalie's pads. Wasn't like Del lost them the fucking game, but the only thing they've forgotten at this point is how poorly they'd played up until they were fucking robbed at the finals.

Del gives black a shove hard in the side as he chases the puck, but it's by accident and there's no call. It's not like it's fucking twenty three, either, so he breathes a sigh of relief when the ref settles for giving him a warning look as he skates by. It'd be a fucking shame if he got a second penalty on some first year nobody, because there's only three fucking strikes until he's out.

Like baseball, Del thinks, and smirks when he dodges defense coming at him and slams the puck at the net. It doesn't go in, and the coach tells him to pass more but Del thinks, fuck him. He's an asshole anyway, always hollering at Del when he's got a breakaway and some shit like that, because he thinks he should fucking pass more.

Del knows that passing doesn't give him the points to offset the number of penalty minutes he racks up, and he'd hand it off more if someone else on the team knew how to fucking shoot. They don't, though, and Del scowls when the lines change and he sits his ass down on the bench.

&&

Macs hustles his ass across the ice, pulling up at the last second when he comes face to face with seventeen. He's grinning, blond curls dark with sweat and Macs can't hide his surprise.

"Boo," seventeen says, then pushes forward the last few inches and snakes the puck away, practically underneath Macs's skates.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Macs turns to chase him down, but the ref calls it offside as soon as seventeen touches the puck.

Macs doesn't bother to stop grinning as he skates past seventeen, who's muttering something about lousy fucking calls as Macs moves into position for the face off. They're on opposite sides of the circle, but Macs can feel the heat of seventeen's eyes on him. He looks for Mike, facing seventeen down, but doesn't get a chance to connect before the puck goes down and they all take off.

Macs is breathing heavy, down in the far end with yellow on his heels and the puck in sight. Mike's got control, for a few seconds at least, and then Macs loses sight of the puck when yellow hits him blind from the side and he crashes into the boards. He goes down hard, landing on his knees, and just catches sight of the back of seventeen's jersey as he skates away.

The lack of a call pisses Macs off, more than he'd figure with the way the game's going. They're tied three-three, and it's not like both teams are running high with effort.

Getting to his feet, Macs skates after the puck and dodges yellow whenever he sees it, thankfully when the line gets subbed. A few minutes later the buzzer goes at the end of the second, and they file back to the dressing room to wait for the ice to be cleaned.

&&

Del shoves the door to their dressing room, ignoring the loud noise it makes as it connects with the wall behind it. He's not the first one in the dressing room, but he's not the last either. He was trying to get a fucking glimpse of number twenty three but instead he was getting weird looks from the trainer.

He just gave up and makes his way to an empty spot on the bench. He holds his helmet between his knees, using his towel to wipe away some of the sweat that's getting into his fucking eyes.

The coach is mumbling something about combining a defensive strategy with an offensive, but it's all the same shit he's heard in a hundred games before this one.

Across the room, Jarey B is giving him the eye, looking like he's got a fucking brick in it. Scowling at him, Del pushes the towel over his face a little harder and pays attention.

"Why are you going for Macintosh?" Jarey B asks.

Del drops the towel to his knees, blinking at Jarey B in something like surprise. "What?"

"Dude, I've seen you," Jarey B says. "You're riding his ass harder than—"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence," Del says softly, and though he's already cut Jarey B off there isn't any more to add, because Jarey B’s already said enough.

"Still," Jarey B says. "Hard."

"Whatever," Del says, and stands up. He's taller than Jarey B by about seven inches, and it's not like he's tall, either. There are four Titans that are taller yet, and Jarey B isn't the shortest. Their team fucking sucks.

Jarey B stays back a little, and Del joins the others crowding the fucking narrow hallway. The Zamboni is still on the ice, and they're itching to get back out there and get their asses handed to them. Del doesn't look in the direction of the Panthers.

Except for the brief glance over the numbers to see if recognizes any of them.

&&

"It's fine," Macs says, pushing the assistant coach's hand away from his forehead. "Does it look like it's bleeding?"

"It looks bad," he says, taking a step away from Macs. "Take it easy the last period, would you?"

"I'll try." Macs shrugs, because he honestly doesn't know what seventeen's problem is. They've never gotten into anything before, but the guy is riding his pads is acting like it's a long standing grudge.

Macs has no idea what it is, but he's playing clean and just getting on the wrong side of the guy more often than not. There's practically blisters on his ass from where seventeen's been rubbing at it, and he doesn't think it's going to get better in the third.

The coach gives them the usual pep talk during break - score more goals, don't let them walk over you, keep seventeen away from Macs - which isn't really normal, but Macs shrugs and takes it. His head's starting to pound without his helmet pressing against his bruise, and he shoves it back on in hopes of slowing it down. He hit the ice hard on the last play, but some of has to do with celebrating the end of exams week.

Macs stumbles over the threshold when he makes his way into the hallway, rocking on the edge of his blades and catching himself on the back of someone else's jersey. It's Lin, which is okay. They're friends, even if they don't play on the same line because Macs can't stand the way Lin blames other people when he misses a pass.

It's just a game, though, and Lin smiles over his shoulder when he feels the pressure of Macs's hand.

"Hey man," Lin says. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Macs says, and looks over and there's the little blond forward making eyes at him from across the hall, dark and angry. Macs raises two fingers in a salute.

&&

Del narrows his eyes at the fucking sea of black, turning pointedly away to find Jarey B watching him. He takes a quick step forward, too fast, pushes Jarey B back and nearly loses his fucking balance when his skates rock against the floor.

The coach sets a warning hand on his arm, waits until Del makes eye contact before giving a minute shake of the head. Del's kind of pissed. It's not like he's some fucking kid, he knows what he's fucking doing. He's only had two minutes in the box and he didn't even deserve it. Fifteen minutes is a long time to sit, but Del knows that if they keep subbing him off with twenty three he's going to just say fuck it and sit.

He's tired of going hot and cold, and when they crowd back into the bench he's not surprised to see twenty three on and he's off. The fucking coach even gives a nod to the other bench, and Del's pissed enough to grab the back of Jarey B's jersey and hold him back, long enough to get the ref to wave away the faceoff and skate over to their bench.

"Let him go," the coach tells Del tightly, even as the ref asks what's the hold up.

Del lets go of Jarey B's jersey abruptly, and Jarey B nearly falls over the boards when Del isn't holding him up.

"You're out," the coach tells Del. "One more stunt, and you're out."

"I'm fucking out right fucking now," Del says, grabbing his stick and goes over the other side of the bench, back through to the hallway and the dressing room. He's breathing hard and angry, slamming the door to the dressing room and stripping quick as he can, to keep the inevitable talk from the coach at bay, or he's going to fucking kill someone.

&&

Macs frowns as he watches the opposing bench, wondering what the hell seventeen's problem is. There's a hold up, they're waiting for the puck to drop when the other linesman skates to the yellow bench and motions to the coach, and then the little guy falls over the boards to find his way to the faceoff.

Seventeen does something and storms off, and Macs tilts his head as they all watch, wondering what's going on. The angle makes the pressure in his head worse, throbbing and Macs knows that now it's done. He can sit out after this. With seventeen off, there's nothing to prove, no reason to stay on the ice in pain.

He might even get a long shower this time, and when the coach hollers for a change of lines Macs is the first one back on the bench, and the second one to suggest he should go back to the dressing room early.

Lin eyes him carefully, like Macs is going to pass out in the shower or whatever, but Macs shrugs off the concern and walks to the showers alone.

&&

It's not fast enough, though, because Del's still got his equipment on from his waist down when the assistant pokes his head through the door.

"What the hell," he asks, kicking the door shut behind him and watching Del's shoulder blades.

"You can't do that," Del says. "I'm the strongest one on that line. You can't think they can fucking handle it without me."

"You keep this attitude, they're going to," the coach says. "This is a team sport, Delavan."

"Whatever," Del says. "I'm fucking sick of this fucking game."

"Watch your mouth," the coach says. "You want to watch the rest of the season?"

"Naw," Del says, anger making his words curl carelessly and he drops his socks into his hockey bag. "I'm just gonna quit, straight up."

"Just like that," the assistant says. "You disappoint me."

"I don't fucking care," Del says. "I don't fucking play, no one fucking plays, alright?"

"We have fun," the assistant says. "This is rec hockey, not the school's team."

"Yeah, well," Del says, because he plays on the school's team and this was supposed to be a way to keep up the practice on a less competitive level. It isn't, because he's stuck with fifteen year olds and amateurs who won't ask for help. "Fuck rec hockey."

"I'll let everyone know," the assistant says, and pretends like he's disappointed when he turns to go back to the bench.

Del tosses his jersey to the floor, working up a mouthful of spit as he strips off the rest of his equipment and shoves it into his hockey bag.

&&

Macs hangs out by the doors after his shower, cheeks flushed red and collar turned up. His equipment's in the bag at his feet, stick laid on top with a practiced ease. He's leaning against the wall of the arena, flicking his lighter on and off with one hand as he waits for the team inside to clear up.

The game's over in a few seconds, not even long enough for the handshake at the end, so of course that's when someone else pushes out the doors, noisily maneuvering a full hockey bag around the doorframe.

"Hey," Macs says, pushing himself up to his feet as he recognizes the set of seventeen's shoulders.

"What?" Seventeen says, spinning around, expression cloudy and fierce.

"You play?" Macs asks, like doesn't know full well this is the douche who plays dirty.

Seventeen snorts, raising his free hand to rub at his mouth. "Not anymore."

"That's too bad," Macs says. "But I meant, are they done inside?"

"Who the fuck cares," seventeen mutters, dropping his hand and squinting at Macs.

Shit, Macs thinks, but seventeen shrugs it off.

"I'm Macs," Macs says, stepping forward and offering the hand that doesn't hold the lighter.

Seventeen eyes it for a second, almost suspicious, but takes his hand and gives it a cursory shake. "Delavan."

"Nice to meet you," Macs says, and holds on to seventeen's fingers, waits until Delavan meets his eyes and Macs tugs him closer, just a few steps, until Macs can feel Delavan breathing hot on his face in the cold winter air.

"What the fuck, man," Delavan says, face twisting into something uncomfortable but doesn't try to pull his hand away.

"Nothing," Macs says, and lets go, but neither of them step away.

&&

Del kind of eyes Max's face for a second, unsure of where this is going, until he clicks, and figures it out. He takes a step forward, sets his hand over the curve of Max's jaw, over a streak of red that smears down from his hairline and keeps forcing Max back until his back hits the wall of the arena, concrete pressing through the fabric of his coat and Del can almost feel the cold through Max's body.

"What are you doing," Max says, almost a whisper, like he has no idea.

Del doesn't either, not really, with his body still running hot and ready and then his mouth is on Max's, fucking biting at his lip and his tongue in Max's mouth. Max's hands are on Del's collar, his chest, his arm, petting and holding and settling on the fabric of his shirt underneath. Del fucking pushes Max back, keeps a hand in his hair and pulls his head to the side, bites hard on his neck and pushes his hips into Max's, burning hot and feeling Max answering underneath him.

"Fuck," Max chokes out, slipping one cold hand underneath the bottom of Del's coat and digging his fingernails into the soft skin at his waist, and Del doesn't even care, just pushes his mouth back on Max's and then his tongue into Max's mouth, licking at the roof of his mouth and pushing the palm of his hand against the rough stubbling on Max's jaw.

"Fuck," Del mutters when he can pull himself back, feeling the hot pressure of Max's mouth against his neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. It's only fair that Del returns the favour, even if his mouth uses teeth and gentle pressure instead of tongue and frantic attention.

The doors on the arena don't even make Del flinch, even if Max stiffens under his hands and teeth, turning his face towards the light and into Del's attention.

"The hell, Delavan?" Linny Jenkins says, coming over and pushing Del back, away from Max like the fucking tool he is. "You can't even keep that shit on the ice?"

"Fuck," Del says, wiping at his mouth and staring at the way Max's looks swollen and red. "What shit?"

"Fuck you, man," Linny says, turning to Max. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," Max says, eyes hot when he looks at Del.

"Max," Del says to himself, and it's only then that he clues in. Macintosh. He doesn't even know if he's supposed to know or not, only that the look on Linny's face is worth the way he gives Macs the same two-fingered salute that he'd gotten before the third, picking up his equipment bag and resisting the urge to finger his neck as he walks away.

Keep It Close, Keep It Closer [2/2]

2007-09-13T01:44:47Z

Taylor still doesn't have a clue, and Mike knows more than he lets on.

“He’s not answering his phone,” Taylor tells Mike, holding his cell up to his ear. “He always answers, right?”

“Is it going straight to voicemail?” Mike asks, looking unconcerned.

“No,” Taylor says. “That means it’s not dead, so he’s doing it on purpose. Or someone else is.”

“Or maybe he forgot it,” Mike offers. “Or he’s sick in bed and left his phone downstairs.”

“Or maybe,” Taylor says, eyes gleaming behind his overgrown haircut. “Maybe I have no idea.”

“There’s a thought,” Mike says, laughing as Taylor seems to brighten.

“I’m going to ask my dad,” Taylor tells him, like it’s the answer for everything.

“Your dad?” Mike asks around more laughter, wondering how the hell Taylor got this far with his strange sort of naivety intact.

“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met him,” Taylor says. “Then I’ll introduce you.”

“Okay,” Mike says slowly, following Taylor up the driveway and into a sprawling stucco mansion.

“Dad!” Taylor calls out once they’re inside, wiping his shoes on the floor mat and wandering through the large foyer. “You home?”

“Vincent,” someone says from a room to the right. “Your manners aren’t improving.”

“Hey, dad,” Taylor says, nodding towards a tall, darkly-tanned man wearing a business suit. “How’s it going?”

“Don’t you have class?” Taylor’s dad frowns, dark eyebrows meeting over equally dark eyes. “And who’s this?”

“Oh, uh, dad,” Taylor takes a step back, closer to where Mike stopped short in the hallway. “This is Mike.”

“Michael, Michael,” his dad says, tapping his chin and looking Mike over. “You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I don’t think so,” Mike says, letting out one slow breath as he faces down Val Annotico.

“Does he go to church?” Val turns this question towards his son, who looks embarrassed to be talking about church.

“Wait, wait,” Mike says, getting the attention of both the Annoticos. “Your name is Vincent?”

“After my father,” Val says. “I honestly know you from somewhere.”

“Just that kind of face,” Mike says, turning to Taylor. “You gonna tell me about this sometime, Vincent?”

“Aw, come on,” Taylor says, pulling a pout and not looking at his dad. “You gonna make a big deal of this?”

“How do I know you,” Val says to himself. “The garage?”

“Dad, he’s kind of my boyfriend,” Taylor finally tells him. “Maybe you saw him when he comes over sometimes, at the pool house.”

“Perhaps.” Val shrugs it off, and Mike can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.

“We’re just going to go,” Taylor says, pointing his thumb up the stairs. “We’re probably going to be gone for supper.”

“Tell your mother,” Val tells him, and starts to walk back into his office. “Oh, your friend Peter called. He says he’ll be out for a few days, and don’t worry.”

“Thanks, dad,” Taylor says, rolling his eyes and smirking at Mike.

Mike smiles back, a little weakly. He follows Taylor up the stairs and wonders whether he can politely beg off ever seeing Taylor again.

“Vincent Annotico,” Mike mutters under his breath, and is only half-surprised when Taylor turns around and shoves him up against the other side of his bedroom door.

“First thing,” Taylor says, leaning his weight against Mike’s chest, one arm held firmly at the base of Mike’s throat. “I don’t introduce myself as Vincent, because I don’t like to be called Vincent.”

“Still,” Mike says, unperturbed by Taylor’s sudden assertiveness. “At some point, it would’ve been nice to know.”

“Why?” Taylor frowns, pressing a little against Mike’s windpipe. “So you can call me Vincent Annotico, kind of like some psychological mindfuck come-on?”

“Jeez,” Mike says, scowling back. “Someone’s touchy.”

“I spent my entire freshman year having the Godfather quoted at me,” Taylor mutters. “I’m allowed to be a little touchy.”

“Making a big deal over nothing,” Mike says under his breath.

This close, though, Taylor can hear it perfectly. “You think that’s nothing?”

“Yeah, I do.” Mike leans his head back, tilting it up so he could look down at Taylor. “So someone makes fun of your last name. Did you miss kindergarten or something?”

Taylor leans in a little and then backs off, barely getting a swallow from Mike. “You trying to say something?”

“You’re a child,” Mike says. “Grow up.”

Narrowing his eyes, Taylor opens his mouth to say something nasty when Mike just keeps talking.

“So, your dad seems nice,” Mike says, taking a step away from the door and into Taylor’s room. “A little formal, but nice.”

“He’s my dad,” Taylor says, not sure what Mike’s trying to say. “He did know where Pete was, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mike shrugs. “Apparently your dad knows everything.”

“Doesn’t know where he knows you from,” Taylor says, following Mike further into his room. “Where does he know you from, I wonder?”

“1998,” Mike says absently, making his way to the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of Taylor’s bed.

“My dad was in the hospital for most of 1998,” Taylor says softly, coming up behind Mike. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” Mike says, turning from the window and standing a little too close to Taylor than he expected.

“You sure?” Taylor asks again, putting his hand on Mike’s shoulder and turning them towards the window again. From here, Mike can see Taylor’s pool house and beyond that, immaculate gardens.

“I’m sure,” Mike says, and flinches when he notices the man with the rifle, behind a particularly masterful shaped hedge. He steps backward quickly, pulling Taylor down onto the bed with him and out of the range of fire.

He’s not sure if he’s unsurprised when the glass window doesn’t shatter around them, and Taylor just lies underneath him.

“So,” Taylor says, tolerating Mike’s weight on him more easily than he tolerated being called Vincent. “What are we doing here?”

“Dude, honestly.” Mike pushes himself up to look down at Taylor’s bored face. “Sniper in your rosebushes?”

Taylor shrugs. “One of dad’s gardeners.”

“Are all your gardeners sharpshooters?” Mike wonders whether to stay on top of Taylor like this, or to roll off. He settles on the hover.

Shrugging again, Taylor purses his lips and looks away from Mike’s face to the hollow of his throat. “So why’d you decide to kiss me, that first time?”

“Uh, what?” Mike pushes back a bit, so he can settle on his legs and take some of the weight off his arms.

“In the library.” Taylor bites his lip and looks even further away, at the windows lining his bedroom. “And then later again.”

“I dunno,” Mike says. “You’re kinda my type.”

“See, I don’t think that’s it, so much.” Taylor shakes his head, eyes flickering back over long enough for Mike to recognize the disappointment there. “Funny how no one remembers you being in class until after my TA disappeared.”

“Funny,” Mike echoes.

“And it’s not until after my TA disappears that all this weird shit goes down.” Taylor brings one hand up to tap at his mouth thoughtfully. “Coincidence, right? You, and the bomb threat, and maybe even Pete taking a little bit of a vacation.”

“Hey, hey now,” Mike says, backing up off the bed, right until Taylor grabs his wrist and pulls him back down. He’s sprawled right across Taylor now, and even if Taylor’s on the bottom he’s still kind of in control.

“So, Michael,” Taylor says, voice losing its characteristic easiness and taking on a dark tone Mike doesn’t recognize. “You wanna tell me what the fuck is up?”

Mike’s kind of cursing his boss in his head right now, both thanks to the insane plan she’d thought up, and for insisting Taylor wasn’t his type. Truth was, Taylor wasn’t his type until a few minutes ago, right about when he and Mike fell back onto the bed.

“Heh,” Mike says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You’re Vincent Annotico, only son of Val Annotico. Val was hospitalized in 1998 thanks to a near-fatal gunshot wound to the chest after a court session detailing his prior encounters with the law.”

“I know this,” Taylor says, narrowing his eyes and tightening his fingers around Mike’s wrist.

Mike blinks once, slowly. He’s not done yet. “The hit was requested by Tony Lebarr of Chicago. Three days after your high school graduation, Tony Lebarr disappeared.”

“Who’s Tony Lebarr?” Taylor asks, but his eyes skitter away from Mike’s again, and he knows full well who Tony Lebarr is, and how important he is to the overall story.

“You met Peter St. Andrews in fall of ’05.” Mike pauses to flex his wrist in Taylor’s grip, loosening it enough to reclaim his arm. “Peter St. Andrews was hired by your father to protect you shortly after he learned that Tony Lebarr went aboveground in Jersey.”

“Pete?” Taylor frowns, looking honestly surprised. “So—”

“So St. Andrews is your bodyguard. Ever wonder why you don’t have much of a social life other than your best friend?” Mike raises both his eyebrows, taking advantage of Taylor’s distraction to get to his feet. He stays away from the windows.

“I’m addicted to video games and I use girl’s shampoo,” Taylor says. “I didn’t wonder.”

Mike shrugs; looking out over the garden but fails to see anything alarming. “Lebarr’s son enrolled in your college this past term. Your father took this to mean that Lebarr was going to play dirty. He was about to order a hit on Lebarr junior, when—”

A knock at the door interrupts Mike’s story. Taylor sits up, looking annoyed, and gets off the bed in preparation to stalk over to the door.

“Wait,” Mike says, holding an arm out to stop Taylor.

Frowning, Taylor tries to brush past Mike, using the outstretched arm to twist him away while Mike grabs Taylor instead, pulling them both backwards into Taylor’s ensuite bathroom.

Shoving the door closed with his foot, Mike pushes Taylor’s chest up against it, pressing his weight into Taylor’s back and holding both of them there.

“Shh,” Mike says hotly into Taylor’s ear. “Everything’s—not going exactly the way we’d hoped.”

“Fuck you,” Taylor mutters, but the anger is lost somewhere in the way he pushes his ass back into Mike’s crotch.

It’s not something Mike would’ve expected himself to do, but he presses his hand firmly against Taylor’s mouth, hard enough to feel Taylor’s artificially straight teeth struggling against his palm.

He struggles quietly, which is a relief, because Mike’s not entirely certain he’d be able to shut him up without making it permanent. His instructions weren’t exactly specific on these types of situations, and training kind of glossed over the details.

After a couple of minutes Taylor just slumps against Mike’s shoulder, and Mike breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not a moment too soon, either, because on the other side of the bathroom door Mike can hear the bedroom door slam open, footsteps signalling more than just one uninvited guest.

Taylor opens his mouth to say something, all wet and warm on Mike’s neck, and it’s all Mike can do to spin him back around on the door so he doesn’t.

It’s not like he’s been expressly forbidden to be in Taylor’s room, but he’s been told in no uncertain terms to always leave himself an out.

Windowless bathrooms wouldn’t exactly get a good score on the hideout list, if it wasn’t just a Notepad document saved to Mike’s laptop.

“Shh,” Mike adds, whispering into Taylor’s ear as he leans his weight against the door, in case Taylor hadn’t quite gotten it.

The way Taylor shifts against the door doesn’t exactly disguise the fact he’s clearly rolling his eyes, or that Mike can hear the people talking on the other side of the door.

Taylor flips his head, getting the hair out of his eyes and looking determined to demand an explanation, as Mike knows is a pretty fair guess considering the contents of Taylor’s movie collection. He’s a closet Julia Roberts fan.

Mike doesn’t think Taylor’s going to just shut up, either, considering his track record and the fact Mike hadn’t finished his story. Wasn’t much left, but Taylor’s had more than enough time to think up the most ridiculous explanation and start believing it.

“Shh,” Mike says again, smoothing his fingers over Taylor’s face and brushing the hair away from his face, just enough to bend his head and kiss him.

He’s not surprised in the least when Taylor kisses back like he’s starving, or when Taylor tries to push him back so they’re not against the door. Mike doesn’t know whether it’s an attempt to turn the kiss into something else or to get out of the room.

They don’t get a chance to find out. Someone raps sharply on the door, and Mike tells himself he’s relieved when it turns out to be his partner. Taylor slips underneath Mike’s arm, backing away until he’s by the toilet and the sink is between them.

“Michael?”

Cursing under his breath, Mike turns to give Taylor a warning look, flipping the latch on the door and opening it.

Giving Donaldson a meaningful look, Mike jerks his head so Taylor follows.

“Just thought we’d let you know that it’s over.” Donaldson nods politely towards Taylor. “Mr. Annotico.”

Tightening his lips, Taylor pushes past them both and goes to the window that overlooks the pool.

“That’s it?” Mike raises his eyebrows, sliding one hand into his pocket and pressing his thumb against the pass still jammed in there.

“That’s it.” Donaldson turns to look at Taylor. “He okay?”

“Fine,” Taylor calls out, and Donaldson winces. “You going to be fine, Mike?”

“Dandy.” Mike shrugs. “Give me a minute?”

“Sure.” Donaldson gives Taylor one last look, shaking his head as he retreats from the room’s obvious tension.

Mike sighs and continues the explanation he’d started earlier. “Your father was about to order the hit—”

Taylor scowls at Mike. “You can’t take my father away. This place will fall apart without him.”

“What?” Mike frowns, confused. “Your father—”

“I don’t care,” Taylor says. “He can’t go anywhere. He hasn’t been the same since ’98.”

“Taylor, your father isn’t—” Mike tries again, but Taylor takes a few steps closer, waving his arms in what’s supposed to be a threatening manner.

“You can’t do it, Mike,” Taylor says. “I won’t let you, okay? I just don’t even care anymore, you selfish son of a bitch.”

“Hey now,” Mike says, dropping his hands to his hips, clenching his fingers to keep away from Taylor. “Don’t be bringing my mother into this.”

“I’d ask for the same of my father,” Taylor says, clenching his teeth and standing his ground. “But apparently you don’t think too much of—”

“Shut the hell up,” Mike tells him, closing the distance between them until he can push Taylor back down on his bed, straddling him and holding his arms down.

Taylor glares from underneath his hair, eyes flashing in a way that similar to when he gets his ass kicked at Mario Strikers.

“Your father was about to order the hit when he met this guy who said the whole thing was kind of ridiculous, and oh yeah, there’s this grad student who’s got it in for Junior.” Mike waits for Taylor to respond for a second, but then keeps going. “By the way, that’s you.”

“Technically it’s only junior if I was named Val too,” Taylor points out, rather unhelpfully.

“The apple of his eye? Baby boy?” Mike raises his eyebrows expectantly and tightens his grip on Taylor’s arms.

“Let me guess,” Taylor says, eyes skittering away from Mike’s face and towards the ceiling. “You were that guy?”

“I sure as hell wasn’t the grad student,” Mike says. “Also, hell no. That was Donaldson.”

“And where do you fit in?” Taylor looks back towards Mike, ignoring the hair that’s scattered across his eyes. “Wiat, no, answer this first. Does your dad know about this?”

“My dad?” Mike sits back, letting go of Taylor’s arms and pressing one hand down on Taylor’s chest. “What’s he got to—”

“You think I wouldn’t recognize little Mikey Lebarr? Son of the mob, heir to the fortune of Jersey?” Taylor snorts. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

“How—” Mike blinks, shaking his head and trying to get this sudden twist. “You knew?”

“Come on, asshole,” Taylor says. “Like Pete wouldn’t casually let it drop that you sure looked familiar, or casually leave your high school yearbook around the pool house or casually tell my father I was hanging out with someone new?”

“You didn’t know he was hired to protect you,” Mike reminds Taylor.

Taylor shrugs. “I thought he was just being an overprotective dick. Albeit thoughtful, but a dick all the same.”

“So what then?” Mike wipes his palms on his pants. “You decided to make daddy nervous?”

“Keep your enemies closer,” Taylor says. “Isn’t that the way it goes?”

Mike snorts. “My family, it’s more like, you better make sure that nobody kills you before you graduate and pay off those tuition fees, boy. That, and my dad’s the king of Jersey and didn’t want any trouble from some boy from Johnsonville U.”

“Some boy, huh,” Taylor says. “What’s he gonna call this? Practice?”

“Probably something along the lines of you better not invite him over for dinner until you got a GPS tracker on his old man.” Mike inclines his head with a smirk, only looking like he’s half-joking. "Or maybe that he didn't send me to all those self-defense classes to waste me on a video game junkie with a liberal arts degree."

“My father’ll ask the same,” Taylor says, sliding one hand up the arm Mike’s still got pressing on his chest, and it isn’t until he stops at Mike’s neck that Mike kind of gets it, and knows that Taylor does too.

Mike moves his hands to cup Taylor’s face, holding him still until he can bend down and press their lips together. “You’re not calling me friggin Juliet.”

"Juliet can't kick ass the way you do, baby," Taylor says. "Except maybe her own."

Keep It Close, Keep It Closer [1/2]

2007-09-13T01:42:48Z

Previously known as the killer for hire thing.

More than a little clueless, Taylor meets Mike in the library shortly before mysterious things start happening, and has no idea what any of this has to do with him.

“So tell me again,” Pete says, voice too loud for the early-morning quiet in the university library. “Why on Saturday?”

“Mid-term,” Taylor reminds him. “You know, that Asian culture class? The one you’d said would be easy?”

“It is easy,” Pete scoffs, lowering his voice before continuing. “I watched Kill Bill a couple times to write my essay.”

“Uma Thurman isn’t exactly enough to keep my scholarship,” Taylor says. He rolls his eyes, dropping his backpack down at a table. “So I need some research.”

“You and your fancy book learning,” Pete says, shaking his head as he sits down at a table and pulls out his PSP. “I’ll wait here?”

“You better,” Taylor says, digging a pen and a few wrinkled index cards out of his bag. “You’re supposed to buy me lunch.”

“Yessir.” Pete salutes sloppily with the PSP, nudging his glasses down his nose so he can see the screen more easily.

Taylor shakes his head, taking his cards to the computer to look up the location of Asian books, and hopefully find a subject that he can write five thousand words about without breaking a sweat.

The fact that the essay’s due on Monday and even Pete has his done isn’t something Taylor’s thinking about. He finds the call number and then finds the shelf of books way over on the other side of the library, the part that hasn’t been redone with fluorescent lighting and air conditioning yet.

There’s a few lights that hang done from the ceiling with regular 60 watts lighting the books, a rickety fan in the main aisle blowing over a couple of shelves. Taylor makes a face at the smell of musty books and old yogurt, hoping that the late 950s would be done a fairly well-ventilated aisle.

No such luck, he’s sent down one aisle that hugs the walls of the building, back behind the courtyard. The light here’s burnt out, and Taylor can’t really read the numbers on the books. He checks the titles he’s scrawled down on his card before he leaves the rest of the library behind and heads into the part of the library where no one ever goes.

Immediately Taylor can figure out why, because if out there smells bad here’s even worse, piles of books not even re-shelved but just stacked together on the floor.

“Fuck,” Taylor mutters, crumpling his useless card in his hand as he stares at the mostly-empty shelves. It would stand to reason, of course, that no one else in his class brought their books back.

He sighs, feeling his shoulders slump with the prospect of getting a librarian to chase down the few remaining books on general history in central Asia, or worse, a night of faking internet research to look like it came from a book.

“Shh,” someone says, pulling Taylor back into the corner, where it’s even darker and shelves bracket them in on both sides. Taylor panics, just a second, with the hand over his mouth and the other around his waist, and he wishes he’d spent last night working out with his infectious roommate, mono or no. Instead there was three hours of Mario Party that he’ll never get back.

“Quiet,” the guy hisses into Taylor’s ear, digging his fingers into Taylor’s slightly soft stomach and that surprises Taylor into obeying. He stays still too, because even if that wasn’t on the list, he’s better off safe than sorry.

“Shhshh shh,” the guy says again, relaxing his grip around Taylor’s waist and holding him back against the exposed brick wall with one hand as he checks the opening of the alcove, where the aisle opens up onto another aisle. “Did anyone see you come back here?”

“Don’t think so,” Taylor whispers, rubbing at his throat like it’s sore even though the guy hasn’t touched it. “Are you in my Asian culture class?”

“Uh, yeah,” the guy says, and his face is shadowed so Taylor isn’t sure if he recognizes the guy or not. “I’m Mike, I sit in front of that girl near the front, she’s always talking?”

“Oh, god, Christine,” Taylor says, slumping against the wall. “She’s totally fucking the TA.”

“Right, her,” Mike says.

Taylor frowns, because the whole thing doesn’t feel right. “What’re you doing back here?”

“Same as you,” Mike tells him, coming closer but keeping his hand firmly on Taylor’s chest. “Y’know?”

“Right,” Taylor says. “What’d you choose for your essay?”

“Assassination,” Mike says casually. “You?”

“I dunno, was hoping something’d hit me,” Taylor tells him. “My friend Pete, he’s the loud one who wears hats? He said he’d help me, but he just watched Kill Bill instead so he’s, like, useless.”

“I could, uh, give you a hand,” Mike says, looking over his shoulder to the aisle. “If you want.”

“Really? Yeah, that’d be great.” Taylor grins, shoving his index card into the pocket of his hoodie, feeling the keys to his parents’ pool house. “We could go back to my place.”

Taylor can’t see very well, but he gets the feeling Mike’s raising his eyebrows. “Your place?”

“Well, technically my parents’,” Taylor admits. “But they’re gone for the weekend, so we could totally do it there.”

“Do it, huh,” Mike says softly, and takes a few steps forward until he’s pressing Taylor back against the wall again. “You like to do it?”

“Uh, guess so,” Taylor squeaks, feeling uncomfortable with a guy who he’s assuming is drop-dead gorgeous (if this is the Mike he thinks it is) backing up him up against the wall like he’s some sophomore at her first frat party.

“Me too,” Mike says, leaning down and tilting Taylor’s face up, kissing him in the dark of the abandoned aisle. Taylor probably figures the library should change the light so this kind of thing doesn’t happen, even if it is early on a Saturday morning.

“Anything you want,” Taylor gasps out, glad for the wall at his back when Mike pulls away. His knees feel weak and it’s not just because this is the first real kiss he’s had since one ill-fated party in Pete’s basement apartment last year, where his roommate got drunk and made out with everything, including her geeky roommate and his geeky friend. At the same time.

“What?” Mike slides his hands down Taylor’s arms, wrapping his fingers around Taylor’s wrists and tugging him forward.

Taylor nearly loses his footing when he steps on something soft and definitely not a spilled stack of books. “What the heck was that?”

“Homework,” Mike tells him, grabbing his chin and not letting him turn around to look. “So. Your essay.”

“What about yours?” Taylor keeps walking, letting Mike drag him away from the dark shelves and towards his table. Maybe he could find some books in the 910s.

“Don’t worry about mine,” Mike says. “My TA had a little accident.”

“Wish mine would,” Taylor mutters, thinking guiltily back over the three weeks since his TA told them about the essay.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mike says, looking back to the aisle they’re leaving behind. “I think he just did.”

“Pete,” Taylor says loudly, startling Pete from his practiced slouch. “Change of plans.”

“Huh?” Pete looks up, squinting first at Taylor, and then at Mike standing just behind him. “Please tell me they involve me going back to bed.”

“Uh, sure.” Taylor shrugs. “Me and Mike here are gonna go and work on my essay back at the pool house.”

“Okay,” Pete says, giving Mike a measuring look. “You in our class?”

“Yeah, sits up at front behind that annoying blond chick?” Taylor picks up his backpack and raises his eyebrows, waiting for Pete to get up.

“Sure,” Pete says, shrugging as he pockets the PSP and gets up. “Didn’t do your essay either?”

“Nah,” Mike says, grinning with a brief flash of teeth before nodding towards the door. “Should we, uh go?”

“Right, yeah,” Taylor says. “Gotta get that essay done.”

“Whatever,” Pete says. “Check you on Monday?”

“Yeah, later,” Taylor agrees, then ignores Pete as he and Mike head out of the library. “So are you like, really good at essays or something?”

“I’m pretty good with Asian culture,” Mike tells him. “You know, like the nobility system and war and stuff.”

“Isn’t that more like India?” Taylor wonders, watching his feet as they head down the stairs.

“Have you paid attention to anything in class so far?” Mike laughs, clapping a hand down on Taylor’s shoulder heavily.

“Uh, yeah,” Taylor says, rolling his eyes. “It’s all been, ‘read these pages in your text’ on paper making techniques and origami and fireworks. Seriously not what I consider entertaining.”

“What about learning?” Mike asks, holding on Taylor’s shoulder until they turn towards a non-descript Taurus. “Are you learning?”

“Unfortunately,” Taylor snorts. “But it’s nothing interesting.”

“Huh,” Mike says. “You thought it’d be all Uma Thurman and Lucy Liu?”

“I was hoping for Cameron Diaz, but yeah,” Taylor agrees. “But see, my friend Pete went for Kill Bill for his essay and I can’t really do the same.”

“What about guns for hire?” Mike asks casually, not meeting Taylor’s eyes over the top of his car. “That, uh, different enough?”

“What, you mean like Jackie Chan?” Taylor thinks about it, tilting his head to the side as he imagines five thousand words on the pros and cons of a comedic martial arts actor.

“No, not like Jackie Chan.” Mike rolls his eyes and signals his car out of the parking spot, heading down the one-way street towards the exit from campus. Taylor’s parents don’t live too far from there, so he points Mike in the general direction.

“So, like the guys who get their asses kicked by Jackie Chan?” Taylor says hopefully, changing his thesis slightly and coming up with a few more hundred imaginary words.

“Sure, like them.” Mike shakes his head and signals onto Taylor’s street. He pulls to a stop in Taylor’s driveway, and Taylor can’t quite remember if he told Mike the number or not.

“We can do that,” Taylor says excitedly. “So, the pool house has a wifi, is your laptop compatible?”

“My what?” Mike frowns as he turns to Taylor, one hand on the wheel.

“Laptop. You know, your bag?” Taylor gestures to the backseat where Mike tossed his messenger bag. “For the essay?”

“Right, yeah.” Mike shakes his head, reminding himself of something and smiles. “That’ll work.”

“So, yeah,” Taylor says slowly, jerking his thumb in the direction of the pool house. “You wanna?”

“Sure,” Mike says. “Say, you notice anything funny about the library this morning?”

“Other than there’s no lights in that back corner?” Taylor thinks about it, slamming the car door shut and opening up the gate to the backyard. “And maybe the fact all those Asian culture books aren’t on the shelf?”

“Or that the clocks are all set an hour ahead?” Mike offers.

Taylor takes that with a considering look. “Daylight savings?”

“It’s April,” Mike points out. “And that got moved ahead.”

“No wonder they’re such bitches about closing time,” Taylor exclaims. “Those assholes do it on purpose.”

“Assholes, yeah,” Mike agrees. “So, the pool house?”

“The pool house,” Taylor repeats, nodding towards the two-story building. “My dad’s a lawyer. He kind of goes big or goes home.”

“And goes big at home,” Mike mumbles, following Taylor around the pool and up the stairs around the front of the building.

They get set up on a couple of couches in the pool house, and Taylor digs up a couple of cans of Pepsi from the bar fridge. Mike sets up his computer on the coffee table and the sound of typing reassures Taylor as he dicks around in the kitchenette.

“How long’s the essay again?” Mike asks, not looking up from the screen.

“Five k,” Taylor says, setting the can of pop down on the coffee table, next to Mike’s laptop.

“Okay,” Mike says, and is quiet as he continues writing.

“So,” Taylor says, sitting back in a chair and feeling awkward. He’d join Mike on the couch but feels a little weird about watching the guy work.

“You have blood on your shoe,” Mike tells him absently, nodding towards the tracks on the linoleum floor.

“Oh my god,” Taylor says, jumping to his feet and staring at the trail of red he’s left. “Where the hell…?”

“Better clean that up before it dries,” Mike says, making a few last decisive clicks before looking up from the computer. “Maybe throw out those shoes.”

“They’re my favourites,” Taylor says sadly, looking at the shoes he’s apparently ruined.

“I’ll take care of them,” Mike says, holding out his hand for the shoes as he hits another button on his laptop and the printer in the corner of the pool house starts printing. “There’s your essay.”

“Seriously?” Taylor stares from the blood on the floor to Mike’s waiting hand to the printer. “That fast?”

“I’m good,” Mike says. “Shoes?”

“Right, yeah,” Taylor hands over his shoes and steps over the blood so he doesn’t get it on his socks. He grabs a few paper towels and wipes up the blood from the floor. “Oh, god, what about the deck?”

“I’ll handle that,” Mike says. “Later. What time is it?”

“About quarter past nine,” Taylor says, confused. “Why?”

“Just wondering.” Mike leans back into the couch, Taylor’s shoes stuffed into the bag at his side and his computer humming quietly on the table. “C’mere.”

“What?” Taylor stays where he is, bloody paper towels still in one hand. “Why?”

“Just come here,” Mike repeats, then gets to his feet and takes the paper towels out of Taylor’s hand, shoving them into his bag as well. “Please?”

“I’m doing this under protest,” Taylor points out, flopping down next to Mike on the couch. “You’re not giving me many answers.”

“I know, I know,” Mike says, then leans in close and brushes his thumb against Taylor’s cheek. “Do you really need them?”

“I’m a lit major,” Taylor says, trying to keep his eyes open as he leans into Mike’s hand. “I need whys, not hows or whats.”

Mike purses his lips, looking down to Taylor’s mouth before he sighs, looking reluctant to continue.

Taylor then decides that for all his compulsory lit courses, there’s a lot to be said for extracurricular activities, and leans in and kisses Mike right on the mouth.

For all his earlier hesitation, Mike doesn’t waste any time in kissing Taylor back, or pressing him back down against the couch, or trying to undo his belt with one hand.

“Shit, shit, wait a second,” Taylor says, grabbing at Mike’s hand with both of his. “We met like, what, an hour ago?”

“An hour’s good,” Mike says, grinning down at Taylor. “But, you know. Don’t have to.”

“Well, I don’t, normally,” Taylor says. “Not after just an hour.”

“So, then,” Mike says, leaving Taylor’s belt alone but staying on top of him. “What do you normally do instead?”

“Uh, play Nintendo?” Taylor offers, cringing like he’s afraid of Mike’s response.

“That’s not nearly as much fun,” Mike tells him, but shifts so he’s not lying on him anymore.

“No, but it’s, uh, well, you know,” Taylor says. “Okay, no, it’s not.”

“Huh,” Mike says. “So you don’t like your TA?”

“Uh, what?” Taylor blinks, unsure of where the change in conversation came from. “He’s a dick, so?”

“So, just wondering.” Mike shrugs, the motion hitching his shirt up an inch or two.

“Like, I dunno,” Taylor says, watching Mike’s expression to maybe figure out why he’s asking all of a sudden. “He’s totally banging girls who think it’ll help them pass, but then they fail anyway.”

“That’s kind of dick behaviour,” Mike agrees.

“And, he like, checks out all the books on certain topics that people actually want to do, so they’re stuck with the boring ones.” Taylor makes a face. “Probably his fault I put my essay off.”

“Could be,” Mike says. “Or you’re just procrastinating.”

“Yeah, I’m lazy.” Taylor shrugs. “But he’s a dick.”

“So, what about Nintendo?” Mike asks, shifting on the couch until his shoulder’s resting up against Taylor’s. “Got any combat games?”

“Oh, do I,” Taylor grins, feeling the inevitability of a win coming on.

It’s nearly three days before Taylor bumps into Mike again. Practically an accident, considering their Asian culture class was rescheduled earlier that week. Something to do with a bomb threat, and Taylor and Pete high-fived and had a marathon of Mario Party.

Now, though, Taylor’s wondering why all the TAs for Asian studies are acting morose and wearing black. It’s not like they’re drama majors or something.

Taylor slips into his gen history class, wishing his friend was around so Pete could tell him he’s being a moron and ask to borrow his PSP.

Figuring a text could at least help him out in one way, Taylor bends to dig out his cell when someone sits down heavily in the seat beside him. Jumping, Taylor nearly cracks the side of his head on his desk and sits up quickly, not recognizing the guy’s shoes.

“Hey,” Mike says, smiling widely and smelling like celery. “How’s it going?”

“Dude, do you know what’s going on with the TAs?” Taylor jerks his head to where there’s a couple huddled in one of the first few rows. These ones are wearing black, too, like they’re creating some sort of TA club.

“Paranoid, I’d reckon,” Mike says after a moment. “After what happened last week.”

“What happened last week?” Taylor frowns, trying to think of it. “The, uh, oh, that day we got off. They wouldn’t let us in?”

“Bomb threat,” Mike corrects. “Yeah. Apparently some guy was in here and told everyone he had a bomb.”

“So one of the TAs called it in?” Taylor sits back in his chair, holding his cell phone in one hand. He hasn’t gotten his books out yet, but class started five minutes ago.

“Turns out, he did have a bomb,” Mike grins, like it’s a joke.

Taylor makes a face. “My TA was a douche.”

“Yeah, well,” Mike shrugs. “He pissed some people off.”

“Some people with bombs?” Taylor snorts. “So he used the plutonium for his own use…”

“You watch too many movies,” Mike tells him. “Speaking of which, want to go out with me Friday?”

“Friday’s tomorrow,” Taylor tells him.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “So?”

“I’d have expected more notice,” Taylor says. “I could have plans for a party.”

“A Mario Party?” Mike asks, raising his eyebrows.

Taylor doesn’t confirm, just narrows his eyes and shakes his head at Mike. “Listen, man, what do you want from me?”

“What do you mean, what do I want?” Mike leans back in his chair, like he needs a better angle to look at Taylor from.

“Look at me,” Taylor says, gesturing to his ratty band tee and blue jeans, a little too unfashionable to get a second look. “I’m stuck in the eighties and you’re, like, not. So what’s the deal?”

“I have bad social skills,” Mike tells him. “I eat too many vegetables and only drink fountain pop with an unequal ratio of CO2. Also, no one understands my work and you didn’t let me give you a hand job on your couch last week.”

“Also, you give out way too much information,” some guy from behind them says.

“That’s sweet,” Taylor says, flipping his phone open and closed with his thumb. “But I still don’t get it.”

“You can kick my ass at Super Smash Brothers, you’re still taking Asian culture even though you hate it, because your friend’s in the class, and your hair kind of smells like raspberries.” Mike looks down as he finishes, concentrating on some previous student’s design on the desk.

“That’s, uh, well.” Taylor clears his throat, not looking at Mike not looking at him. “Okay. That clears it up a little.”

“Hey,” Taylor says, greeting Mike with a smile. “Didn't know if you'd show up today.”

“To class, or here with you?” Mike sits down next to him, in the seat Pete usually takes. It's right next to the window, just off the aisle. “Can't get enough of you.”

“Whatever.” Taylor dismisses this with a wave. “Have you seen Pete?”

“Your friend?” Mike frowns, looking apprehensive. “Is he missing?”

“Well, I haven't seen him for a few days,” Taylor says, biting the corner of his lip. “And after all this stuff with the TAs, and then his essay, it's just, y'know. Disconcerting.”

“Had lit today, did we?” Mike asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. “Honestly, I think he's just lying low for a few days.”

“Lying low?” Taylor's eyebrows shoot up, past the end of his bangs. “From what?”

“Nothing.” Mike grins. “So, you want to ditch class with me?”

“We didn't have class last week,” Taylor says, not trying to make it a protest. “We shouldn't.”

“Come on,” Mike says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “You only live once.”

“And I only want to take this class once,” Taylor tells him.

Mike makes a disbelieving noise. “Honestly? Anything you'd listen to in class I can tell you over Mario Strikers.”

Taylor pretends to look shocked. “You only like me because of my amazing Nintendo game collection?”

“Uh, among others,” Mike says, looking shifty but Taylor kind of knows that it's mostly other things.

“Right, the hair thing,” Taylor snorts. “Okay, whatever. On to the pool house?”

“The pool house,” Mike says. “Maybe later I’ll let you talk me into skinny dipping.”

“Dude,” Taylor says, pausing in putting his binder back in his messenger bag. “It’s my parents’ house.”

“It’s cool, it’s cool,” Mike says, holding up his hands to settle Taylor down. “Parents love me.”

“Even when you’re naked?” Taylor slides his bag onto his shoulder and follows Mike down the stairs. He’s kind of surprised when Mike doesn’t have an answer for that.

single title: smooth (5/?)

2007-08-07T02:05:47Z

1. Dumb As He Is Pretty
2. Specialize in G Strings
3. Little of Column B
4. Following Tradition

Seth checked the address on the piece of paper again before looking at the house sceptically. Shifting his backpack on his shoulder, Seth stuffed the paper into his pants pocket along with a few condoms and a tube of lip chap. He only hoped he’d be so lucky.

Taking the front steps two at a time, Seth let out a breath before pressing the button for the doorbell. He waited only a minute before someone opened it.

He frowned at the blond customer from earlier in the day, realizing belatedly it was probably rude. Then the blond opened his mouth and Seth didn’t mind being rude so much.

“Fire-crotch,” the blond greeted him, leaning against the door jam. “A dubious pleasure.”

“Wash your hair,” Seth said. “I’m looking for Roger.”

“He’s out,” Patrick said, going to close the door on Seth’s face.

“Wait,” Seth said, sticking his foot out to hold the door in place. “Can I come in and wait for him?”

“What’s wrong with the porch?” Patrick pointed towards it. “It’s not even that cold out tonight.”

“Patrick, wasn’t it?” Seth asked.

The blond nodded warily.

“I could make it worth your while.” Seth kept his expression as innocent as possible, letting Patrick draw his own conclusions.

“Whatever,” Patrick finally said, leaving the door open as he retreated to the couch. “Take your shoes off.”

“Sure thing,” Seth said, leaving them neatly beside the door with his backpack. “So any idea when Roger’s getting back?”

“He’s my roommate, bitch.” Patrick didn’t even look at Seth when he spoke, intent on changing channels. “Not my problem.”

“Fine,” Seth said, making a face at the side of Patrick’s head as he sat down in a chair on the other side of the room.

“Real mature,” Patrick said, not looking away. “What are you, twelve?”

“What are you, twelve?” Seth mocked, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.

Patrick levelled a look at him, holding it until Seth grew uncomfortable. “Should I offer you a drink or something?”

“Don’t bother,” Seth said. “Although that’s just killing the hostess I know you’ve got buried deep inside you.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” Patrick said, making a face like he’d eaten something disgusting. “God, I even sound like my mother.”

Seth opened his mouth to say something rude, but changed his mind. He didn’t want to go back to calling each other twelve. “Actually, can I get something to drink?”

“Kitchen’s that way,” Patrick said, jerking a thumb in what Seth assumed was the direction of the room. “Help yourself.”

“I can hear it now,” Seth said, grumbling as he stood up. “Screaming from the woman inside of you.”

“I’m not even going to answer that,” Patrick said. “Although the idea sounds kinky.”

“Score one for Seth,” Seth muttered, heading in the direction of the kitchen. He stopped at the fridge, opening the door to find it surprisingly well stocked.

Seth pulled out a Pepsi, cracking it open as he dug in the vegetable crisper. He always thought there was a lot he could tell about a guy judging by the vegetables he ate.

Or didn’t eat. He made a face at the wilted bok choy and dried out baby carrots and shut the drawer again. Turning back around to his Pepsi, he jumped when he saw Patrick standing behind him.

“Examining my root vegetables?” Patrick asked, reaching around Seth to grab the milk jug.

“Apparently so,” Seth said. “There’s a theory, you can tell—”

“I don’t care,” Patrick said, pouring himself a glass of milk.

Seth raised his eyebrows, taking a sip of his pop. “You’re surprisingly pleasant.”

“I’m annoyed,” Patrick said. “You’re in my kitchen, drinking my Pepsi, and—”

“I made you a cookie but I eated it.” Seth grinned at Patrick’s cloudy expression.

“Shut the fuck up.” Patrick pointed at Seth as he cursed, just in case Seth wasn’t sure who Patrick meant. Taking his glass of milk, Patrick walked back to the living room. Rolling his eyes, Seth followed with his Pepsi in hand.

“Unh,” Robbie said, hitting the wall with a little too much force to be comfortable.

“Shh, baby,” the bald man pressing against him whispered, holding a sweating finger to Robbie’s lips.

Robbie gagged a little, turning his face away from the man’s hand to look down the hallway. “Listen, this isn’t really the place.”

“Your place?” The man asked, moving his sweaty fingers to Robbie’s chin.

“Uh, no,” Robbie said. “House rules.”

“My—my wife,” the bald man started to protest, and Robbie cut him off before he could get any farther.

Taking a step away, Robbie held a hand up between them to stop the man from coming at him again. “Listen, I dance.”

“I bet you do a lot more than dance,” he said, leering at the red mark he’d left on Robbie’s neck.

“I bet—oh,” Robbie said, pretending to notice his cell phone. “Look at that, I’m getting a call. I bet it’s important.”

He flipped the phone open and held it up to his ear, waiting for the man to get the hint and walk away.

He did, reluctantly, giving Robbie a long look before moving back in the direction of the bar.

Robbie shook his head, wondering how he’d ended up picking up a guy too stupid to notice that Robbie wasn’t even talking into his cell phone.

Walking the other way down the hall, Robbie paused outside of the employees-only door, looking back towards the club. It was quiet, even for a weeknight. Chewing on the corner of his lip, Robbie wondered if it was worth going back inside to straighten himself up or if he should just call it a night.

The bathroom to the men’s room swung open and the guy coming out stumbled into Robbie. He was wet to the elbows, wiping his mouth with the hem of his shirt.

“Sorry,” the guy mumbled, using Robbie’s chest to push himself upright. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Robbie said, trying not to breathe in the smell of vomit and urinal cake.

“My buddy pushed me into the urinal,” the guy explained, waving a wet sleeve in Robbie’s face. “Some buddy, huh?”

“Sure,” Robbie agreed. “Excuse me?”

“You’re all the same,” the guy mumbled, pushing his way back down the hall.

Robbie shook his head, thinking the same thing.

A snort from behind him startled him into dropping his phone.

Peeking underneath his arm as he bent down to pick it up, Robbie was pleasantly surprised by the decent-looking guy standing by the washroom door.

“You his buddy?” Robbie asked, wiping his phone off on his pants.

“No, but I wish I was,” the guy said, shaking his head as he grinned. “You get upwind?”

“Unfortunately,” Robbie said. “It’s a shame, really, my night was going so well.”

“You’re being sarcastic,” the guy guessed, tapping his finger to the side of his nose. His smile’s fairly attractive despite the day’s worth of dark stubble. “I can tell these things.”

“Yeah.” Robbie snorted, shaking his head. “Can you tell something else?”

“Well, I’m not a mind reader, but I know what you’re thinking.” The guy kept smiling, the sort of bland expression letting Robbie choose what he was trying to say.

Robbie figured out what he wanted to take from the statement and shrugged. “I’m thinking it’s about time I blow this joint.”

“Not before you let me buy you a drink,” the guy said, holding up his hand. “Maybe two.”

“You trying to pick me up?” Robbie let the guy push past him in the direction of the bar, following a few steps behind him.

“Come on,” The guy smiled over his shoulder, nodding towards the bartender. “Can’t a guy buy a guy a drink?”

“If this wasn’t a strip club, I’d say sure,” Robbie said, sliding onto a stool beside the bar.

The bartender gave Robbie a knowing smirk, pulling two beers out and set them on the counter.

“Come on,” the guy said, taking both bottles in one big hand and used his empty one to point to a free booth.

Robbie shrugged at the bartender, following the guy toward the table near the far wall.

“I’m not really into this scene,” the guy confessed over his shoulder, dropping down to sit on one side of the booth. “First time here, actually. You?”

“No,” Robbie said, searching the guy’s face to see if he recognized him from earlier. He didn’t, so the guy probably didn’t know Robbie was a dancer.

The guy took a long drink from his beer, setting it back onto the table and pushing the other bottle closer to Robbie. “See, I’d never be here if it wasn’t for my friend.”

“The guy with the urinal baptism?” Robbie turned in the booth to look over the tables. “You let that guy make decisions?”

“Oh, god no,” the guy said, shaking his head. “My friend, he got an emergency call. Had to head back to the office. I was just about on my way out when I stumbled into the douche bag from the bathroom.”

“And instead of continuing home you’re buying me a beer?” Robbie took the bottle and took a long pull, watching the guy as he swallowed.

He smirked, leaning back against his seat and looking far too comfortable in a dress shirt with all but one button done up. “Maybe.”

Robbie snorted and took another drink. “So what is it your friend does?”

“Same thing as me,” the guy said, holding up a hand when Robbie was about to tell him off for talking in circles. He grinned and elaborated. “We’re both lawyers.”

“Fun,” Robbie said, not meaning it. “And you hang out at strip clubs when you get off?”

The lawyer started laughing before Robbie could correct himself.

“Get off from work,” Robbie said, scowling across the table. “Jackass.”

“Whatever.” The guy rolled his eyes and took a drink of his beer. “You want to not slip innuendo in our pleasant conversation?”

“I think you want me to slip something else in something else,” Robbie said, waiting for the guy to make eye contact.

“Asshole.” He smirked, tilting the neck of his bottle in Robbie’s direction as he concedes the point.

“But I hardly know you.” Robbie grinned playfully, misunderstanding the guy on purpose. “I don’t even know your last name.”

“Last name,” the guy snorted. “We haven’t even gotten around to first.”

“Robbie,” Robbie said. “And I won’t even make a joke about the first part.”

The guy winked, taking a drink from his beer. “Jeremy. It’s truly a pleasure, considering you’ve still got your clothes on.”

“This is a strip club,” Robbie reminded him. “It’s what it’s for.”

Jeremy shook his head, setting his beer down onto the table and wiping the condensation on his hand down the front of his shirt. “Call me old-fashioned, but I’d prefer a place where a guy can get a beer, maybe some conversation with a particularly attractive patron and possibly even a phone number before calling it a night.”

“You’re old-fashioned,” Robbie said, aiming it towards the table top as he grinned around the mouth of the bottle. “And if you buy me another drink, I’ll see about getting you that number.”

Jeremy smiled across the table at Robbie.

“Might even be mine,” Robbie said, winking as Jeremy tossed his head back and laughed.

“So why don’t you just go home?” Patrick asked again. “It’s been over an hour.”

“You invited me in,” Seth said, trying not to grit his teeth. He’s somewhat unsuccessful. “And I’m not going to go home now.”

“Unfortunately,” Patrick muttered. “Listen, I’m sure Roger went off to some bar and he’s totally hammered by now.”

“Yeah, well,” Seth shrugged, leaning back into the dirty recliner, leaving his hands free to make air quotes. “Maybe ‘Roger’ changed his mind when he saw I wasn’t the other guy at the store.”

“What, your twinkie friend?” Patrick snorted, shaking his head. “Listen, firecrotch. My roommate is out, and you’re going to join—”

The front door opened, shutting both of them up.

Patrick glared across the room at Seth, practically daring him to make some sarcastic comment.

“Patrick, honey, it’s—oh,” the slender brunette in the hallway frowned, looking in confusion at Seth before she focused on Patrick. “You have company?”

“No, not really,” Patrick said, leaning back in the couch and looking balefully towards Seth. “He’s just—”

“Oh, wait,” she said, eyes widening as she took a step into the room and saw Seth’s backpack near the door. “Is this—?”

“I, uh, huh,” Patrick got out, coughing into his elbow as he shifted towards the edge of the couch.

“Oh my god, Patrick.” She crossed the room quickly, sitting down next to him on the couch.

Seth looked towards the floor, not wanting to see anything accidentally. Bad enough his booty call went sour, now it looked like his evening’s entertainment was going to get busy without him.

“Hi, Seth?” The brunette raised both her eyebrows, taking a seat in front of him on the coffee table. “I’m Mindy. Patrick’s girlfriend.”

“Uh, hi,” Seth said, frowning as he looked at Patrick over her shoulder. “I’m, y’know.”

“I know,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially and leaning closer. “I just want you to know, this is totally something me and Patrick are both into, and we’re really happy you’re going to share it with us.”

“What?” Totally confused, Seth couldn’t help the look of near-disgust that crossed his face, any more than he expected Mindy to lean in and kiss him right on the mouth.

The ringing of the phone interrupted Nathan’s train of thought from Scott’s tongue trailing down his jaw and brought it abruptly back to the present.

“Oh god,” Nathan said, pulling back from Scott’s mouth. “The phone, Scott.”

“Machine’ll get it,” Scott said, paying more attention to Nathan’s earlobe than the persistent ringing.

“What if,” Nathan started, taking a deep breath. “What if it’s important?”

“They’ll leave a message,” Scott said. He pushed himself up from Nathan’s mouth, using a hand to tilt the phone in the other direction.

“I wouldn’t,” Nathan told him, trying to shift closer to the phone. “I’d keep calling back until someone picked up.”

“Well, good thing you’re lying on my couch, then, huh?” Scott grinned down at Nathan, pressing his hand down on Nathan’s forehead. “Honestly.”

“Maybe it’s Vick,” Nathan persisted, working one hand from between their bodies to push against Scott’s cheek. “Please?”

“Damn it,” Scott said easily, rolling off Nathan to kneel on the floor, tugging the phone closer. “Hello?”

“Is Nathan there?”

Scott rolled his eyes, not recognizing the voice on the other end. “Hold on.”

Covering the mouthpiece with one hand, Scott glared at Nathan playfully. “One date and you’re already forwarding your calls here?”

“I’m a playa-player,” Nathan said dryly, reaching for the phone. “Hello?”

“Nathan, Davis,” Davis said. “Have you talked to Vick?”

“Unless he’s the one on top—uh, no,” Nathan said, changing his mind about saying anything that made Scott look even more wicked.

“Damn it,” Davis swore, making Nathan flinch on the other end. “If he calls, tell him I don’t want to see him, all right?”

“Uh, okay,” Nathan said. “But I mean, he’s going to talk to me to my face, right? And what if he tries calling—”

“Nathan.” Davis let out a frustrated breath. “Just tell him you don’t know anything, okay?”

“Okay,” Nathan said. “Davis? What’s this about?”

“Nothing,” Davis said. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nathan frowned, wondering how to tell Davis he was already concerned, but Davis had already hung up.

“Who’s that?” Scott asked, taking the phone from Nathan and replacing it in the cradle. He put both his hands on Nathan’s shoulders, pressing him back into the couch. “Should I be flying into a jealous rage?”

“That’s my roommate’s boyfriend,” Nathan shrugged his shoulders underneath Scott’s hands. “Apparently they’re in a fight.”

“Over you? Naughty,” Scott tsk-tsked and bent closer until his nose was brushing against Nathan’s. “I had no idea. You look so innocent.”

“I am innocent,” Nathan told him, blinking to try and focus. “Well, I was until I met you.”

“Hah,” Scott said, tilting his chin down to kiss Nathan chastely on the lips. “I’m not a bad influence.”

“You’re probably in the mob or something,” Nathan said. “Crushing bodies inside of the cars accidentally to hide evidence.”

“Dude, that’s twisted.” Scott pulled back a bit. “Maybe I underestimated you.”

“Me and Aaron used to watch a lot of horror flicks.” Nathan pursed his lips, thinking back on it. “He got a lot of enjoyment out of giving me nightmares.”

“Aaron being the one in law school now, right?” Scott raised his eyebrows, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the corner of Nathan’s mouth, touching the tip of his tongue to a mole on Nathan’s cheek. “That’s surprisingly unsurprising.”

“Yeah, I know.” Nathan closed his eyes, squinting up his face. “Damn it.”

“What?” Scott squeezed Nathan’s shoulders, angling his head to figure out Nathan’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just, I really want to sleep with you,” Nathan said, keeping his eyes closed like it made the confession easier. “And, you know, I shouldn’t.”

“Okay,” Scott said slowly, wondering if he should take his hands away from Nathan’s shoulders. “Is there something wrong?”

“First date, dude,” Nathan said. “I’m not a slut.”

Scott snorted, giving Nathan’s shoulders one last squeeze and got to his feet.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Nathan said, opening his eyes and looking a lot like Snow White, lying on Scott’s couch like that. “I don’t think you’re a slut.”

Shaking his head, Scott laughed softly. “No, I just mean, honestly, if I keep touching you I’m going to be a slut.”

“What—oh,” Nathan said, face colouring as he realized what Scott meant. “I, uh, okay. How about I go now.”

“Okay,” Scott agreed. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Um, okay,” Nathan said, looking pleased as he sat up on the couch. “Date number two?”

“Well, maybe two and three,” Scott corrected, offering Nathan a hand to get up. “When do you put out?”

“I, uh, four,” Nathan said. “Is four okay?”

“Four’s fine.” Scott smiled at Nathan, dropping his arm around Nathan’s shoulder in a half-hug as they walked towards the door.

“Well, this was kind of like two dates,” Nathan said, looking up at Scott shyly before stumbling out into the hallway and in the direction of his own apartment.

Okay, so Scott maybe had it bad, but not for the first time he thought maybe it was going to be all right.

tiny fic: Jason, Mitchell, Will Jordy, Road Trip

2007-07-31T02:51:20Z

“I still don’t know why he gets to ride shotgun,” Jason complains, glaring down at his forearms crossed over his chest.

“Because I’m not a whiny bitch,” Will Jordy says over his shoulder.

Jason makes a face at Will Jordy’s back. It makes him feel like he’s five, but he’s willing to make compromises.

Will Jordy doesn’t see it but flips Jason off anyway.

“Knock it off,” Mitchell says, meeting Jason’s eyes in the rear view mirror.

Jason turns his head enough that Mitchell can’t see him and rolls his eyes. Yeah, that makes him feel pretty good too. Kinda like a girl, but good anyway.

“Don’t make him pull over,” Will Jordy says, smirking over at Mitchell.

Jason tells himself the hot feeling low in his stomach is only because Mitchell smiles back.

“Tell you what,” Will Jordy says, turning a bit in his seat. There’s a little flash of something in his eyes that Jason recognizes as everything he doesn’t like about Will Jordy.

Will Jordy smirks like he knows that Jason hates it. “Next stop I’ll let you sit up front so you can annoy Mitchell for a change.”

“Whatever.” Jason turns his head to look out the window, ignoring the look Mitchell and Will Jordy give each other.

“And you wonder why I call you a whiny bitch,” Will Jordy says, shaking his head and digging in the bag at his feet.

“You wish I was your bitch,” Jason mutters to his reflection in the glass.

“Seriously,” Mitchell says. “If you two don’t stop acting like an old married couple, I’m going to start telling people that you are.”

“Fuck you,” Jason says, turning away from the window to stare at the back of Mitchell’s head.

“He’s bringing out the big people words,” Will Jordy says, popping a red gummy bear in his mouth.

“Seriously,” Mitchell repeats.

“I think tough guy means business,” Will Jordy tells Jason, eating another gummy bear, yellow this time.

Jason waits a few seconds too long before he replies. By the time he speaks, Mitchell’s mouth is pressed tight but Will Jordy looks unconcerned. Wasn’t exactly the reaction he was going for. “Better watch out. He’s mean when he’s mad.”

Will Jordy grins over his shoulder, nodding his head towards Mitchell and whispering loudly. “He’s so pissed right now.”

Jason agrees but doesn’t respond, digging in his pocket for his iPod.

“You hurt his feelings,” Will Jordy says to Mitchell.

“Right now, I don’t care,” Mitchell says, shooting into the other lane and screaming past a few cars that they’d previously been following with no problems. “He’s got his iPod, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Will Jordy says, glancing into the backseat. “I think he’s listening to Ashley Simpson.”

“God, he’s such a girl.” Mitchell shakes his head. “Next he’ll be writing in his journal about how much we suck.”

“I changed my mind,” Will Jordy says, eating a gummy bear. “You’re the whiny bitch.”

“Screw you,” Mitchell tells him. “I’m the one who let you come along.”

“I’m the one with the gummy bears,” Will Jordy retorts. He pops another in his mouth, a green one.

Making a face, Will Jordy pulls it back out and flicks it towards Mitchell. It lands on his lap.

“Sick,” Mitchell says, looking down at it. “You pick that up.”

“I don’t like the green ones,” Will Jordy says, eating a red one instead. “You can have it.”

“Dude, it’s been in your mouth.” Mitchell pauses after he says this, thinking it over.

Jason wonders if they’d talk like this if they knew his headphones were turned way down.

“So have a lot of things,” Will Jordy says, grinning at Mitchell. “Deal with it.”