cit_mickey

Fly Away Home [Mickey, Maggie]

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 07:40:14 GMT

[Takes place Monday, March 27, immediately after Mickey knocks down Maggie's "escort" and takes off with her.]

Maggie's trying to tug her arm away from Mickey's hand, but she isn't trying very hard. She could've prevented him from hauling her off by just going dead-weight on him; that would've slowed him down a hell of a lot, making him carry her. She doesn't do that either, though, and right now Mickey's happy that he and his siblings were raised to be docile.

They're attracting some attention, though, and if she pulls herself out of shock and starts screaming or even really struggling they're gonna have problems. He yanks her closer while they run and says, "Maggie, it's me! It's Mickey!"

She just stares at him, her eyes still huge and frightened.

He reaches up with his free hand and yanks off his shades while dodging around a lamp post and swerving into an alley. "It's me! I dyed my hair but it's me. Maggie?"

Another zig around a truck backing slowly up to the loading dock behind some huge store and then a zag into another alley and Mickey steers Maggie into the recessed frame of one of those security doors with no doorknob on the outside. "Maggie?"

Maggie stares up at him, her blue eyes wide. Finally, she breathes, "Chad?" and then, "Mickey?!"

Finally! "Yes!"

And then they're hugging and all, until Maggie pushes her hand into his darkened hair and wrinkles her nose. "Your hair's disgusting."

Mickey shrugs and says, "It'll wash out. I didn't want anything permanent so it's just gooped up, not a real dye-job."

Maggie nods, then looks around and tenses up again. "Mickey, what are you doing? What are we doing here? What's happening?"

"Aw, man -- fuck if I know." Mickey leans his head down and lightly bonks his forehead against hers. "I just wanted to pass you the note, I didn't know your gorilla guard would take a swing at me. When he went down I didn't think, I just ran."

"Grabbed me and ran, you mean."

"Umm, yeah. I just... hell, I don't know. I mean, I've been thinking about getting you out anyway, I promised Nono I would, and everything blew up so...." He looks down at her and says, "I'm sorry but I'm not, you know? I always meant to get you out so this is just a little ahead of schedule, sort of."

Maggie looks away and says, "But it's too late. I'm married."

"I know." Mickey hugs her again and says, "I mean, I know you're married. It's not too late. We can get you a divorce -- that's just money and a lawyer. And then you'll be free. We'll find you a safe place and you can do whatever you want."

"They'll never let me," she says, her voice flat and thin.

Mickey's grip on her tightens. "It's not about letting. They don't let me stay away, either, but here I am, all right? It's not perfect but here I am and things are getting better. I'll take you home and stash you there for a while...." He pauses and thinks. He'd been hoping to be able to take her right to a women's shelter but he hadn't set it up yet and this works too, actually. Maybe better -- he can't imagine anyone dragging her out of Vin's place....

Vin. Oh, man.

His instincts say he can't get him involved, can't get anyone else involved, but he doesn't have a choice now. He has to take Maggie home and what's he gonna do, claim she's his girlfriend? Sure, that'd work.

But if anyone could handle the family it's Vin. He's tough and won't let anyone intimidate him, and he knows people, like Senator Fairchild -- people he'd helped who'd help him back. And if he doesn't want to dive into the kind of shitpile the Murrays can dump on him, he'd say so. No bullshit about Vin.

Okay, then.

"Come on," he says, taking Maggie's hand once more. "We're going home. We'll talk some more then and figure out exactly what we're gonna do."

Maggie just nods and follows. She trusts him to take care of her, and that's a weight on Mickey's shoulders he's never felt before.

There I Was Just A-Walkin' Down the Street [Mickey, Maggie]

Tue, 28 Mar 2006 08:29:11 GMT

[Takes place Monday, March 27]

It's Monday, just before noon, and Mickey's sauntering up Fifth Avenue looking not at all like himself.

His hair's dark, dyed with some temporary goop he got at a costume shop, along with the tacky fake bling around his neck and wrists. A pair of shades and a pair of shorts -- way too big and drooping down around his ass -- along with a baggy Yankees jersey and a few days of stubble (also dyed dark) make him look like any of the bazillions of pathetic white kids slouching around trying to pretend to be bad-ass gangsta-rappers.

He doesn't really fit in with the crowd here, but neither does he completely stand out. He might be a cheap punk or he might be some millionaire musician -- the people who shop at Cartier and Versace wouldn't recognize Juicy Jay or Deejay Paul even if they had watched them get their statues on TV less than a month ago -- and there are a few other white guys here and there dressed in the same uniform. Close enough.

'Cause it turns out Anthony Barker isn't quite as zookeeperish about his wife as the Murrays are about their kids. He can't afford to be -- doesn't have the staff to take care of absolutely everything the way the Murrays do, can't afford to pay the good dressmaker-types to make house calls (to their little cottage (3400 square feet) on four very-much-fenced acres an hour outside NYC), or anything like that. And as the wife of a prospective Covenanter patriarch she needs to learn how to function in the real world at least a little -- charity parties, political dinners, all that kind of stuff. So she's allowed out now and then, even if it's on a leash.

Mickey's been throwing money around for the last month and has as much of her routine as a few paid outsiders can pick up from watching. When she goes out shopping it's always on a Monday, late morning to early afternoon, and the collected list of her usual places to go is short and swanky.

Appearances count, after all, even when you're only dusty rich instead of filthy.

So here he is, sauntering slowly up the street, watching for the sister he hasn't seen in five years. He's made four trips so far, his eyes out sharp for a familiar face in the crowds of shoppers and the people in passing cars, both. He's determined and observant and eventually he spots her.

She looks... okay. Not great, not awful. Pretty much the same as when he last saw her. Older, of course. She's a young woman now, a married woman, and it makes a difference. But there aren't any obvious signs of abuse -- no visible bruises, and she's not limping as she gets out of the big, black car, not favoring anything. Of course, she wouldn't have been allowed out with visible signs, so that doesn't prove shit except that the husband hasn't done anything lately.

The car pulls back out into traffic and glides away. Parking is impossible so it'll probably either circle around or drive far enough to find a parking garage somewhere until it's called back. There's a man in a conservative suit with Maggie, a hand on her elbow. Not the husband -- Mickey's seen pics of him and this guy isn't it -- but a proper escort, both to keep off the heathen and to prevent her from doing anything she shouldn't. Like talking to strangers.

That's all right, though, Mickey thinks as he saunters along a little more quickly on an intercept course. He's not planning to talk to her today, not yet. He's got a note folded up small in one hand; he just wants to make contact.

Up the sidewalk on the side opposite the goon, looking a little away from her until he's there and he steps right into her, bumps her shoulder hard, knocks her off balance.

"Oh, hey, sorry!" Mickey grabs her arm with one hand to keep her from falling while his other hand presses the folded up note into her palm. He leans down until his lips are just brushing her ear and murmurs, "Maggie," just loud enough for her to hear but not the goon on her other side.

So far so good and the plan was to release her and keep going, so all the goon would have to report was some punk who ran into his employer's wife while they were on the street, annoying but not a big deal. Except this goon hasn't read the script 'cause he's right there in Mickey's face with a handful of his jersey and a nasty snarl and a raised fist.

Even if Mickey'd had time to think about it he still wouldn't have waited around to find out whether the guy was bluffing or not. Maybe it was just a show of dominance, a wolf whose territory'd been invaded who needed the invader to roll over and show his belly or whatever, but Mickey's reflexes kick in and he breaks the goon's grip on him with a hard swipe of one arm while lifting his knee and crushing his balls up into his spine.

And then it's over. Except it isn't 'cause there's a guy writhing on the ground screaming silently and Maggie's standing there with her eyes the size of baseballs and her mouth open to scream out loud and everything's going to hell.

Fuck.

Adrenaline keeps him moving once he's started. He steps over the gasping thug, grabs Maggie by the arm and runs.

Poking Around

Mon, 20 Feb 2006 11:30:37 GMT

[Takes place on Monday, February 6th, shortly after this.]

Mickey's been doing some electronic legwork for one of Peter's people, pulling together info on the BOD and officers of a company that's coming on board for some corporate security consulting. Zapping the finished set of files off to her leaves him with some down time and some very helpful windows open in his browser. Vin's meeting with another client, Mike's out with some of his staff and Peter's buried with the beancounters. No one needs anything from Mickey right now so he picks one of the ferret sites and enters a new name.

M a r g a r e t A n n e M u r r a y.

He adds date of birth, city and state and hits [Enter].

The system hums for a few seconds, then starts spitting up links. Not many -- the younger Murrays are never out in the public's view if it can be prevented, but some things have to be public record. Like marriage licenses.

Fuck.

Over a year ago they'd married her off to some Anthony Barker. Shit, the guy's thirty-eight!

Which would be fine if she were in love with the guy but it never crosses Mickey's mind that she might be. He checks out Barker's family and of course they're good Covenanters, rich and powerful and as invisible as it's possible to be. Anthony Barker's great-uncle is the oldest male Barker Mickey can find in the Boston area, which means he probably runs the family. That's actually... kind of weird; he'd have expected Grandfather Murray to place his oldest granddaughter with someone higher up the Covenanter food chain. (Not that any of them are interested in worldly power or influence. No, of course not.)

A few more searches and it makes sense -- old Edward Barker's only son died when he was a kid and his wife never managed to pop out another boy. She tried, though; they have... holy crap, eleven daughters! Another click or three and... right, he's on his fourth wife, who's twenty-four; sounds like he's still trying, every other leap year when he can get it up. Mickey feels a pang of sympathy for Heather Barker, who's his own age and married to this obsessive eighty-year-old, and then another pang -- of thanks this time -- that Edward was safely married to poor Heather when his father and grandfather started looking for a husband for Maggie.

So Anthony's the oldest son of Edward's younger brother (deceased), patriarchal heir despite a whole lot of effort put into replacing him. Great, Mickey thinks. I'll bet Anthony has lots of fun at family parties, and as much as old Edward probably hates Anthony, it's all going to slop onto Maggie, both by association and because she'll be giving Anthony the heir Edward can't seem to manage.

Thought of Anthony's heir sends Mickey hunting again -- no kids yet. Good, that'll make it easier for Maggie to take off.

He checks DMV records for Edward and gets an address, which gets saved to a file with a bland name, four folders down, along with all the other useful stuff he's dug up. He's about to do a Google search to start hunting for a shelter he can take Maggie to once he's gotten her away when the phone rings -- some VIP client is in the lobby and is upset about something. Mickey hits the key for the screen saver and dashes off to fight the fire.

Journal Entry -- Locked Private

Wed, 01 Feb 2006 12:12:13 GMT

It's been almost five years now since I got away. Almost ten since Nono died. And what've I done?

I got away, for what that's worth. No, seriously, it's worth a lot. Just getting away and staying away is a win and I need to remember that. But I promised Nono I'd help the others and I'm no closer to that now than I was when I ducked out of the airport. Farther, actually, because then I still had hope that Nono's lawyer friend would help me and everything'd be fine.

Now I know better. He's dead and his partner's in Grandfather Murray's pocket. I'm on my own and they're too big for me to fight by myself. Even Nono knew that.

But I need to at least know how the others are doing. I was pretty freaked when Vin and I were fooling around and suddenly it was all about Stevie but that was probably my subconscious taking the opportunity to kick me in the ass. I've been trying to forget they're still back there, I guess. It's easier than drowning in guilt every day of my life but I don't want to just forget them. I need to know if they're all right at least.

I wonder if I could get Maggie out? She's old enough to leave if she wanted to. I'm sure she would want to, unless she's changed, like a one-eighty since I left. If they made her marry some asshole that'd be tough but she could get a divorce once she was away and safe. Although it'd be tough getting her a divorce, filing all the paperwork and stuff while she's hiding. Getting her a fake ID and all'd be easy, more than when I did it -- shit did I luck out with that! -- but she has to do stuff under her real name to make a divorce legal.

There has to be a way, though. Other women who are afraid of their husbands do it, there are shelters and stuff for that, right? I could find one for her and take her right there. I'll bet they'd have lawyers and know how to manage without putting her into any danger. Women trying to get away from fuckwads who beat them up need to hide so a women's shelter'd know how to hide her so no one would be able to find her, or even know which shelter she'd gone to. That's important 'cause if Grandfather Murray finds out where she went he'd trash the place with money and lawyers and city inspectors and anything else he felt like throwing at them.

This is all maybeing, though, 'cause I don't know if she's married or not. Have to check that out first. If she's not then it'll be a lot less messy once she's out, although getting her out in the first place'll be tough. It might actually be easier to grab her if she's married and moved in with someone else, someone with a smaller place that's not so much of a fortress.

Step one -- collect data. That's what Bach always did when he started a new job. Fuck, I wish he were here.

A Day at the Office [Mickey, Vin]

Fri, 13 Jan 2006 12:24:59 GMT

Mickey's taken a break from excavating the piles of papers all over the office to unpack the supply order he'd put in the first day. He's been faking it and making do, but now the office has everything it needs to function properly and efficiently, and everything can be found without rummaging around in the supply cabinet and other assorted cubbies and drawers for fifteen minutes. His order'd included a stack of electronic parts boxes and he'd used them to sort out the pens and pencils and erasers and binder clips and other smallish things that tended to float around in a large cabinet. Bach's secretary had used that trick and Mickey'd thought it was pretty cool.

He saves the carton the stuff came in, since he's long ago filled the trash can with stuff he's tossing -- seriously, an entire two-drawer cabinet full of purchase orders from five to ten years ago?? -- and the carton's a good size. And besides, with all the unfiled stuff piled up, he can use the free file cabinet space.

Vin's appointment book is starting to look about as full as it should, too. Mickey'd taken advantage of one of his boss's offsite meetings to scour his office and had turned up a double-handful of napkins, posties, pink phone messages and other odds and ends of paper with appointments scribbled on them. He'd saved the ones that were out of date, to go over with Vin in case any of 'em had to be rescheduled, and transferred the rest into the big book that lived on Mickey's desk. Each morning he made up a three-by-five card with all Vin's appointments and brought it in with his first cup of coffee, with the result that both he and Vin knew where he was supposed to be all day, making both their jobs easier.

Mickey's just sat back down and is trying to figure out which case a packet of surveillance notes goes with when the phone rings. It's reception, letting him know that Vin's two o'clock is early. He thanks Tansy, telling her he'll be right there, and heads out to escort the guy in. Hopefully Vin'll be back on time.

[Former] Senator Marcus Fairchild is in a good mood as he waits for his escort to arrive. Today's business is fairly simple; the hiring of security staff for a charity ball he is hosting could probably have been taken care of over the telephone. However, Marcus has a long-standing debt to repay and he's the sort of man who likes to be face-to-face when paying what he owes and today's charity ball meeting is the perfect opportunity to meet the man who did him such a huge favor so long ago and to begin the process of repaying that debt. The young man who steps out of the lift has a welcoming smile on his face that is matched by Marcus' own. He steps forward, hand extended, and introduces himself, flashing the identity badge the receptionist gave him with the other.

"Senator Fairchild, welcome. I'm Mickey Fontana, Vin's assistant." Mickey checks out the badge with a glance and shakes the man's hand. "If you'll come on in with me I'll get you something to drink while you wait." Tansy buzzes them through the inner door and Mickey leads the senator down the hall to the office suite. "Vin's still at a previous appointment but I'm sure he'll be here on time to see you." I hope he will, I hope he will, he thinks with an inner eyeroll.

He shows Fairchild to one of the comfortable visitors' chairs and says, "We have regular and decaf, or tea if you'd rather?"

"Nothing for me, thanks." Marcus demurs with a smile. The young man, Mickey, looks to be the usual sort of bustling functionary but Marcus has already spotted the work-worn hands indicative of manual labor and knows better. Not just a gloss-and-polish male secretary, oh no. And from what he's heard about xXxellence as a company, very likely not someone to be messed with, either. "Keep me company?" he invites. "I've heard tell of your boss's legendary tardiness and while I don't mind waiting, I do mind being bored while doing so."

"Certainly, sir." Mickey sits down in the chair next to Fairchild and clasps his hands in his lap. "I hope the traffic wasn't too bad on your way over."

"Not at all. My offices are just up the street. It wasn't too much trouble, was it? My getting this appointment on such short notice, I mean." Marcus tilts his head in enquiry, flicking the silver-gray of his hair away from his face with a hand. "I owe your boss a big debt and it didn't occur to me until the last moment that this event would be the perfect opportunity to begin repaying it." Confidentiality is a key element in a security company, so Marcus has no problem with the idea of discussing his business or his reasons behind it with a member of Vin's personal staff. Besides, the time is long since passed that he need be concerned about formerly private matters, his indiscretions of a few years ago now a matter of public record and therefore no longer sacrosanct.

"No, not at all, sir. It was no problem fitting you in." Once I found the note under a potted plant on the windowsill, Mickey thought to himself, his face perfectly straight. "Has the company done work for you before, then? I haven't been here very long and I'm afraid I'm not as familiar with our client history as I should be." Mickey feels himself blushing slightly and makes a mental note to look up visitors in the client records ahead of time from now on.

"Oh God, no!" Marcus laughs, giving Mickey a distracted pat on the knee to let him know not to worry. "In fact your boss was working for my opposition," he says. "It's a good story, actually, and one I'm very fond of telling."

"Oh?" Mickey smiles and cocks his head curiously. "What happened, sir?"

"I was up for re-election is what happened." Marcus grins, happy to have an audience. "And my opposition, in their wisdom, decided blackening my name was an acceptable tactic." He shakes his head in sadness at the depths to which political opponents would sink. "Unfortunately for them, the company they chose to use to investigate me was, and is, headed by an ethical man. Your boss got the report, some of which was, I admit, rather damning. I'd never claim to have lived an exemplary life," he admits. "But in this case there was an innocent child involved and Mr. Diesel came to me with the information, rather than hand it over."

"That was a very decent thing to do," Mickey agrees. Actually, it's an interesting ethical problem but if the senator doesn't give him enough information to puzzle it out then he'll ask Vin later. "What happened then?"

"He berated me over the phone." Marcus can't help but chuckle. "But then he told me that he didn't believe how a man conducts his private affairs should have any bearing on how well or how poorly he does his job. As far as he was concerned, I was doing a decent job and so he intended to pass in the report to his client, leaving out the part about my mistress and my child."

Mickey nods, thinking about it, then takes a chance and asks, "And are you still doing a good job?"

"No. I retired instead of contesting my seat. Took his words to heart and came clean, married the lady and gave my daughter a proper home and security. Now I intend to return the favor and send as much work as I can in your direction. After all, I'm absolutely certain this company is completely trustworthy. At the time, having the existence of my daughter splashed all over the media would have ruined me. But it didn't." Marcus finishes with a smile.

It's not his place to approve, but Mickey does anyway. He smiles back and says, "I'm sure we can provide satisfactory service, sir."

"Oh, I know you can dear boy." Marcus nods and then cocks his head to one side, looking past Mickey and down the hall. "And here he comes, I suspect," he says, nodding in Vin's direction.

Mickey looks up, then rises and nods to Vin. "Yes, sir," he says to Fairchild. "I'll leave you alone now. Unless you'd like some coffee after all?"

"No, no. And thank you." Marcus gets to his feet and greets Vin as he arrives, Mickey's closing of the door hardly heard.

It's ten to five and Vin's trying really hard not to clock-watch. Feet propped up on thousands of dollars' worth of desk, his hands locked behind his head and a million dollar view at his disposal. Life is good. Be better however, were it five p.m. When the door opens, he's glad of the distraction and tunes out the tick-tick of the mantel clock he's not watching to wave Mickey in.

Mickey waves a purchase order and says, "I finally tracked down the specific model-year sniffer-thing Guido wants. No clue what's special about it, but I found a reconditioned one and he says he'd rather have that than a new one that's the 'wrong' model, so...." Mickey shrugs, the weirdness of lab-geeks beyond his understanding. He slides the form onto the desk next to Vin's feet and perches on a free corner.

Using the heel of his boot to bring the form over, Vin straightens long enough to sign on the dotted line and slides it back across the desk to Mickey. "File that under 'Tomorrow.'" He grins. "We're done for the day so Guido and his geek machine can just wait."

"Cool." Mickey shifts the signed requisition to the other side of the desk where it won't get crunched and leans over on one hand. "Anything happening tonight I should know about? Am I likely to have to come get you at the hospital or bail you out or anything like that?" His grin has a teasing light in it.

"No!" Vin pretends to give Mickey a sour look but he's in too good a mood to sustain it and his grin gives him away. "Might drop by the Club though." He contemplates the idea. "Could use a little action."

"That's an idea." Mickey nods, although his grin isn't quite as wide as Vin's. "Worth a try, anyway."

Vin's glance at Mickey's face dulls his pleasure a little. "Whazzup?" he wants to know.

Mickey shrugs. "Nothing major. Just not many people are into what I'm into, you know? YKIOK and all that, but finding someone else with the same needs or wants or whatever is another thing. It's a crapshoot but it's worth a shot. If it doesn't happen I can hang in the library for a while."

"I guess." He's not really thought about it that way. He's easy, can take it or leave it but someone with a hard preference would, well, have it harder. "No one, you know, who you know is like, into it? Someone you could see regularly?"

"Not really." Mickey shrugs again and shakes his head. "Not with the regulars, anyway. There's this one guy but he travels a lot, I don't know if he's an actor or a siding salesman or what, but he's not around much. Most everyone else seems to want the, 'Oh beat me, master, I'm just dying to take your cock!' type and that's not me. I just... don't." Another shrug and Mickey's staring out the window. "Usually I just hang out and hope to get lucky." He glances back with a half-smile that's sly and shy both. "Like with you that night."

Studiously being not looked at usually means there's a conversation taking place beneath the outward talk. A quick frown creases Vin's brow as he tries to get up to speed and work out what's really being talked about here, or potentially so. Then it comes to him. "You wondering if us scening is off limits now?"

Vin's about as subtle as a fist in the face and Mickey feels himself blushing some. "Umm, sorta. I mean, I know you said I could sexually harass you and all, but we were sort of kidding around so I wasn't sure if you meant it. And if you really meant that I'd have to, like, start it? I don't do that. I just... I can't, you know? So...." He trails off with another shrug. Handy gesture, that.

"I wasn't kidding." Now he feels kind of bad for embarassing Mickey and promises himself to remember in future that not everyone's so damned open about...stuff. "I just wasn't specific." Bringing his feet down off the desk and sitting up straight seems like a good idea right now so he does. "We can scene," he says casually. "Neither of us is the sort to get confused about where the line is and I sure as hell don't mind starting something up." A wicked grin crosses his face. "Course," he adds slowly, "there's always the option where I torture you first. With the ole 'expect it when you least expect it' moves."

Mickey feels a shiver run through him that's cold and hot at the same time. He looks back at Vin and makes himself hold his gaze. "That... could be cool," he says, his voice carefully even. "What d'you mean exactly?"

Hiding his smile, Vin responds in the same tone. "I mean the scene starts when I start it. Without warning," he adds helpfully. "But there'd be a hint enclosed there somewhere, naturally."

The image of someone -- someone he trusts, like Vin -- just suddenly grabbing him at random and slamming him down somewhere and fucking him is vivid in Mickey's brain and he feels his cock twitching at just the fantasy-vision. "Yeah! I mean, yeah, that'd be great."

"Then," Vin says evilly, getting to his feet, "when you least expect it...expect it!" He comes round from behind the desk and grabs his stuff, his sunny disposition fully restored. "Come on then!" he urges, knowing the switch is gonna throw Mickey right off. "Sun's over the yardarm and five o'clock has come and gone. Let's go get beer!"

"Umm, okay. Right, beer." Startled by the throttle-up, Mickey scrambles to keep up with his suddenly bouncy boss. He tosses the requisition onto his own desk, grabs his jacket, his coat and his briefcase (and isn't it weird having one of those?!) and trots after Vin.

Backstory -- Working Things Out [Mickey, Bach]

Fri, 06 Jan 2006 15:08:02 GMT

[Fourth of Mickey's backstory posts. Follows Mickey's Grandfather Dies, Bach Meets Mickey and Mickey Gets Hurt.]

September, 2002
Almost three hours later, Mickey's settled in the spare bedroom right next to Bach's. They'd stopped at a pharmacy and filled his prescription; Bach's never had a broken bone, but judging by the strength of the stuff they'd been dripping into Mickey's veins at the hospital, he's probably going to need some sort of booster before morning. Or, well, it's already morning. Before noon, then.

For right now, though, the kid's zonked and snoring and Bach's kicked back in the living room with a decaf, contemplating bed. On the one hand, it's getting light out and he's exhausted. On the other hand, it's getting light out and maybe decaf hadn't been such a great choice. When he'd been Mickey's age, going a night without sleep wouldn't have been a major problem. A hot shower, steak and eggs for breakfast, a couple mugs of high-octane coffee and he'd have been ready to go for the rest of the day. But he wasn't twenty-something anymore and last time he'd tried to pull an all-nighter without actual drugs, something stronger than caffeine, he'd gotten groggy on a stake-out twelve hours later and almost missed the target leaving the building he'd been staring at.

Of course, they have stuff for that these days. He thinks about getting a Provigil out of his stash and staying up, but decides against it. Mickey isn't going anywhere -- hell, with both arms in casts it'll probably take him a while to figure out how to work a doorknob -- and unless Bach's wrong, he'll be hurting enough when he finally wakes up that Bach'll hear him, even from the room next door.

That settles it; Bach rinses out his mug and heads to bed.

A thud and a yelp from the next room jolts Bach awake a little before ten. He slides out of bed and jogs to the next room to find Mickey on the floor, gasping and hissing in pain. And no wonder -- he's on his stomach next to the bed, where he obviously fell. One cast is wedged under him and the other is splayed out on the carpet and he's struggling to get up or roll over or something that'll take pressure off his broken arms.

Bach wraps his arms around the kid's middle and hauls him up, then sits down on the bed with Mickey practically in his lap.

"Relax, babe, easy. It's all right, hang on, I've got your pills right here."

He reaches over to the nightstand where the prescription bottle sits next to a glass of water. He opens it up and shakes two out, then puts the bottle down and picks up the glass.

"All right, here we go, come on, babe, this'll help." Coaxing like he would to a little kid, he gets the pills into Mickey's mouth, then holds up the water glass. "There you go, that'll do it. Just hang on, give 'em a chance to work."

Bach puts the glass back on the nightstand, puts the cap back on the pill bottle, then settles down as well as he can with his arms around Mickey, whispering and rocking slightly. Sitting sideways on the bed like this, there's no back support and before long his spine is protesting. He reminds it how Mickey feels and tells it to shut the fuck up.

After an agonizingly long wait, Mickey quiets down. His breathing is still quicker than normal and Bach can feel his heart thumping, but he's not sobbing with pain anymore, so he figures that's an improvement.

"Better?"

Mickey manages a jerky nod, his hair brushing Bach's nose.

"Great. How about if we get dressed and get something to eat?" That gets him another nod. He gives the kid a quick hug and rolls out from behind him. "I've got a bag with your stuff in it, that's where I got the shorts last night," he says. The big, plastic garbage bag is sitting on a chair and Bach roots through it, pulling out a pair of soft, faded jeans. "Here we go. We won't worry about a shirt for a while -- good thing it's still September, you know?"

Mickey nods and lifts one foot and then the other into the pantslegs. Bach helps him to his feet, grasping him around the middle again, then does up the button and zipper.

"Now I'll go throw some clothes on and then we'll get some food. You like pancakes?"

Mickey nods, then follows Bach to his own room. He leans in the doorway, his casts held awkwardly, while Bach slips into a pair of khaki shorts and a polo shirt.

"Here, sit at the table -- maybe resting your arms will feel a little better than having them just hanging there."

Mickey nods again and sits, resting his casts gingerly on the tabletop as he sinks slowly into the chair. Bach's keeping an eye on him while pulling pancake ingredients out and sees the kid wince at first, then relax slightly. He mixes up the batter and puts the skillet on to heat, then while setting up the coffee pot he asks casually, "So, what happened last night? No one actually said -- we were just worried about getting you to the hospital and I never heard anything about how your arms got busted."

Only silence answers him at first, and he keeps his attention focused on pouring the batter in four circles on the hot skillet. Finally, though, Mickey mumbles, "It was an accident."

"Well, yeah. I didn't figure the guy'd set out to deliberately break your arms. I mean, I'm hoping he gets banned from the Tank as it is, but if he'd done it deliberately he'd be banned and in jail. I heard Jolene say the guy'd just been stupid and I'm willing to buy that. But what happened?"

"He just... he was holding me down, you know? Making me suck him and he had both hands in my hair so he was kneeling on my arms to hold me down." There was a pause and Bach imagined a shrug. "It wasn't so bad at first, kind of hurt but not too much. But then he was really getting into it and he started sort of bouncing, like pushing with his legs so he could thrust harder, and the left one just snapped. I yelled and jerked and he was surprised and jerked away and all his weight went onto the other leg and that broke the other one." Another pause. "And that was it. It was just a stupid accident."

Stupid? No shit stupid! Bach's gripping the flipper so hard his fingers are aching and only the sight of bubbles hardening on top of the pancakes reminds him to turn them over.

"Well, he'll be taken care of, don't worry about that." Mickey is silent at that. Bach glances over his shoulder but the kid's just staring down at the tabletop. He looks tired and dazed and hurt, none of which are any kind of surprise.

Bach gets two dishes out of the cupboard, then changes his mind and puts one back. He throws some pre-cooked microwave bacon in, stacks up the pancakes with butter and syrup -- the good stuff -- and adds the bacon to the plate when it's done. He takes it over to the table with one set of silverware and puts it down between where Mickey's sitting and the chair next to it. He gets two mugs of coffee and brings them too, along with sugar and milk.

"How do you like your coffee?" he asks while sitting down.

"Just sugar," Mickey mumbles.

Bach nods and adds a teaspoon of sugar to one mug, sugar and milk to the other. He holds Mickey's mug up for him and lets him drink till he stops, then cuts a bite out of the pancake stack with the edge of the fork and holds it up for the kid.

Mickey just stares at it for a few seconds, then closes his eyes hard. He takes a deep breath and Bach can practically see him forcing relaxation while he lets it out. When he opens his eyes again, he takes the bite of pancakes and chews without a fuss.

Bach takes a bite for himself without commenting. It's clearly just hitting the kid just how helpless he is right now, how completely dependent he is on a guy who's essentially still a stranger, some guy who's been fucking him for a while, someone he knows absolutely nothing else about except that he likes to dish it out rough. Yeah, that's gotta be reassuring.

They eat and drink coffee without speaking for a while. When they've finshed the pancakes, Bach makes more without asking Mickey if he's still hungry. There's more batter and Bach's hungry. If Mickey wants more too, that's fine, and if not, well, that's fine too.

Turns out Mickey is still hungry and finishes his half of the second round of pancakes without protest, along with another mug of coffee. It isn't until it's time to head to the bathroom that Mickey stops short, his eyes going huge and round and then squinching closed as though he can shut out what he knows is coming.

"Come on, babe," Bach says. "Might as well. The casts are on for five weeks and you can't hold it all that time."

Mickey's head whips around in a way that had to jar his arms painfully and he stares at Bach, an accusation in his eyes. His head shakes but he doesn't say anything, although his mouth is slightly open.

"I'm sorry. I know it's not funny. But it has to be done, right? No sense being squeamish about it."

The kid takes a step forward, then another.

"And seriously," Bach adds, "I've had my tongue there, right? This is just my hand. Not a problem."

Mickey shoots him a dirty look, but at least he's not caught up in horrified shock anymore. Good enough.

They manage.

Mickey calls his job later that morning -- or anyway, he has Bach call and then hold the phone up to his ear -- and by the time they hang up he's unemployed. Bach's pissed off but Mickey just shrugs.

"I'm casual," he says. "If I can't work there are fifty more guys hanging around out back who can. I'm not in the records so who am I going to complain to, even if I wanted to?"

"Why don't you get a regular job?" Bach asks, his voice still sharp with anger although none of it at Mickey. Well, maybe a little.

"I can't," says Mickey, and that's apparently the end of that conversation.

They fall into a routine over the next few days. Bach has to do pretty much everything for Mickey. Mickey clearly hates it, but he submits to the inevitable without a lot of resistance and complaints. In a way Bach's not too surprised; his experience is that people who are as submissive as Mickey is sexually are either just as submissive about most things, or are hyper-aggro most of the time and sub sexually as a breather.

In a way it's convenient -- Mickey's quiet and agreeable, and isn't whiney or demanding even when he's clearly in pain. Bach couldn't have done other than he did, especially once he'd found out Mickey had no one at home to help him, but he's well aware the he's seriously lucked out; this could've been a lot more miserable than it has.

By the time Mickey's been there a week, though, Bach's getting a little frustrated. All right, a lot frustrated. Seven days of having constant access to the kid has gotten him nothing but his last name, and he's even wondering about that. With the blond hair and fair skin the kid hardly looks Italian, although he supposes his mother might've been something else. The occasional hint in his speech says he grew up in New England, but he'd figured that out months ago.

He's quiet and polite. Small verbal courtesies come naturally to him and Bach's willing to bet that when the casts come off his table manners will be just as polished. His teeth are white and straight and he doesn't have so much as an acne scar; the only marks on him are the sort Bach recognizes as the kind one gets from rough subbing. On the whole he's been carefully looked after and well brought up, which makes Bach lean toward an upper-middle-class family. Which in turn suggests that the kid's a runaway.

Or was -- at twenty-one he's too old to still be considered one. Assuming he actually is twenty-one, of course, and that his ID isn't a fake. Bach resolves to get a good look at it some time soon. But even if it's fake, he can't imagine the kid's under eighteen, just looking at him, which would still put him in the too-old-to-be-a-runaway category so Bach's probably safe from being prosecuted for debauching a minor.

Probably. Now that's a scary thought.

He's been sitting at his computer, theoretically working at home even though he's taken vacation days but in actuality staring out the window and thinking about Mickey. He opens a new browser window and goes looking for Mickey Fontana, something he should've done a long time ago, and would have if he didn't consider it a breach of privacy when it's not work-related. Anything that might land him in prison, though, he's willing to call technically work-related for the purpose, since he'd find it pretty damn tough to do any work from behind bars.

The obvious first. Google turns up the brother of an elderly jazz musician and a guy who does pretty good at bass fishing tournaments. Neither one sounds like Mickey.

All right, so, now we get serious. With a mental crack of his knuckles, he heads for some of the less "open" sites and pokes around.

No likely birth certificate. There are quite a few Michael Fontanas within the right age range, but none born in New England. Two went to school there and three got driver's licenses. Luckily the two are included in the three and the DMV takes its photos digitally these days; none of the three are Mickey.

While he's there he looks up the DMV records for New York and finds that yeah, Mickey's ID is a fake. No shock there; they're easy enough to get. But it means the kid could be anyone.

Before he takes the next step online, into areas where he has to tread more lightly, he's going to go for the obvious. He steps quietly out of the study and looks for Mickey. He's still on the couch watching TV, something on one of the Discovery channels about Mars. The kid can stand up and move around pretty easily by himself now, manage doornobs and drawers and cupboards, although picking up anything small, or anything that's not between about waist- and shoulder-high is still difficult, but he's hooked on educational shows the way most guys his age are hooked on porn and Bach's pretty sure he won't be getting off the couch any time soon.

He heads down the hall and into Mickey's room. The kid's wallet is still in the black plastic garbage bag; he pulls it out and flips through it. Which doesn't take very long because the only card in it is his (bogus) driver's license. That's it. No social security card. No student body card. No health insurance card, no library card, no video rental card, none of the normal cards people accumulate. There aren't even any of those buy-ten-get-one-free cards from Starbuck's or Subway or any of those places. Just the license and... a shitload of cash.

He blinks at the pile of bills in the wallet. He's seen more, sure, but for someone who dresses like Mickey it's a lot. He counts it quickly -- almost eight hundred.

On a hunch he searches quickly through the rest of the stuff in the bag. The pockets of both shirts are empty and the extra jeans have nothing interesting, just a key (only one?) on a cheap Yankees keychain, a subway token and some change.

The shoes are clean -- well, not clean, but there's nothing hidden in them -- and, halfway convinced at this point that he's going to find only negative clues, Bach gives the belt a cursory going-over and almost misses the slit on the inside. He peers in. Jackpot!

Literally. He pulls out another pile of cash and counts it. Holy fuck, almost three thousand! Added to what's in the wallet the kid's walking around with like thirty-five hundred dollars.

All right, maybe he could have paid his own hospital bill.

He replaces everything and heads back to the computer to sit and think some more.

That much cash usually means drugs. Or numbers or something illegal but he can't believe it, not of Mickey. Bach's a decent judge of character and he just can't imagine Mickey involved in anything like that. It's possible the kid's a total con artist, good enough to put one over on Bach, but he'll save that one for later.

So, how does someone working casual labor, and spending at least a hundred of it every week at the Holding Tank, accumulate thirty-five hundred bucks? He doesn't, that's how, so there's a flawed premise somewhere.

How does someone whose only income is casual labor...? Right, that has to be the flaw; the kid has another source of cash. But if so, and if so to the tune of thousands of dollars, then why's he working casual? It can't be as a cover to keep the IRS off his ass for whatever else he's got coming in, since if he's being paid under the table he's probably not declaring it. The lack of a social security card supports that, although he might have it stashed at home. Wherever "home" is -- Bach's wondering about that too at this point.

Maybe it was a one-time thing? Maybe he did one big job for someone (and what the job was might or might not bear up under scrutiny) or maybe he played the numbers and got lucky or maybe he found a wallet on the sidewalk.

While he's thinking about all that he runs a check for warrants, arrests and convictions, but it's no surprise when it comes up blank for his kid. He's pretty much convinced at this point that he's got a bogus name and without a SSN or prints or DNA or something he's pretty much at a dead end as far as anything available on the computer is concerned.

That's all right. It's a puzzle and Bach lives for puzzles. He'll consider the opportunity to work this one out Mickey's rent.

Chasing Around [Mickey, Vin, Peter, Big Mike]

Sun, 01 Jan 2006 08:13:37 GMT

[Takes place on 23 Dec., the morning after Vin offers Mickey a job.]

Mickey's brain surfaces slowly toward consciousness, drifting in a more-or-less upward direction, with occasional detours for shreds and scraps of dreams. It's a long process and the last ten or fifteen minutes of it involves him squinting, partially awake but not quite, toward the window where stripes of grey sunlight are glowing through the half-opened blinds.

At some point he rolls over, rotating in place as though he were lying on a much narrower bed. He stares up at the ceiling for a while, his eyes marginally more open but still not all the way. A few semi-coherent thoughts bounce off of each other in his mind. One of them is wondering where he is. Another one is thinking about when he has to get up for work. A third has to do with the four penguins from Madagascar carrying him up the side of a volcano to dump him in, but that one's kinda weird and he rolls over again and buries his head under the pillow.

The pillowcase smells good, like it just came out of the wash. Like someone had used fabric softener on it. That's even weirder than penguins and volcanos and gets him pushing up to his hands and knees to take a better look around, blinking to clear the sleep-gunk out of his eyes.

He's in a pretty nice bedroom, in a queen-size bed. He has a memory of Vin telling him they'd get him a king soon, since when he's on his stomach his feet stick off the end of the queen.

A couple of plastic garbage bags full of his stuff are sitting in one corner next to a dresser. The dresser's empty 'cause he hasn't unpacked yet. The thought of "unpacking" a couple of beat-up garbage bags patched with duct tape is sort of weird anyway, and there's not all that much in 'em so even after he unpacks, the dresser's still gonna be pretty empty. There's a closet, too, and he has no clue what he's gonna put in there. Heck, it's big enough he could've unrolled a sleeping bag in it and still had room for his clothes and his books and a box with a lamp (except the closet has a light in it already) and room left to walk around and hang stuff up on the rods.

It's a really big closet.

Another memory drifts up out of the gloom. He's got a new job and a nice place to live and his boss/landlord is a guy who can fuck the hell out of him when he feels like it. And it's all cash under the table.

This is way too cool. There's gotta be a catch to it that he just hasn't tripped over yet.

Vin's been up for about an hour. He's dressed, reluctantly, in today's required suit but there's no tie and there never will be. Breakfast's ready and he has to get moving soon so he knocks on Mickey's door as warning before he sticks his head in to see if his newest employee is awake. "Morning."

"Huh-wha?" Mickey rolls over and blinks at Vin. "Umm, morning. Right." He wraps both arms around his pillow and his eyes drift closed once more.

"Breakfast's on the table," Vin says, slipping back out the door and heading for the table without waiting for a response. Mickey's tired and he's not surprised. He imagines the kid's probably not had a decent night's sleep in a while so just this once he can be allowed to rise at his own pace. Besides, Vin's hungry and the toast is calling him.

The word "breakfast" penetrates through the drifting veils of unconsciousness. Breakfast means food. Food is good. Breakfast food is particularly good. There's just something really cool about breakfast-type foods, no matter what time of day you're eating 'em. Eating. It's breakfast time and there's breakfast food ready to eat right now. Vin said so. Vin left, which means Vin's probably going to go eat it which means... it might be all eaten and actually, like, gone, really soon. And that means... it's time to get up. Fuck.

A good ten minutes later, Mickey drags his ass into the living room. He's even dressed, mostly -- jeans and a T-shirt, and socks 'cause it's cold but no shoes. He needs a shave and hasn't brushed his hair, but this is good enough to eat in. He hopes.

Vin waves Mickey to a seat, unable to speak due to the mouthful of buttered honey toast he's presently busy chewing. The table's spread, as usual, with a wide variety of food. Vin's never sure what he'll feel like eating so the catering service he uses for most meals have standing instructions to deliver 'everything'. Today, 'everything' consists of wheat cereal, strawberries, blueberries, fresh brewed black coffee with cream on the side, bread for toasting and a variety of preserves with butter in a crock. Smiling around his mouthful, Vin gestures again, inviting Mickey to help himself.

Mickey sinks into a chair across from Vin. He can't remember if he said good morning before so he says it just in case before pouring cereal into a bowl. He adds some of each kind of the berries, then sticks a piece of bread into the toaster. He pours a mug of coffee and downs half of it before pouring the milk into his cereal. By the time he's ready for his second mug, he's starting to look almost alert.

Used to breakfast being a silent affair, which it is in New York though not in London with Yorgi, Vin's got nothing to say and he finishes his toast, grabs a couple of sausages and some eggs from the buffet to one side and resumes his seat, pouring some more coffee while he's at it. "When you're done," he says finally, "we'll sort out today."

A really wonderful smell wafts across the table. Mickey focuses his eyes on Vin's plate and lights up like a beacon. "You've got real food!" He looks around and spots the buffet. "Oh, man!" He shoves his empty cereal bowl aside, bounces to his feet and grabs a plate. When he sits back down he's got two pancakes, a waffle, a scoop of scrambled eggs, and two each bacon and sausage. He pours himself a third mug of coffee and starts happily shovelling.

If that's real food, Vin hates to think what 'unreal' food might be. He grins and shakes his head, turning his attention to finishing his own meal before Peter gets here and throws him out the door.

As if on cue, the second Vin sets his knife and fork down there's a knock at the door and Peter, who never waits but lets himself in, strolls into the living room reeking of Armani cologne and old money. "Morning," he says to no one in particular, grabbing a strawberry from the punnet and popping it into his mouth as he takes the third chair, crossing one elegantly shod foot over the other. He eyes Mickey with a raised brow and Vin conducts hasty introductions. "Peter, this is Mickey Fontana. Mickey, meet Peter Frankston."

Mickey hurriedly swallows a mouthful of waffle and holds out his hand, saying, "How do you do?" while looking the guy over. He makes even Vin, who's better dressed this morning than Mickey's ever seen him, look like some kind of poser and Mickey's immediately aware of his bristly chin and unwashed T-shirt.

Vin's polished off his coffee and is getting to his feet even before Peter turns the eyebrow of doom his way. "I'm going, I'm going." Today's a round of boardroom meetings, hence the suit, and Peter knows full well how very much Vin hates the damned things. Which would be why he's scheduled them one after the other, to get them over with, and why he's volunteered to get Mickey started, so he can waltz in the door at 7:30a.m. and make sure Vin's not planned an escape.

Peter smiles charmingly and waves a languid hand at the door. "Car's downstairs," he says. "I'll take good care of Mickey here, I promise. You can check him for dents at the office after lunch, okay? Now go!"

Somewhat reluctantly, given what the day has in store, Vin obediently trots for the door. "See you at the office, Mickey."

"Umm, see you?" Mickey waves half-heartedly, watching Vin vanish. He glances back at Mr. Frankston and feels himself tensing up.

"Relax, Mickey." Peter grins, turning his full attention in Mickey's direction now he's got Vin sorted and running. "I'm harmless." He takes another strawberry and chews it thoughtfully. "Any questions before I start explaining or should I just begin rambling and trust you to follow?"

"No, Sir. Go ahead." Mickey sits up straight with his hands folded in his lap, an unconscious habit he hasn't had triggered in years. But Mr. Frankston is just so... so upper class, so money, so businesslike. He reminds Mickey of his father and grandfather and he feels himself shutting down, ready to silently listen and absorb whatever he needs to learn.

"Peter," he corrects. "Nothing formal about the company or its founder, in case you hadn't noticed. Finish your breakfast while I chat why don't you." He rearranges his legs and brushes an imagined speck from the cloth covering his thigh before he continues. "I should think that it's wisest for me to start with a job description, don't you agree?"

"Yes, Sir. Mister... uh, Peter." Mickey blushes and looks down at his plate. Come on, get a grip! He takes a long breath and forces himself to meet Peter's eyes before taking a bite of sausage, still listening intently.

"Okay. First things first. You fuck Vin over, Mike and I will fuck you up. Clearly, this fact is not up for discussion. However, having said that, let me follow it with this. I, we, trust Vin's character judgements. So your suitability for this job is not in question. He doesn't often get it wrong, but if he does, Big Mike and I are more than capable of dealing with the fallout." Peter smiles pleasantly. "Organising our esteemed leader is a draining and sometimes frustrating task. That's why the job is live-in," he says. "I have a print-out at the office you can have, explaining the structure and the running of this company but basically what the job boils down to is taking care of the man, understood?"

"Yes, Sir. Peter. I'm sorry, I understand." Mickey gives a jerky if earnest nod. "Vin's a great guy, I'd never mess him over."

"Good. He is." Peter's tone of voice becomes even more pleasant, if that's possible. "Basically, xXxellence runs on two, perhaps three levels," he tells Mickey. "There's the grass roots where the company started -- mall security, bouncers and the like, all the way up to running entire security teams for hospitals, businesses and providing equipment like security cameras, passes, computer techs...that sort of thing. All of that," he dismisses the backbone of the company with a careless wave of his hand, "is run by a very professional and adept managment team and we only hear about it in reports or when there's a problem. Then we have the elite, the company's top end, so to speak. Bodyguards for the rich and famous, corporate protection and surveillance, et cetera. Vin is the head of the company and Big Mike and myself -- that's Michael Duncan by the way, you'll most likely meet him today -- handle a section each and report only to Vin. It's your job to make sure he's around to report to," Peter says with a grin. "He has a tendancy to vanish if not supervised and organised."

"So I keep track of his appointments and such, and he'll check in with me whenever he leaves?" I can do that, thinks Mickey hopefully.

Almost choking on his third strawberry because he's chuckling, Peter wipes his watering eyes with a linen handkerchief and takes a quick sip of water from Vin's abandoned glass. "Dream on, grasshopper." He grins. "Half your job is going to be tracking him down when he's escaped," he laughs. "And because I'm such a nice guy, I'll give you a tip. When you can't find him, check the club rosters first. Vin has a nasty habit of regressing and likes to hang out with his old mates, most of whom are still employed by us as bouncers. When all else fails, or there's a society affair to be attended, that's where he'll be." It appears Mickey has finished his breakfast, so Peter gets to his feet, adjusting the fit of his jacket as he pushes his chair back. "If you want to grab your things," he suggests, "we'll get moving."

Reaching into his blazer pocket, he produces a credit card and drops it on the table in front of Mickey. "That's yours and so is..." he pats himself down until he finds what he's looking for, "...this." A company I.D. joins the credit card. "We'll go get you kitted out first. Show you which stores accept our cards and the like. Then you get the guided tour of the office."

Mickey stares at the cards, then blinks and stands up. "Umm, all right. I'll be back in five." He tucks the cards into his pocket, then scurries off to put his shoes on, find a cleaner shirt, brush his teeth and his hair and shave. He makes it back right on deadline and looking slightly more presentable, although next to Mr. Frankston he still feels like a bum.

Peter's got his hand on the door and is looking forward to a spot of shopping. But he's not so preoccupied that he forgets the vital piece of information he meant to impart. "Oh. The cards both list you as an 'associate,' by the way. It's a clever way of saying you don't actually work for us. Rather, you work for an ephemeral 'someone else' and are therefore not on our payroll." He gives Mickey a quick wink as a friendly gesture. "Every second Friday you get to join the line of non-existent people in the special isn't-there line down in payroll. You'll have no trouble working out which line that is, trust me," he jokes.

"The one with all the people in hoodies and trenchcoats?" Mickey asks, his face a picture of childlike innocence.

"Yes." Peter's nod is enthusiastic. He lays a hand on Mickey's shoulder, guiding him out the door with a joyful, "Hugo Boss, here we come."

Several hours later, Mickey looks around the office in a weird half-daze. He's wearing a suit that costs more than he's ever made in any three months in his life, but it's cool -- he doesn't feel like a punk or a tight-ass in it. He's got four more like it back at Vin's place, plus extra shirts and shoes and ties and new underwear and stuff, and Peter'd commented, before dropping him off, that they'd made a good start. Start?!?!

He has a new watch, a really neat one that tells the time in three different timezones at once, and Peter'd had him set it for LA, New York and London for right now. He'd had his hair cut, too -- not the buzz cut his father had always demanded, but just neatening it up so it looked like it had a style rather than just whatever his pillow'd given him that morning. He feels like this really great outfit walking around with a guy inside it who's just along for the ride.

And this was going to be his office. The door from the hallway led into it. Vin's office was through a door at the back, Peter's was through a door on the other, and Mike, the guy he hadn't met yet, had an office opposite Peter's. Mickey was in the middle so he guarded the door to all three of them. Although from what Peter'd said, in Vin's case at least he'd be guarding the door out rather than the door in. The thought brought a grin to his face.

Cross-eyed and with his head echoing phrases like 'quarterly growth' and 'projected lines of achievement,' Vin dives gratefully through the back door and into the sanctuary his office represents. The coffee's just brewed and there's a plate of sandwiches on his desk so he's a happy boy as he sheds his jacket and throws himself bodily into his leather office chair for some well-earned downtime. Munching on his first bite of ham and mustard on whole wheat, Vin hears movement coming from the other office and calls out for company. "Mickey?"

"Hey, Vin!" Mickey pokes his head in the door, then walks in. "You have another door! No fair! Peter says I'm supposed to keep you from sneaking out and I can't if you've got a bolthole. I'm gonna call building maintenance and have that boarded up." He crosses his arms and leans on the doorjamb, giving his boss a cocky grin.

"Be kind." Vin pouts. "I've been harangued by accountants all morning. Don't threaten me, at least 'til after lunch. Hey!" His head tilts to one side. "You look snappy. Armani?"

Mickey grins and strikes a pose. "Yeah, I think so. Cool, huh?" He straightens his jacket and says, "And just for buttering me up, you've got a reprieve till you're done eating." Mickey winks and crosses the room, perching on one corner of the visitor's chair, the part of the seat not covered with binders and video tapes.

"How long since you lost your last PA?" he asks. "The outer office is kind of a mess." He wants to say "dump" but he's not quite that sure of himself yet. It is pretty awful, though, with piles of stuff untyped, uncopied, unfiled, unsent.... He'd hunted through a couple of the stacks of paper, looking at random documents, and they're not even in chrono order the way they would be if they'd just been stacking up; apparently someone had been fishing through them looking for things they needed, then dumping them back on top when they were done. They're pretty well shuffled.

"Umm... a couple of months at least." Vin screws his face up, trying to remember. "I was in London for...err... Oh, shit, I don't know!" he complains. Board meetings always make him, well, bored. And slightly petulant. "Anyway, she couldn't cut it. Resigned one night, right out of the blue. Just 'cause Crazy Larry called her 'heinous.'" He shakes his head in bewilderment. "Sandwich? They're good."

Mickey laughs and grabs a sandwich. "Maybe she thought it was a dirty word? You obviously need a PA with a better vocabulary." He takes a bite -- roast beef and cheddar.

"Or at least a more elaborate one." Vin nods his agreement, happier by the second now he's safe and fed. "How'd this morning go? Get everything sorted? Anything Peter missed?" As unlikely as it is, he should ask, Mickey being his PA and all.

Headshake, then swallow. "No, I don't think so," Mickey says. "He's very... energetic, once he gets going." He grins. "A real power-shopper. He explained a lot of things in between having me try stuff on and I think I have a pretty good overview of how it all works around here."

"Yeah." Vin's smile is pure mischief. "That's why I delegate." He gazes thoughtfully at his crust and then tosses it in the trash. "Peter's pure gold," he adds, his fondness for the other man apparent in his tone. "Don't let his Kennedy looks and summer in the Hampton's background fool you though; he's tough as nails."

"I, umm, got that impression pretty much right off." Mickey shoots him a wry smile and takes another bite of his sandwich.

"Oh?" The question's interrupted by a knock at the (second) door, which opens far enough for Big Mike's head to fit through. A flashing gleam of white teeth accompany the quick smile. "Hey shrimp! Just wanted to say 'hi' to the new white meat."

Mickey looks up, then does a double-take. The biggest guy he's ever seen saunters through the door and eyes him up and down, a huge, bald, black man with a shining smile and eyes that can see right through to his skeleton. He's up on his feet without consciously thinking about it.

"Hey ya. Nice to meet you." Big Mike's got Mickey's hand in his and is shaking it in what he thinks is an amiable fashion. Vin hides his grin behind his hand. "Mike, this is Mickey. Mickey Fontana. Mickey meet Big Mike."

"How do you do, Sir?" Mickey tries to match the rhythm of the handshake 'cause if he doesn't he's pretty sure Big Mike's gonna rip his hand off before he lets go.

"Good. M' good." Big Mike beams. He glances across Mickey's shoulder at Vin. "He's a good one, this one," he pronounces. "I can tell."

Vin's torn between letting Mickey deal with Mike's enthusiasm on his own, just for shit and giggles naturally, or rescuing him before his arm breaks. He decides he needs his PA intact. "Did you get hold of Turner?" he asks Mike by way of distraction.

"Ah did." Mike nods, turning from amiable giant to businessman in the blink of an eye and dropping Mickey's hand in the process. "He says to tell you 'is cool.'"

Vin nods, expecting no less. "Good. That's settled then. No more trouble from that corner. You tell the boys?"

"Yeah. They ain't gonna make no thing of it. Is over." Big Mike looks pleased. He turns back to Mickey with another dazzling grin. "I got to run but was nice to meet you. You keep him in line, ya hear?" With that, he shuffles off, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Aaand that's Mike," Vin says.

"Yeah, I guess it is." Mickey looks back at Vin with a slighly dazed smile. "Wow. So, umm, is there anything you need right now, or can I start shovelling out the outer office?" He hitches a thumb over his shoulder toward the door.

Vin picks up the last sandwich and studies it intently for a moment. "Have at it," he says. "I'm fine right here."

"Cool." Mickey takes another bite of his sandwich and heads for the door. Probably clean out the supply cabinet first, he thinks, figure out what we have and what we need, make an order, then start sorting through the piles....

As soon as the door's shut, Vin gets to his feet, grabbing his jacket and moving stealthily toward the second door. He's going nowhere in particular but, he figures, Mickey's had lessons from Peter and maybe even learned a thing or two from Big Mike. Time the boss taught him one.

Mickey gets the cabinet open but then something pops into his head. Should he use his company card to order supplies or do they have an account with someone? Bach had had a regular account and Mickey'd done the orders for him a few times; Vin might have the same kind of thing going. He pokes his head back into Vin's office door and calls, "Hey, Vin? Do we--?" He stops and looks around. The place is empty! That fucker! He dashes across to the other door, yanks it open and looks out. He sees a familiar figure heading around a corner. Shit! He dashes down the hall, skids around the corner and grabs Vin's sleeve. "Hey, there! Going somewhere?" He gives his boss a pointed glare.

"Bathroom." He can't pout about being caught 'cause that'd give away the fact that he was indeed absconding.

"Really? Cool. You can show me where it is -- Peter forgot that part of the tour." Mickey falls into step beside Vin, not trusting him for a minute.

Oh fuckit! He's sprung and he knows it. Bowing to the inevitable, Vin plasters a smile on his face and makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, bending from the waist and everything. "After you," he says grandly, showing the way. "Ya little shit!"

Mickey gives him a big grin and a wink as they head off together. "Oh, I wanted to ask if we had an account with an office supply place or whether I should just get stuff on my card." He pauses for a beat, then adds, "I need to order GPS unit."

"An' I need my head read," Vin mutters to himself as he leads Mickey off on a tour of the restrooms.

Questions, Questions [Mickey, Vin]

Sat, 17 Dec 2005 17:24:12 GMT

[Takes place a few hours after this.]

Mickey rolls over in place, a squirming-shifting maneuver perfected by most people who've spent a lot of time fitting a six-plus body in a single bed. He ends up sort of half on his stomach and snuggled down with the covers tight around him before realizing that no part of him is hanging off the edge of the mattress. And then that the mattress is actually, like, comfortable. Firm and giving in perfect proportion. And then that there's a source of warmth nearby, like, within inches.

Huh? he thinks, blinking sleepily. Sleep at the club? Work!

His eyes snap open and he's instantly on his hands and knees looking around for a clock before he remembers that there's one on his wrist. He squints at it and sees that he has plenty of time, and flops back down into the warm comfort of the bed.

Vin's been awake for a while now, just lying back and staring at the ceiling, his hands folded behind his head and still completely pissed and amazed by last night's events. When Mickey finally stirs, he turns his head and watches him, grinning at the reflex action. "Hey sleepyhead," he greets him, pulling a hand loose for long enough to give Mickey a friendly thump on the thigh. "Don't nod off again! I'm hungry."

Mickey moans peevishly, then stops. "Food?" He lifts his head just enough to squint at Vin, trying to tell if he's serious. His stomach rumbles in encouragement. He hasn't eaten since... since his dinner break the night before. The roach coach that stops in the parking lot makes good breakfast burritos, even at 9pm, but still, that was a fucking long time ago.

"Food," Vin affirms, bouncing cheerily out of the bed. "I'll be five minutes in the shower and then we can go get fed, see if my car's still there and drop you where you want to go. How's that sound?" He owes Mickey, big-time, he knows that and eventually he'll figure out the best way to pay that debt. But for now, he'll start with the small stuff. Like food.

"Sounds great," Mickey says with a nod and a stretch. "Do you have another bathroom? So I can sorta wash up a bit too? I won't take long." He glances quickly up at Vin from under his lashes, gauging his reaction. He seems like a nice guy, but some people get weird when you're in their space.

Vin stops in the bathroom doorway and points. "Out the door, take a right. The first door on the left is the spare bedroom. There's one in there. Towels and shit in the hamper." He vanishes, leaving Mickey to find it.

"Cool, thanks," Mickey says to the empty room. He grins and tosses his shorts down with the rest of his clothes, then heads off to take a piss and get clean.

"...and don't be stingy with the coffee," Vin tells the waitress. She gives him a cheeky grin. "Am I ever?" she challenges before walking away. Vin watches her go and then turns to Mickey. "So hard to get good staff these days," he laments in tones loud enough for her to hear.

Mickey snickers into his hands, which are clasped in front of him, elbows on the table. He props his chin on them and smiles across at Vin. He pretends to be pissy when he's really being nice. Sorta teasing, like. Much better than people who pretend to be nice when they're really being pissy.

Now he's finished his 'routine' with Mary, Vin turns his attention back to his guest. "You sure you ordered enough?" he wants to know. "Doesn't seem like much for a grown man."

"That's plenty," Mickey says with a grin and a nod. "Low bulk, high calorie. The carafe of OJ alone'll keep me going till dinner." He mimes buzzing like a hummingbird, but actually it's more that Mickey's not allowed a lot of breaks once he gets to work. It's hard and fast and choreographed like a broadway production number and there's no room for people who dash off in the middle. He learned a while back, when he first started doing crushingly physical labor under the counter where there's no union protection, that drinking a lot of juice helps -- same high calorie value as soda, but he gets a few vitamins in at the same time, and he sweats off most of the water once he starts working.

"Okay, if you're sure." Vin's not, but he'll leave it for now. Instead, he looks out the window at his car. It survived with only a scratch on the paintwork and he's grateful for it, though he's not usually attached to possessions.

"So you're good now?" Mickey asks, changing the subject away from himself. "You've got your envelope and you can get the bad guys now, right? That's pretty cool. You do that kind of thing all the time?"

"Umm... yeah." Momentarily distracted by the arrival of his sausage and eggs, Vin liberally salts them and takes a sip of his juice before continuing. "I run a security company," he tells Mickey. "xXxcellence, it's called. Started up right here in New York at a club called Mars, but we're international now. Bodyguards for celebs, politicians and the like as well as security for companies and bouncers for clubs and stuff. Don't often deal in industrial espionage," he admits. "Well, I don't, but Frank wouldn't talk to anyone but me. The nervous sort."

"So this Frank guy trusts you, then." Mickey nods around a bite of his pancakes. Gotta love a place that serves breakfast twenty-four hours. "Sounds like you've got a pretty good rep, especially from the way the Jackals were last night." He makes with a bug-eyed, terrified face, his hands fluttering in fear, then grins.

"More like a bad one." Vin grins as he chews on his sausage. "I used to run with a few of those guys way back when. Kind of makes me a brother by default." He chews his sausage thoughtfully. "What'd do you do for a crust?" he wants to know.

Mickey swallows a slug of his juice, then answers, "I work at a warehouse, a few blocks from where your car was. They need extra bodies unloading trucks -- Christmas stuff, you know? It's okay money and under the counter, no taxes." He raises a conspiratorial eyebrow before burying himself in his pancakes again. Mickey'd actually love to be able to pay taxes, if only 'cause it'd mean a regular job and better money and maybe even medical insurance -- what a concept -- but without a social security card that's sort of impossible.

"Good, honest work." Vin nods, adding silently to himself, But you're wasted doing it. However, it's not his business and he addresses himself to the business of consumption, downing the remainder of his breakfast in good order and tipping Mary the wink for a refill of coffee. When it's poured, he sits there, happily inhaling the steam from his cup and watching Mickey eat, content now his stomach's full and he's still not feeling sick, which bodes well for the rest of his day. "I'll drive you home if you like," he offers. "Grab a change of clothes etc. and I'll drop you at work."

His first instinct is to refuse, but Mickey glances up at Vin and thinks for a moment. He's a nice guy and he's been cool and it's probably not just a pro forma offer. And it's not that far away, really. And it'll only take Mickey a minute to strip down and change clothes so Vin won't have to wait very long for him at all. And it's fucking cold out and walking sucks when you've got a ride on offer. He nods and says, "Thanks, man. That'd be great. It's not that far, really, just a few blocks," tilting his head in the direction of home.

Jeez! Nice neighbourhood. Not. Vin doesn't let it show on his face at all, but he's starting to wonder if perhaps there isn't some job Mickey'd be suitable for with his company. Maybe a bouncer? Maybe.... Well, it doesn't matter yet. He'll think it over and see. No point rushing into anything, it's not his style anyway. Polishing off his coffee, he gets to his feet, keys jingling. "Ready?"

"Yep." Mickey nods while slugging down the last of his juice straight out of the carafe and scrambles to his feet.

Ten minutes later they're cruising slowly down the street and Mickey's wishing he'd said goodbye at the diner. The neighborhood's pretty clearly on the lower end of the socio-economic scale, to the point where you can buy a hooker, a hot watch and a bag of blow all without having to take more than a few steps. It sucks, but it's cheap and there are worse places and Mickey's gotten used to it and actually he's lived in some of those worse places and in no place at all and he hasn't really thought about it for a while. But now, being here in the car with Vin and having to point to a ramshackle, twelve-story firetrap with boarded-up windows and say, "Right here," he realizes what a mistake he's made. No one who lives here, or anywhere within a couple miles of here, could afford to be a Citadel member and it opens him up to all sorts of hard questions that he'd rather not answer. And if Vin's the kind of guy who goes around doing security stuff and tracking down corporate spies and all, he's going to notice that things don't add up. "Umm, you can just drop me off and I can make it from here. Do it every day, you know?" He manages an easy grin as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

"Nah, it's cool." Vin's not worried about the neighbourhood but he's even more curious now than he was, although he'd never ask. He gets out of the car before Mickey can object, sliding his shades down onto his nose and inhaling deeply, his face turned up. "Ahhh. Nothing like it," he says. "Now I know I'm home." Turning, he gives Mickey a grin. "Come on then, let's have at it."

Fuck. Mickey climbs out of the car and tilts his chin up. Around here, there are two kinds of people -- the ones who scurry around, refusing to meet anyone's eye, and the ones who stand tall and dare anyone to mess with them. You have to be one or the other and if you're the first kind then you're everyone's bitch.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and strides up the sidewalk to the front steps leading to his building, hearing Vin's unhurried tread behind him. He exchanges glances with the gang-bangers hanging out on the stoop. He's managed to maintain a balance with them, not joining and not cringing and not threatening.

The elevators have never worked since he moved in and he turns automatically for the stairs. "I'm up on ten," he says over his shoulder. "It's a good work-out, you know?" Inside he's hoping really hard that there aren't any bodies on the stairs today, dead or passed-out. Fucking would be okay -- Vin's Citadel and is used to that -- but the other kind would be sort of embarassing.

He's been in better places, but then he's been in worse, too. Vin climbs the stairs behind Mickey, unbothered by the smells, the refuse on the landings, the sound of raised voices behind the doors. "Now I know how you got those rippling thighs," he jokes, following Mickey along the corridor on the tenth floor, stepping over the drunk in a doorway without treading in the puddle of vomit by his side and stops behind Mickey when he does, at a door with no number on it, but much graffitti and a fair number of gouges and scratches as well.

Mickey gives Vin a smile over his shoulder. The guy's being cool about all this, deliberately, and Mickey appreciates it even though he knows good and well that there are questions behind those shades.

He pulls out his key and unlocks the door, yelling, "Anyone home? Company!" as he opens it, giving his roommates a chance to hide anything illegal if they need to, assuming any of them are here. He takes a few steps in and peers around in the gloom while shucking his jacket. Cat's zonked on the battered sofa, which is pretty usual for this time of the day, and probably won't wake up for anything short of an alien invasion until dark. No one else answers. He realizes he should offer Vin a drink or something, just to be hospitable, but there's never anything in the fridge except drugs and he can't even guarantee a clean glass for water, so he just mumbles, "I'll be back in a minute," and jogs into the bedroom he shares with Tony.

Vin wanders over to the window and looks out. It's typical; the stoop is covered with rubbish and the fire escape so rusted it'd be better to jump. Behind him, the dude on the sofa is snoring and muttering and he can hear someone outside threatening their spouse in a mixture of Italian and Russian. Mickey he can hear moving around in the other room. Vin stays where he is until the other man emerges, not wanting to appear overly curious and sure that even the most cursory of inspections would be bound to turn up something illegal. "Done?" he asks as he turns back.

"Yeah, let's go." Mickey heads for the door, keys in hand, more than ready to leave.

He drives in silence, nodding at Mickey's directions and carefully watching the road, but otherwise occupied thinking about Mickey and his situation. Something's fishy, that's for sure. He'd say something if he thought he'd get a straight answer, but Mickey's got no real reason to trust him, so Vin's gonna have to think of something else. And he will; his mind's made up. He pulls into the curb, smoothly guiding the vehicle around the overturned shopping cart in the gutter and switches the engine off. "Here we are."

"You know where you are to get out, right? You were about a dozen blocks that way last night," Mickey says, pointing up the street. He slides out of the car and glances at his watch, then leans in to talk through the window for a moment. "Thanks a lot, man. I really appreciate the ride." And you being cool about stuff, he thinks but can't say. "I'll see you around the club."

"Definitely." Vin grins, starting the car back up and reversing out, waving once more before he drives off. Definitely.

Twice is Coincidence [Mickey, Vin]

Sat, 17 Dec 2005 16:56:02 GMT

[Begins on Friday night, or Saturday morning if you want to get technical.]

It's a good night's work all round. Frank's both pleased and paid and Vin has the information he needs, all neatly contained in the envelope his 'inside man' has just handed him. How Frank managed to find out who was selling company secrets to the opposition Vin neither knows nor cares. Frank's been well compensated for his time and trouble and now Vin will be too. Or rather, as soon as he hands over the spy's name to the board of Eastco, he will be. Industrial espionage is turning out to be profitable, for xXxcellence, at least.

He bids Frank a goodnight and waits until the other man has jumped into his car and driven away before he himself turns to leave. The warehouse is cold and dark and his footsteps echo on the concrete floor as he traverses the main floor and exits out the front into the street. Out here it's dark as well. It rained earlier and the streetlights are reflected in the puddles of water that the drains can't handle. He's still got the envelope in his hand and starts stuffing it into his pocket as he heads for his own vehicle.

It's only the faint sound of splashing that alerts him, but by the time it registers, it's far too late. There are three of them, tall, burly men with determined expressions and clubs clenched in their fists. Vin curses himself for his inattention even as the first blow lands and the reflections from the puddles turn to stars before his eyes. A solid whack to the back of his head has missed, catching him side on and just above the temple. He's down before he knows what's happened and a good solid kick to the ribs makes sure he's not getting up again any time soon. Fuck! The envelope is being ripped from his suddenly numb fingers and pain lances down his shoulder, ripping through his upper arm and down to the wrist. Blood stings his eyes and there's a roaring in his ears.

Over the top of it, he can just make out the sound of retreating footsteps; three men moving at high speed. Fuck! God! "Bastards!" he croaks.

Mickey's on his way home from his latest job, helping unload crates at the local distribution warehouse for a big retailer. They're getting shipments pulling into the loading docks every few minutes with the holiday season and they're hiring as many (cheap) extra hands as they can get to unload. They're going as fast as they can, getting the trucks empty and out so the next one can pull up, and Mickey's exhausted, aching and soaked with sweat. And since he's been walking in the freezing wind since he got off work ten minutes ago, he's also cold.

The street he's walking down is dark, but he's still in the industrial area and he's not too worried; muggers usually hang out where there are tourists, or at least a better selection of targets than there is here, hours after most of the workers have gone home. Mickey huddles in his second-hand jacket and walks faster, trying to stay warm.

A minute later, though, he hears the slap of running feet on wet pavement; he's not as alone as he thought. The sound carries in the cold night air from up the block, but he sees a bulky silhouette about thirty yards away get jumped by three others. Dull whacking sounds come next, and a pained voice.

Fuck -- Mickey has absolutely no desire to get caught up in this, but when the three muggers take off they're running straight at him. His head whips back and forth, hunting for an escape, but there's a steel-bar fence on one side of him and a row of trucks parked bumper-to-bumper in the street. He flattens himself against the fence and tries to stay out of their way, but there are three of them and they're big and the sidewalk's narrow and one of them slams into him as they go by. The runner jams an elbow into his ribs and snarls something foul and threatening in Mickey's face.

He stares, wide-eyed, at the face that's only inches away from his for half a second before the guy thunders past with his buddies, then Mickey recoils and takes off in the opposite direction. He recognizes the guy and if the guy remembers him too and realizes he could finger him then there's a good chance he and his buddies will be looking Mickey up to have a talk with him, and that wouldn't be good at all. With any luck the guy's never noticed Mickey around and thinks he's just another random punk. That'd be fine with Mickey.

The direction he's running, though, takes him right past the sucker who got mugged. He slows down against his better judgement; if the guy looks like he's hurt really bad, Mickey'll stop at a pay phone and call 911 for him.

That was the plan, but as soon as Mickey slows down and bends over to check the guy out, a hand comes shooting out, grabs his ankle and yanks. Mickey hits the sidewalk with a yelp and looks up to find a very familiar face snarling down at him.

There's blood in his eyes and his vision is correspondingly blurred, but Vin's still got enough presence of mind, despite the pain lancing through his thankfully thick skull, to realise that the guy he's just grabbed is not one of his original attackers. He's also pacifist enough that he doesn't want to belt him one just 'cause, so he pulls back the punch he was just about to land and settles for leaning back on that hand instead. Unfortunately, that wise move results in a final loss of balance and he's no longer kneeling. Instead, he finds himself sitting on the cold pavement, his ass firmly planted in a puddle. "Aw, shit!" Vin tries to wipe the blood from his eyes but his hand is gritty and just makes things worse. Great! Just fucking great! He's probably going to lose his wallet too now, maybe even his car if the punk finds his keys.

Mickey squints through the darkness at the huge guy who was just about to belt him one but apparently changed his mind. "Vin? Hey, man, is that you? Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah, I'm just wonderful." Vin's got no idea who he's talking to, but apparently whoever it is has no hostile intentions, which is cool. But the question's fucking stupid! "Let's see. I got mugged, I'm bleeding, I can't fucking see and my ass is soaked. Yeah, I'm fucking fantastic. How're you?" The sarcasm's as thick as flies on a week-dead cat and it ends in another round of curses when he tries to get up but his hand slips and he lands back in the puddle with a muted splash. "Shit!"

"Umm, yeah, dumb question." Mickey feels himself blushing but luckily it's dark and Vin won't be able to tell. He scrambles to his feet, ignoring various aches, and grabs the man's arm. "Here, c'mon. If those guys come back we're both toast."

Still grumbling, Vin allows his rescuer to help him to his feet. A blinding pain shoots across his face and down his arm again and he staggers, staying upright only because the man beside him is there. "Sorry," he says, scrubbing at his eyes again. The light's a bit better up here and he can kind of make out the face. Memory surfaces and Vin shakes his head, just a little, to clear it and make way for a name. "Mickey?" He looks up and down the street, but it's deserted. "They ain't coming back," he says bitterly. "They got what they fucking wanted. Bastards!" Squinting at the somewhat fuzzy face before him, he asks hopefully, "I don't suppose you drive, do ya?"

"Umm, no, sorry." Mickey shrugs an apology and wedges his shoulder under Vin's arm, finally noticing the blood running down his face and neck. "I guess that means you're not up to it?" He nods his head down the street behind him, in the direction he'd been walking from. "There's an intersection a couple blocks that way where we could probably hail a cab in not too long. Or if you've got a cell you could just call?"

Vin nods and regrets it almost instantly. It'll probably cost him his car, but he's got no choice other than to leave it here. Maybe he'll get lucky. Fumbling in his jacket, he produces his cell and hands it to Mickey. "Can you?" he asks. "I can't see shit here."

"Sure." Mickey takes the cell and makes the call. A minute later he hands it back, saying, "They said five minutes, which probably means fifteen. You going home or do you need to be patched up first? You need me to go with you?"

Vin doubts his ability to manage alone with the cab or with getting inside his own apartment without further injury. His head's thumping and, blood or no blood, his vision is blurred. "If you could?" Asking for help's not something he's used to doing, but then he's not used to being belted upside the head with a baseball bat either.

"Sure." Mickey nods immediately. He doesn't have to be back at work until 5pm so he's in no rush. He settles in to wait for the cab.

Remarkably, Vin manages to find his front door once the cab's deposited them in front of the apartment building. He probably got a strange look from the doorman, but as he couldn't see it, he just doesn't fucking care! The keycard to get past the wood-over-solid-steel door is beyond him however and he lets Mickey handle that, staggering just a little as he gets inside and heads woozily for the kitchen in search of something to take the pain away. Preferably alcohol.

Mickey takes a few steps in from the door and looks around as Vin staggers away. The place is warm and comfortable looking, with a lot of wood and earth tones. The windows are huge and in the daytime he can imagine the place being all lit up, at least when the sun's out, and there are cactuses all over the place. It looks like a southwestern ranch house kind of place transplanted into New York City.

He follows Vin, a bit tentatively, unsure of his welcome now that the man's home. He probably wants to crash, but with a bash on the head Mickey's not sure that's a great idea. Of course, the booze Vin's slugging down probably isn't a great idea either, but Mickey's not about to bring that up either. He stands awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, then asks, "So, did you lose much? It's weird to see a mugger in that area, and that late when there's hardly anyone around, much less three."

"They... weren't...muggers," Vin tells him between swallows. He finishes the drink and feels a whole lot better all of a sudden, though of course it won't last. The kitchen cabinet has the medical supplies and he heads that way, fingers probing gently at the back of his head and slowly beginning to realise that he's not going to be able to manage checking the damage himself. Stopping, he looks back at Mickey. "You're...." He hesitates. "You're not in a hurry, are you? I could use a hand, I think."

"Sure, no problem." Mickey's across the room in a blink, happy to have something to actually do. He feels wierd just standing around in someone's apartment but if he's being useful then that's all right. "I just got off work so I'm fine. What do you need?"

"A brain transplant," Vin deadpans as he fumbles for antiseptic, bandages, cotton wool and whatever else he might conceivably need. "I think I was losing my fucking marbles long before I ever got hit. So fucking stupid!" he berates himself out loud. "Now my only evidence is gone and my contract's on the bloody line." Laden with supplies, he turns to Mickey. "Here." He hands him what he has and, grabbing the open scotch bottle, stomps off into the living room where he throws himself down on the couch with a sigh. "Fuck," he says sadly. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

Mickey follows him to the couch and kneels up next to him with the supplies down on the cushion. He dampens a towel with a bottle of alcohol -- a different bottle from the one Vin's drinking out of -- and says, "This is gonna hurt," then starts to carefully clean off the blood.

"Ow! Shit!" Vin's inclined to swat at the hand that's healing him so he distracts himself by talking out loud, a habit he picked up from living with a parrot. "See, I run this company. xXxcellence, it's called. We deal in security, bodyguards and the like and we've got a lot of companies, big-assed companies, we do business with. One of them, Eastco, is having trouble with someone who works for them stealing information and selling it to the opposition. I had a guy working on it and tonight he gives me the name. In an envelope. Which those bastards fucking...Ow! Fucking stole." Vin puts down the bottle and sits on his hands. It seems the safer option. "So now what I gotta do is find out which freaking gang was paid to freaking mug me and get to them with a better offer 'fore they hand that envelope over. Are you done? Cause like, that freaking hurts!"

"Almost. It's stopped bleeding, so that should be okay." Mickey dampens the towel again and thinks while he's cleaning dried drips off of Vin's neck. He knows which gang those guys are with and he can play messenger if Vin wants to negotiate. But he's reluctant to just blurt it all out. What if it doesn't work? What if they just toss him out? What if they kick his butt and then toss him out? What if they've already handed over the envelope? He doesn't want to tell Vin he can get his stuff for him and then have to come back and look like some kind of idiot.

He puts the alcohol and bloody towel down and picks up a bandage and a tube of antibiotic goop. He gets Vin's head patched up and decides not to say anything.

"'Tis?" The probing and pain is over and now he's starting to feel all fuzzy and warm. It's probably not that good an idea that he had the drink but, all thoughts of possible concussion aside, he's quite happy about the desire to sleep that's washing over him 'cause it means he won't be awake all night with a fucking headache. Tomorrow, Vin figures, can take care of itself. "Mmm...good."

Mickey smooths on the last of the tape and grins as Vin slips sideways and falls over with a gentle thud. His head (the unbandaged side) lands on an Indian-patterned throw pillow, which is convenient at least. Mickey collects the first aid stuff and dumps it onto the kitchen counter, since he doesn't remember where it all came from.

He heads back to the living room and pulls Vin's shoes off, then lifts his legs up onto the couch and tosses a brown and gold afghan over him. He knows he should probably stay and try to wake the man up every couple of hours, but with the alcohol in him that's not likely to work anyway, and he has a pretty good idea where Vin's priority would be. He stares at the keycard to the apartment, still on the coffee table where he set it, then picks it up and slips it into his pocket. This shouldn't take all that long, either way, and then he'll be back. He's not sure how to tell if someone's slipped into a coma, but if Vin doesn't wake up in ten or twelve hours, 911 is still an option. He smirks to himself and slips quietly out the door.

Showing the key card to the door guy'd gotten him back into the building okay, and when Mickey opens the apartment door as silently as he can manage and pokes his head in, he sees Vin's still crashed out on the couch. The too-fucking-early-morning light's just enough for Mickey to see he's still breathing. That's good.

The key card goes back on the coffee table, along with the envelope that Lenny'd practically thrown at him. Mickey's still grinning to himself over how easy it was. He came away clean, except for a couple bruises on his arms from where they'd hauled him in the door after he'd knocked, but as soon as he told them who they'd mugged -- after getting Vin's last name off his key card -- they'd gotten all agitated and told him to take the stuff back and tell Vin things were cool. All Mickey'd hoped to do was set up a meeting so Vin could bring the money but they hadn't even cared about getting paid. Vin must be a pretty scary guy to get that reaction.

Mickey grins again, then finds himself yawning. He glances around the room and his gaze lands on a really comfy-looking chair. He and Vin don't live anywhere near each other and it'd probably take him over an hour to get home. He's really beat, in more ways than one, and the thought of going back out into the cold seriously sucks. He glances over at Vin once more and decides that he probably won't mind. Vin's a cool guy, Mickey thinks. He won't mind that I crashed. And with that, Mickey kicks his shoes off, curls up in the chair and is unconscious within seconds.

Oh God. Maybe if he closes his eyes again, he might be lucky and just...die. Vin blinks, groans and thinks about sitting up. His head convinces him this is a bad idea and he substitutes turning forty-five degrees to the left instead. It still hurts but now at least he can see part of the room that's not flooded by daylight and his eyeballs are immensely grateful and stop throbbing almost immediately. There's a shape in the chair opposite that resolves itself into human form once Vin blinks a couple of times and his brain finally kicks in, reminding him of last night's events and thereby giving him a clue as to the lump's identity. Smothering a groan, he propels himself upright, determined to get the hard stuff over with before he's forced to speak.

Okay. That worked and his head didn't explode as expected. Vin eyes the still half-full bottle on the coffee table with trepidation, expecting it to do something strange like poke its tongue out at him or something. When it doesn't, he feels safe to move and he reaches across and shakes Mickey's shoulder.

Mickey's awake immediately and ready to dodge in any direction, his heart pounding and adrenaline partially masking various aches distributed around his body. When his eyes snap open his first sight is Vin's haggard-looking face and he remembers where he is and that he doesn't have to worry about someone breaking in and robbing him here. He relaxes and yawns, rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand. "Hey, man," he says. "How you doing?"

"Doin' fine, thanks to you." Vin tilts his head to one side. It doesn't hurt. Well, not much anyway. "I did say 'thank you,' right?"

"It was implied." Mickey grins and shrugs, trying to stifle another yawn. The sun's coming in the windows but it doesn't feel like he got more than a few hours of sleep. He looks at his watch and winces. Yeah, about three, maybe three and a half. A nap's better than nothing, though, and the place is warm and the chair's at least as comfortable as his bed.

Thinking about last night, Vin's starting to realise that if he's going to get that envelope back, he's going to have to get moving. He gets to his feet, trying not to groan as his stiffened shoulder lets out a protest and heads for the kitchen and the box of Bayer he knows is waiting for him. "You can stay and go back to sleep," he offers, getting a glass and filling it with water. "I've got to get my ass in gear if I want my company not to get its ass kicked."

Mickey blinks a couple of times, then realizes Vin's probably still not seeing too well. He waits till the man's back from the kitchen, then coughs and points at the envelope on the coffee table.

"What's that?" Vin puts the tumbler on the table and lifts the envelope. "The fuck?!?"

Mickey grins and shrugs. "I recognized one of the guys when they blew through me. I went to see 'em last night. Well, earlier this morning. I was just thinking about setting up a meeting, but when I told 'em who you were they practically gift-wrapped it. The Jackals want you to know that everything's cool." He tips Vin a salute with one finger.

"The...they...I..." Shaking his head in disbelief this much should probably hurt a lot more than it does, but he's too stunned to feel it. Holy shit! He looks the envelope over and it's sound, hasn't been touched at all. That makes sense. If the Jackals were hired to take it, they'd not touch it. "Well, I'll be damned." Vin sits back on the couch, the precious envelope dangling from his fingers and grins at Mickey, taking in the proud smile. "Thank you!" he says. "I owe you big-time. So does my poor sore head." Tapping the envelope on his thigh, he glances down at it and then back at Mickey. He drops it back on the coffee table and gets to his feet, reaching down to tug Mickey upright as well. "C'mon," he urges. "I think we've earned ourselves a reward here. Me for having a thick head and you for being a quick thinker."

An arm the size of Mickey's leg drapes itself around his shoulders and steers him down a hallway and into a room with an enormous bed in it. Vin lets him go and starts stripping. Mickey's trying to figure out how to tell him that he can't just, well, do normal stuff like most people, but before he can think of a way to say it that doesn't embarass him too much, Vin's stripped off his shirt and boots and fallen into bed in his jeans and... is asleep.

Well, that was unexpected, but not at all bad. Mickey laughs to himself and starts getting undressed. As far as rewards go, right now he can't think of anything he'd rather have than more sleep, in a bed that doesn't sag. He strips down to his boxers and slides in on the other side, then curls up around a pillow and zonks.

A Chance Encounter [Mickey/Vin]

Thu, 15 Dec 2005 00:53:09 GMT

[Contains con-non-con.]

Vin drops his hand back to the bar and wraps it around his drink. Charlie waves back and the Club door closes as he leaves. The meeting went well, at least Vin thinks it did. He has a possible contact now and maybe a lead into who might be indulging in a little industrial espionage at a firm his company does security for. Which is good and all, but it's past ten and time he stopped working. The scotch goes down smooth and he smacks his lips lightly together in satisfaction, running his tongue over the bottom one to pick up the last traces. Indicating to the bartender that he'd like another, he turns around to lean with his elbows on the bar, looking around the room, maybe looking for a little trouble. Or a little fun.

Mickey drains the last of his beer and peers around the bar. His chances of getting lucky are slim and he knows it, and he's been thinking about heading back to the library, but there are one or two unfamiliar faces and who knows? The big guy at the bar looks like a good possibility, or at least he looks like someone who could give Mickey what he needs, if he would. If he's into that. Which most guys aren't but there's always a chance, right? You could always hope.

Now there's a possibility. Vin eyes the young man checking him out, except Vin's a lot more discreet. Tall and deceptively slender, the pale gold hair is messy and the eyes light, this kid, 'cause that's what he is, has a faintly hungry look about him, something Vin sure can appreciate. He makes eye contact, nods a greeting and waits to see if he's taken up on it.

Dammit, caught! Mickey feels his face heating and he doesn't even have his beer to fiddle with. He risks another glance up at the guy but he doesn't seem to be paying him any more attention. Maybe it was nothing? Maybe he was checking out someone nearby? Mickey glances around, but there's no one near.

All right, so maybe he was checking me out. Now what? Come on, it's been almost a month, so.... Before he can talk himself out of it, Mickey stands and takes his empty beer mug up to the bar. He sits down near the big guy, not next to him but a seat down, and holds his empty up where the bartender can see.

Vin's already turned back to the bar before the kid reaches it. He's got the bartender's complete attention and he tips his head to the right. The bartender nods and goes to get the refill. As he hands back the beer, Vin hears him say, "This one's paid for."

Definite interest. Okay, thinks Mickey, that's step one. Of course, it's step two that's off the side of the cliff....

He turns and gets a close look at the big guy for the first time. Not bad. Not incredibly handsome or anything, but Mickey doesn't care as much for that. He's built like a pro wrestler, though, and the thought of those hands on him, pinning him down or knocking him around, are enough to get his eyes slightly out of focus. He nods and says, "Thanks," and lifts his mug in salute before taking a pull.

"No problem." Vin lifts his glass in a mute salutation. Up close, the hungry look is intensified. There's a kind of edginess that Vin can't put his finger on either, but so long as the kid's up for a little action, he doesn't care particularly. Sliding off his stool and across onto the one next to it, he fixes his gaze on that nicely pouty bottom lip. "In for a drink? Or in for some action?"

Huh, definitely a take-charge kind. If only it goes far enough. Mickey leans sideways just a little, until their shoulders brush for a second. They're almost the same height, but this guy's arm is like twice as big around as Mickey's, and he's not exactly a twig. Oh, man, this could be so great....

"Always in for some action, if it's the right kind." He feels himself blushing again and he scowls into his beer. He hates this part. They should have badges, or arm patches or something, so you'd just know what the guy next to you was into and wouldn't have to BS around and then have 'em back off like they suddenly heard you ticking or something. "I need to be--" He stops and swallows, still unable to meet the guy's eyes. "I like it rough. I mean, seriously rough. Like... yeah."

Vin shrugs, almost tempted toward disinclination. But he's in the mood for something a little more intense and so he thinks about it a little more before reaching a mental compromise and nodding. "Okay," he says, half-turning to face his prospective play partner. "I could go for a little role-play if you're interested. Name's Vin. And you are?"

"Mickey." The acceptance has put a smile on his face and he takes another slug of beer. "That'd be great. I don't-- I mean, not many people are into that, you know?" He lets himself give Vin a more obvious look-over and grins up at him.

"I have my moments." Vin deadpans at first but the grin breaks when he sees he's getting checked out more thoroughly. "Finish this first." He takes another sip of his Scotch before setting the glass down. "Pick a room and we'll work something out," he offers.

Vin has a great smile and Mickey's own widens as he nods, bouncing a bit on his stool while he thinks about what rooms the club has available. It's been a while and his account can stand one of the specialty rooms, so he starts running through scenarios in his head.

Content to wait while Mickey sorts out what he wants to do, Vin gestures for the bartender to come over and whispers while Mickey's distracted, setting the bill for a room onto his tab.

Mickey finishes his beer while pondering. Vin could pass for a thug-type easily and that puts a thought his head. He sets down his empty and says, "I've got an idea." He leans close and whispers to Vin for a minute or so, trying hard not to blush any more while doing it.

Vin listens and nods his agreement. The only thing he asks is for Mickey's safeword. Not that he thinks he'll need it. Ordering the room and finding it's vacant, he turns to Mickey and tells him to go ahead. Vin waits ten minutes, savoring the last of the scotch before setting the empty glass on the bar top and bidding the barman goodnight.

Mickey's stretched out on the battered sofa with a book in his lap, but he isn't paying much attention to it. Tri-Bet was having a kegger tonight and the Alpha-Nu-Sigma girls had promised to come. They were the biggest sluts on campus and it was bound to turn into a drunken orgy, but he was stuck here, all alone in the frat house, the only idiot in the world who'd blow off such a killer party just because he had an exam and three papers due on Monday. Sure, if his GPA goes down another two tenths he'll lose his scholarship, but hell, he's been trying to get laid all semester and he's just passed on his best chance. Idiot.

He aims the remote at the stereo and shuts it off, then tosses the unit onto the pool table. If he's going to do such a dipshit thing as stay behind to study then at least he should get some studying done. Fuck. He turns the page in his book and tries to force his glazed eyes to focus on the text.

Fraternity houses on expansive campuses with lots of trees and therefore inbuilt seclusion are one of Vin's favourite things. He loves rifling through the rich kids' stuff, picking over their belongings and taking what he likes, discarding the rest. It's kind of like a petty revenge, a profitable revenge, but it's also just straight out fun. Someone needs to stick it to the stuck-up little bastards and he's just the guy to do it. Every time they sneer at him when they pass him in the street, every smart remark made to the local kids, the flash of greenbacks, the arrogant attitudes, he smiles and that smile is broad and knowing.

Tonight he has a sack load, which he's left in the bushes at the bottom of the drive. This is his last hit for the night and mostly he's just looking around, fingering through the stuff in the various rooms but not bothering to take anything. He can come back any night he damned well pleases. Strolling casually yet silently down the hall toward the stairs, he freezes when he hears the stereo shut off. Fuck! There's someone here still! He peers around the corner into the poolroom and spots the kid immediately, his lip curling into a snarl. Little fucker! Why isn't he out getting pissed with the rest of his rich mates? Well, he's made a mistake, hasn't he? Vin is known for other things besides burglary. He tiptoes up behind the kid on the couch and wraps a muscled forearm around his shoulders, pinning him, his hand covering his mouth. "Naughty boy," he says softly. "Should have gone out."

Mickey starts and tries to yell, but the palm across the lower half of his face muffles any sound. His hands scrabble at the arm clamping him to the sofa but the muscled forearm is the size of Mickey's upper arm and it doesn't budge. He can feel his heart thumping in his chest and his eyes are huge and round with fear; none of his frat brothers has an arm anywhere near this big and something is telling him this isn't just a prank.

"You should have gone out," Vin repeats, dragging the kid easily across the back of the couch and onto the floor. He flips him over onto his stomach, wrenching an arm up behind him to keep him still, his other hand already checking the pockets, pulling out his wallet and flipping it open one-handed. "Mickey," he says, ignoring the jerk from the body beneath his when he hears his name. "You and me gonna have some fun, Mickey. Can't all be about robbery. Sometimes you got to have a little mayhem."

Mickey squeaks out a wordless negation, shaking his head violently and trying to squirm away, but the guy has a grip on his arm like steel and it feels like it's about to rip out of its socket. "No, please! Just -- whatever you want, okay? You can have the stereo and the TV and there's a computer in every bedroom, right? Just don't hurt me, please!"

"Oh, c'mon." Vin drags him upright, his voice thick with enjoyment of his victim's obvious fear. "Where's your sense of adventure?" he chuckles, pushing Mickey around the furniture and not caring when he catches his hip on a table causing him to stumble. Fall or not, there's no chance that Vin'll lose his grip so who cares if it knocks some wind out of him. Just makes Vin's night go easier is all. He's heading for the only clear spot in the room and he releases his hold suddenly, pushing hard at Mickey's back and sending him careening across the space to land hard against the side of the pool table, doubling him over. A second later and Vin's back behind him, strong hands ripping at the flimsy shirt.

The edge of the table slamming into him knocks a pained grunt out of Mickey, along with his breath, but the feel of his shirt being torn off gets him screaming and he doesn't care if he sounds like a girl. This grinning guy who's built like a gorilla intends to fuck him and he's more terrified than he's ever been in his life He shrugs out of the rags of his shirt and tries to scramble up over the pool table, heading for the door on the other side of the room, but one huge hand clamps around his ankle and drags him back.

"Tsk, tsk." Vin clicks his tongue as he drags the stupid little shit back, his fingers firm in the back of his belt. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it hurts more if you struggle?" Holding him still with only the lean of his body to trap him against the side of the table, Vin makes short work of the belt, buttons and zip of Mickey's jeans. His hard-on presses against the crack of Mickey's ass through the denim and Vin's grin is feral because he knows the kid can feel it.

"Ohgodohgodohgod!" The felt of the pool table abrades against his belly as the guy hauls him back across it, but the hot pain is nothing compared to the press of a hard cock against his ass. It feels huge and the thought of it being shoved into him sends Mickey into a frenzy of panic. The guy's got his jeans undone and Mickey erupts into a fit of thrashing and kicking. There's no way this is happening to him, absolutely no way, it just can't and he's going to get away or someone's gonna come home and scare the guy off or something but there's no way in hell Mickey's gonna get raped across a fucking pool table in his own frat house--! He feels tears streaming down his face and doesn't even remember when he started crying but the terrified babbling in his head just goes on and on and the world has shrunk down to just Mickey and the top of the pool table and the huge hands on him.

Vin's harder than he's been in a long while and eager, taking only a few moments to rip a condom packet open with his teeth and deal with it, tugging Mickey's jeans down to his thighs and not bothering with them after that, his own opened one-handed with the ease of practice. Bending forward while he lines his cock up with the squirming lad's opening, he sinks his teeth into the bare flesh of his shoulder before grinning and whispering in Mickey's ear, "Open wide, rich boy," and shoving his cock in past the guardian muscle.

Pain explodes through Mickey's body and he screams when the huge cock impales him, tearing into him. He tries to squirm away but any movement makes it hurt more and he ends up just lying as still as he can, his clawed fingers scratching at the felt and his eyes blinded with tears. He tries to ease the pain by opening his legs wider but his jeans are bunched around his thighs and they're as wide as they'll go. "Please stop, please, don't, it hurts so much, please!" he babbles, his voice choked and tight.

"Yeah. Beg me baby," Vin taunts. One hand he uses on the back of Mickey's neck, holding him down, the other he sends snaking around the front to roughly fondle his cock. "Like it dontcha, rich boy?" he says, feeling Mickey's shaft thicken and rise at his touch. "Mouth says 'nonono,' yer prick's saying something-the-fuck-else!" He's punctuating each word with a driving thrust of his hips, rocking to and fro and enjoying the tight heat his cock's encased in and the feel of his balls swaying slightly, slapping against Mickey's bare ass.

"Noooooo," Mickey moans, but it's true, he can't believe it but it's true, his ass feels like it's got a telephone pole shoved inside it but his fucking cock is getting hard and he feels his hips jerking, fucking the guy's hand like he actually likes it but he doesn't, he can't! He tries to keep still but the next spasm when it comes is that much stronger and the guy's hand grips harder around his cock and it feels so good! Mickey gives a long, whining moan, thrusting helplessly, feeling the urgency winding tighter and tighter and all he wants right now is to sink through the pool table and into the ground and die.

"Yeah. Ride my cock." Vin's grunting now, his fingers tightening their grip and his balls are starting to boil, that fizz of incipient orgasm shooting up his spine. Determined to make the little bastard come, to prove to him that he's no fucking better than anyone else, Vin redoubles his efforts as his own orgasm threatens to overwhelm him, finally breaching his control and eliciting a deep moan as his cock pumps its load into Mickey's ass.

As if the feel of the guy shooting inside him isn't humiliating enough, it sends Mickey over the edge and his own cock starts to spurt onto the pool table. His hips arch, all his muscles lock, and his ass tightens down on the cock still twitching inside it. Pain throbs through him along with the pleasure of orgasm, swirled together in a totally fucked-up blend that has him coming harder than he ever has before. He throws back his head and cries out his pleasure and the tears still blinding him are from shame now more than pain. Mickey finally collapses into a limp, sobbing heap on the table.

While he's still panting, dealing with his clothes and the condom, Vin's becoming conscious of time passing and the increasing chance of someone returning to the house. The kid's not a problem. He's wasted, lying still on the pool table and crying, so Vin has no compunction about leaving him there without bothering to secure him. Clothes readjusted, he heads for the door, pausing just long enough to get out a nasty, "Was a pleasure, Mickey. You're a hot fuck for a rich kid," before padding off down the stairs and out into the night.

The outside door slams shut and Mickey just lies there for a while, but eventually the tearing pain in his ass fades to a steady burning and the puddle of come he's lying in is feeling cold and disgusting. He tries to stand up and manages a twitching jerk accompanied by a flare of hurt. He grits his teeth and tries again, managing to shove himself up to his feet this time, still leaning against the table but at least more or less erect.

Fuck, erect. That's a good one. He feels his head shrinking down between his shoulders and the thought of anyone, but especially any of his frat brothers, ever finding out about this brings back a wave of shamed panic. No way, he can't tell anyone what happened!

He stumbles over to the bar and grabs a handful of paper towels. He cleans himself up as well as he can and pulls his underwear and jeans back up. His shirt's a loss -- he stashes the shredded remains in the bottom of the trash, along with the paper towels, buried under beer cans and burger wrappers. The guy didn't steal anything so he doesn't have that to explain, so... everything's fine.

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, scrubbing tears off his face, and sniffles a couple of times. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Until he scans the room and freezes when his gaze falls on the absolutely huge stain on the pool table.

Mickey heads out the door, a bottle of apple juice from the frat-room bar fridge in one hand, and waves to the clean-up staff who're heading in. He doesn't know what they use to clean come off of pool tables -- as far as he knows there's no way to get any stains out short of recovering them -- but he's sure that if anyone's figured out a way it's Citadel. And hell, maybe they do recover the table every time; for what memberships cost they can sure afford it. He snickers to himself and walks down the hall to the lounge near the role-play rooms. He spots Vin and waves, heading over. "Hey, man."

"Hey." Vin's voice is a little raspy as the impact of his long day starts to set in but his smile is friendly enough. He had a good time.

Vin's shrugging into a leather jacket, obviously ready to take off, but Mickey has to say thanks. He leans up against him, just pressing shoulders for a moment, and says, "That was totally great. There aren't a lot of people around who can do that, ya know? Or who will, whatever. Just wanted to say thanks." He takes a slug of his juice and stretches a little. His ass is gonna ache for days, and a few other spots too, but it's a good ache and it'll last him for a while.

"Welcome." He's tired, even considering just taking a room here for the night, he's that fucking worn out, but Vin's never been the sort to fuck-and-run so his smile is warm and genuine. "Was good. Been a while. Tell ya what." Vin pauses to zip up his jacket. "I see you here again, we can try another room, yeah?"

"That'd be seriously cool." Mickey gives him a beaming grin and raises his juice bottle in a toast. "Later, man!"

"Later." Vin heads for the door, already regretting his decision to go outside. The beds here are damned comfy. Hand on the door, he stops for long enough to wave. "Keep an eye out," he tells Mickey. "I'll see you again some night."

Backstory -- When the Universe Insists [Mickey/Bach]

Mon, 12 Dec 2005 01:05:45 GMT

[Third of Mickey's backstory posts. Follows Mickey's Grandfather Dies and Bach Meets Mickey. Contains con-non-con.]

May, 2002
It's two weeks before Bach makes the drive to Brooklyn again, another Saturday night. He's just hoping he won't run into Tom there, but he wants to see Mickey again and is hoping he shows up regularly on Saturdays. Assuming the kid's a regular at all, that is, but he thinks so; there's no way that performance was a one-shot.

He pays his "dues" and shows his ID to the receptionist and while she's looking up his record he asks casually, "Is Mickey here tonight?"

She gives him a sharp look, then he sees recognition dawn and it morphs into a warm smile. She murmurs, "Yes, he came in about twenty minutes ago," while checking his ID against the signature on his form. She says, "Thank you, sir," more loudly, hands him his wristband and nods to the inner door. The bouncer-guy, the same ponytailed brawn as last time, opens the door for him and ushers him through. No directions this time; he must be paying attention to what's going on in the reception area and know he's a returnee. Either that or he recognizes Bach too, although that thought still has him a little bemused.

He strolls down the hall toward the lounge, wondering what'd been going on with the receptionist. She'd seemed about to tell him off for asking about Mickey at first, then it was like she'd changed her mind. Recognized him and changed her mind. It's not like he's particularly memorable -- six-nothing, okay build, brown hair, grey eyes, medium-light skin. Decent features, not gorgeous but not ugly either. He's not someone who usually stands out in people's minds, at least not for his looks on short acquaintance.

Then he remembers the part of the contract he'd signed about rooms being monitored and suddenly flushes. They didn't...? Of course someone would be watching, but they'd be discreet, right?

In a place like this? Suuuuure they would. Bach groans under his breath. They probably taped everything and played the more interesting ones after hours for the staff who'd been stuck on duty. Although if Tom were typical of the members here, he'd be surprised if they'd consider what he'd done with Mickey to be all that interesting; he'd expect most of 'em to have more fun with the ones who left more bruises than he did.

Of course, that might be it -- the bouncer guy hadn't looked all that impressed, but the receptionist might have a motherly streak. Hey, he thinks to himself, if she's willing to let me know when Mickey's around, I'll send her flowers every May.

He goes into the lounge and right up to the window. Sure enough, there's Mickey, huddled in his corner, looking just as frightened as he had last time. No waiting around this time -- Bach steps right up to the door and heads on in.

Mickey's eyes open wide when he spots Bach and he whimpers, trying to back farther into the corner.

Bach's hungry smile broadens and he glides up in front of the kid. Mickey's shaking his head, whimpering, "No, please not again, please...."

Letting the begging soak straight into his cock, Bach yanks him to his feet with a hand in his shirtfront, then grabs the back of the kid's head with his other hand and pulls him close for a deep, brutal kiss. He slides his hand down from his hair to the back of his neck and propels him toward the back door, the one that leads to the rooms. Mickey begs and struggles all the way, his fingers tugging at Bach's hand, wriggling to dislodge his grip, but Bach has complete control over him and shoves him down the hall.

The quilt in this room's a different color but the bed's basically the same. There's another nightstand with a box of toys and a bowl of condoms and lube. This time Bach hangs onto Mickey while he fishes through the basket. He grabs a collar and chain again, just because he thinks having a boy chained to his bed by his throat is hot, and two pairs of adjustable cuffs.

He shoves Mickey down on the bed, just to see if he'll try to escape again. He does, scrambling off the other side then huddling against the wall, looking frantically right and left. He makes a dash for the door, but Bach intercepts him easily and sends him sprawling to the floor with a hard smack across the face. He yanks him up by one arm and twists it up behind his back. Mickey gasps and moans, "Please, it hurts, don't, please!"

"Should've thought of that before you pissed me off, kid," Bach snarls. He yanks the arm just a tiny bit higher, then shoves him face-first onto the bed. The kid tries to crawl away; Bach yanks him back by one leg, then lands an open-handed smack on his ass with all his strength.

Mickey yells in shocked pain and Bach wants to yell with him. The kid's denim jeans are tough and his hand stings. He gives him another cuff, to the back of the head this time, then tugs off his shirt, snaps the collar around his neck and fastens it to the headboard.

"Please, let me go! Please, don't hurt me, I don't want to, please!" Tears are streaming down Mickey's face and his blue eyes are wide with fear as he begs.

Bach slaps him across the mouth to shut him up and runs a hand across those gorgeous nipples, just as pink and perfect as he remembers. The kid yelps, "Don't!" and jerks away. Bach yanks him back by one arm, then ruthlessly strips him the rest of the way -- and there's that lovely prick, steel-hard and leaking for him.

He gets the cuffs and fastens his right wrist to his right leg just above the knee, then his left wrist to his left knee, then leaves him lying on the bed, helpless to do much more than roll around and twitch. And whimper and beg, of course. He's good at that and the lovely sounds the kid makes heat Bach's blood.

He takes his own clothes off more slowly, savoring the sight of the terrified boy chained to his bed, sobbing and struggling. By the time he tosses his own underwear onto the chair, he's hard and aching.

The kid's just so fucking gorgeous like this. Bach stretches out on top of him, in between his bent knees. He purrs, "Mine, all mine," while pinning the boy with a devouring gaze, then clamps Mickey's head between his two hands and kisses him hard, grinding his teeth against the soft mouth until he tastes blood. He immediately pulls back, swearing silently to himself; a drop of blood is all right every now and then at Citadel where all the members get regular medical tests, but here it's damn dangerous. But he hadn't been able to help himself. There's something about this one that makes him want to claim, mark, possess, more than any other boy he's ever played this game with before.

"Mine."

September, 2002
Mickey'd refused an offer to go out for a drink again that night, and every other night they'd been together. It's September now and Bach's gone to the Holding Tank to see Mickey at least twice a month since they'd first met. Usually the kid was there on Saturday nights, and when he wasn't he'd never talk later about where he'd been; Bach eventually gave up asking, although he's been persistent in his requests to spend time together outside the club. Unsuccessful, but persistent.

Tonight is a Saturday but he's pulling in late. He'd had a meeting with a client who'd been particularly antsy over his fears that a business rival had subborned one or more key employees and was gaining access to proprietary processes. It'd taken longer than Bach had expected to calm the guy down, assure him it'd be taken care of and wrap things up.

He locks his car and strides in. "Hey, Jolene," he says to the receptionist. He fishes out his ID, even though he knows she'll only glance at it. It's pro forma, but she insists on the rules being followed.

"Bach," she says with a nod and a raised eyebrow. "Thought you'd got a better offer tonight."

"Hardly. Business ran late." He signs in and asks, "Mickey in tonight?" as he always does.

Instead of the usual nod, though, he gets an annoyed look. "Yes, of course," she says and hands him his wristband. "He went in several hours ago. I couldn't say where he is now."

Bach pauses, then nods and heads for the door. Jolene could've just meant that she didn't know where Mickey would be, or on the other hand she might've meant that she knew where he was but wasn't allowed to say, in which case he was in a room with someone. Fuck.

He enters the lounge and sits down with a good view of the back window. Sure enough, Mickey's not in the tank. He mutters a curse to himself and settles down to wait. He's missed Mickey before a time or two, usually for the same reason, and he knows that the kid often goes right back into the tank after a session. He doesn't know if he ever goes back to the tank after a session with him, he's never asked nor has he gone back to the lounge to find out, but he hopes not. Fooling himself probably, but still.

For that matter, he doesn't know whether Mickey comes to the Holding Tank any other nights besides Saturday. The kid could come in every night of the week for all Bach knows, although he doesn't think so. For one thing, he'd be a lot more beat up looking than he usually is. Although there are sometimes bruises on him that Bach knows aren't his. Maybe he comes in other nights, maybe he has a rough job. Maybe he's just clumsy. But whatever it is, Bach's going to wait and see if he comes back tonight.

Forty-five minutes later, after Bach's resisted both the twelve-dollar beers and several offers of conversation and is wondering whether it's worth it to stay any longer, he hears a muffled shriek and then a long, agonized wail. The soundproofing in this building isn't great, but it's good enough to filter out the usual sounds of people getting hurt and yelling for more; this is different and Bach leaps to his feet, looking around and trying to figure out where the sound is coming from. Several other patrons do the same and the bouncer-guy inside the tank vanishes through the back door.

The sound of the scream is raking down his spinal cord with jagged fingernails and he's ready to go breaking down doors by the time it stops -- which is less than a minute later but it's the longest minute Bach's ever experienced in his life.

After the wailing stops, things start to settle down. People pick up their conversations, wander over to the bar, or go back to checking out the tank. Bach slides up next to the bouncer guy near the tank door and asks what's going on. The guy's been there the whole time and probably doesn't know, but Bach needs to ask someone and he's here and, who knows, maybe he's wearing one of those tiny radios or something.

"Everything's under control, sir."

Great. The guy doesn't know shit.

But Bach knows someone who will. He heads back to the lounge entrance and up the hall to reception and leans over the desk.

"Jolene, what happened?" he asks in a harsh whisper. "Did you hear that? It sounded like someone was being disemboweled with a dull spoon."

The woman's on the phone and shoots him a quick sympathetic look, then waves at him to shush. "--Looks like at least one fracture, maybe two, but our security man isn't a doctor." She pauses, then says, "No, it was an accident. If you have to send a patrol then of course you have to, but as far as we can tell it was stupidity rather than malice." Another pause. "Yes, we have it on tape, although we can't turn it over without a court order. This is a private club and our members have an expectation of privacy."

Bach paced the lobby waiting for Jolene to get off the phone, but a few minutes and at least forty laps back and forth later he remembered that she wouldn't; 911 operators kept callers on the line until the emergency unit, cops or ambulance or fire truck or whatever, actually arrived. Dammit!

He turns so his back is to the wall and lets himself fall against it with a thump. He stays there until the ambulance arrives.

And twenty minutes later he's still there propping up the wall because they wouldn't let him follow the gurney to wherever Mickey is. He knows it was Mickey even though no one's said, because if it weren't then Jolene would've told him so and put him out of his misery. But he's stuck in the lobby wondering what the fuck is going on and what happened. Jolene's off the phone now but she's talking to the officers who just arrived. They aren't overly eager to do much and while it might be just the fact that no one's pressing assault charges and it's more of a pro forma call than anything else, Bach's getting the impression that they don't like the club and figure that if they just ask the receptionist enough questions she'll eventually say something that'll let them do... something.

This isn't Bach's favorite place either, but he's become familiar with it in the months he'd been coming and he knows from his experiences with other sex clubs from before he'd joined Citadel that the Tank does a decent job. It's not an incredibly classy place but then they don't have the Cit's resources to work with, either. They have a limited client base and bills to pay and that means they can't afford to be as choosy as Citadel. Add in the constant threat of being sued by someone whose partner for the night went too far or someone who scened while drinking and later regretted what'd gone down or just someone who'd thought this'd be fun and then changed their mind, and it's a minor miracle the place stays open at all.

Bach's mentally adding "periodic harassment by the cops" to his list of problems the Tank has to deal with when the phone rings again. Jolene excuses herself from the officers and picks it up. They just stand there looking stoic, but don't move away from the desk and aren't even pretending not to be listening in.

Jolene looks up and gestures to Bach to come over. Ignoring the officers, she covers the mouthpiece of the phone and says, "Mickey's refusing to go to the hospital. Do you think you could talk to him?"

At least three or four questions pop into Bach's mind, but he just says, "Of course, where is he?"

Jolene says, "Evan?" to the ponytailed bouncer-guy on the door. He nods and says, "Follow me, sir," to Bach, then opens the door and leads him down the hall to the right. Bach's never been this way and registers a locker room at the end of the hall, with two other doors leading out of it. They take the one that Bach recognizes as being in the same direction as the scening rooms, and then they're in a familiar hall lined with doors.

It's obvious where all the action is. The door's open and one of the ambulance guys is standing just outside talking on a radio.

As he approaches, Bach can hear Mickey's voice. It's louder and higher-pitched than he's ever heard it before, flavored with pain and panic and confusion. Just the sound of it twists his heart and he walks faster.

"No! I don't need need to, I can't!" Mickey's on the gurney, which is next to the thrashed bed. He's covered with a blanket and apparently nothing else. There's a guy standing next to him, someone wearing a tie; Bach's never seen him before but it's pretty obvious he works here.

One of the ambulance guys -- scratch that, an ambulance woman -- standing on the opposite side of the gurney is talking to Mr. Tie. "We can't transport him if he refuses treatment," she says. She sounds calm, as emergency people always do, but there's a thread of frustration in her voice.

"But he has to go, our insurance requires it. Anyone hurt here has to see a doctor." Mr. Tie is looking like he's ready to start yanking on his own hair.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't take him against his will."

The tie is about to object again, but then he notices Bach. His eyes light up and he hurries over. "Mr. Bachman, I'm so sorry to involve you in this, but you're the only person here who really knows Mr. Fontana. They're pretty sure both his arms are broken--" he gestures behind him at the ambulance people, "--and he needs to see a doctor but he's refusing to go. Could you please talk to him?"

Bach just nods and moves over next to the gurney. The ambulance woman takes a couple of steps away, giving them at least the illusion of space. She looks concerned and when Bach meets her eyes he gets a brief nod.

He leans over and rests a hand on Mickey's blanketed chest. "Hey, babe," he says softly. "I'm sorry I was late. Looks like you got a real idiot this time." Bach's just talking -- he's not even sure Mickey's aware of what's going on around him.

"Bach?" Mickey's eyes -- huge and round and wild with pain and panic -- jerk back and forth as though searching for him, then lock onto his. "Bach! I can't, it hurts so much I just can't I'm sorry I can't--!" The kid's arms twitch as though he wants to reach out, is trying to move them.

"Shhh!" Bach shakes his head and rubs Mickey's chest, trying to calm him down. He's wincing in sympathy; this isn't good pain, not even close, and it hurts to see the kid like this. "No, babe, it's all right. Come on, we're gonna help you feel better. You need to come along and we'll get a doctor and take care of you."

"No!" The eyes get even bigger and Mickey's head jerks back and forth. "I can't, I can't go to a hospital, I don't-- I just...." His voice breaks and tears overflow but his head's still shaking.

"Hush, babe, quiet, shhhh...." Bach leans over so his other elbow is resting on the pad of the gurney, his hand in Mickey's hair while the one on his chest rubs slow circles. He kisses his forehead and whispers, "Easy, babe. Relax for me. I know it's hard, it hurts, but you've gotta let us take care of you. Please? Come on, babe, for me? I'll stay with you, I won't let anyone hurt you. We can't leave you like this, you can't go home this way. Please?"

Mickey shakes his head, but more weakly this time.

"Please? For me? I'll stay with you, I promise." Bach kisses him again, on the cheek this time, and whispers, "Come on, babe, I can't stand to see you hurting like this. Let us take care of you."

Mickey's hands twitch again. He bites his lip and just looks up at him for a long minute. "Stay?"

"Yes, I'll be with you." Another kiss, lightly on the lips, and then Bach straightens up. He leaves his hand on Mickey's chest for a moment while he looks around for Mr. Tie, his mind clicking forward through practicalities and logistics. He fishes in his pocket and gets his keys, detaching his car key. He hands it to the tie guy, skewering him with a hard look. "Get one of your guys to drive my car to the hospital -- silver Honda -- I'll need it to take him home. And bring his stuff, his clothes and all."

The tie guy was nodding and looking like someone'd just told him it was the house next door that'd burned down and not his after all. "Of course, sir. Thank you, I really appreciate your assistance."

Bach just nods, his attention already back on Mickey. The ambulance people are getting their things together, ready to go. The hallway isn't wide enough for Bach to walk next to Mickey the whole way out, but he keeps talking so the kid would know he was there, then climbs into the ambulance after him.

Mickey doesn't have any insurance -- which Bach figures was probably the whole reason he'd objected to coming in the first place, pain doing weird things to people and making them focus obsessively on details sometimes -- so Bach hands the lady with the clipboard his platinum Visa. Mickey insists he has money and he'll pay him back; Bach figures that, one, the kid has no idea how much hospital visits cost, and two, he's so looped from the drugs they've given him for the pain that he doesn't know what he's talking about anyway. That's all right. He'd once picked up the vet bills on a stray dog that'd been hit by a car -- the driver'd just kept going, the fucker -- and he has no problem picking up the tab for Mickey. Although he has plans for shaking whatever he can out of the asshole who hurt him in the first place, just on principle.

One of the bouncer-guys had shown up with Bach's car keys and a black plastic garbage bag full of clothes and stuff. Bach helps Mickey get dressed, with some assistance from a nurse who shows them tricks about how to dress someone with both arms in casts, and which things he just can't wear so don't even try. He's going to be a little chilly on the ride home, but it'll be quick; he can crank the heat for the trip and then it'll just be cold for the run inside.

"Hey, babe, ready to go home?" Bach asks. Having ascertained while Mickey was still lucid that no, there was no one at home who could take care of him, he'd told the kid he was coming home with him.

"Huh?" Mickey blinks and visibly struggles to focus his eyes. It's a lost cause, but it's sort of cute watching him. Until he tenses up and squeaks, "Home? No!" and starts thrashing again.

Now what?! First he doesn't want to come to the hospital, now he doesn't want to go home? What the hell is the problem?

"Shhh, it's all right, easy, babe. My home, we're going to my place and you'll be fine. I'm gonna take care of you for a while, remember?"

"Bach?"

"Yeah, it's me. I'm right here." He rubs one hand lightly up and down Mickey's chest, careful not to bump his arms. He can feel the tension unwinding, at least a little.

'That's all right, then," Mickey mutters, and Bach can see him drifting off again.

"Good," he says with a wry smile. He gives the kid one more pat, then goes off to find someone with a wheelchair who can help him get Mickey to the car. It's gonna be a fun few weeks.

Backstory -- A Chance Encounter [Mickey/Bach]

Wed, 30 Nov 2005 16:19:19 GMT

[Note: Second of Mickey's backstory posts. Follows Mickey's Grandfather Dies. Oliver Bachman is an OC, so don't bother IMDBing him. :) Contains con-non-con.]

April, 2002
Oliver Bachman follows the tail lights of his friend Barry's Honda into the parking lot of an innocuous looking building in Brooklyn and slides into a spot without too much hunting. The place seems popular enough, but not overly crowded, which makes a sort of sense for a sex club that has to keep a fairly low profile to stay in business.

Bach's still not quite sure how this happened. After all, if he wants to scene, he goes to Citadel. He can't imagine anyplace else is better and this drab little concrete building stuck between a convenience store and the darkened facade of an insurance office certainly doesn't seem to be up to the Cit's standards, unless there's a whole lot of mahogany and marble hiding inside, which he doubts. Not that he's a snob about the decor of a place, but just the fact that he and the rest of this stag party are going to be walking in, handing over their money and getting right into a scene if they want tells him that this place is no Citadel.

Ahh, right, the stag party. He sighs and slides out of his car, locking the door with the clicker on his keychain.

Barry was his best buddy in high school, the only guy he'd known then who was cool about his being gay. They hadn't talked a lot in the last few years, mostly e-mails every now and then, but when Barry's friend Tom decided to throw him a stag party the night before his wedding, Bach's name had been on the list Barry'd given Tom.

Tom claimed to have invited twenty guys, but only six had shown up if you included Barry and Tom. Which, Bach figures, probably means the other fourteen guys know Tom a lot better than Bach does, based on his short exposure to the idiot so far.

I mean, seriously, he thinks as he strides across the lot to where the group's assembling, titty bars are one thing, almost expected for a bachelor party. But how many people figure it's a good idea to take your almost-married buddy to a sex club the night before he pledges to love, honor and cherish? A club where, apparently, if you're not actually fucking someone you've wasted the rather steep entry fee.

No, not entry fee. Membership. That's how the Holding Tank stays in business, he remembers from the drunken-blathering explanation Tom had given them when they'd met at his apartment. None of the employees actually have sex with members -- all fucking is strictly voluntary between members, who pay membership "dues" when they come in. Legal, sort of.

"Hey, Box!" calls Tom. "Thought we'd lost ya!" He gives Bach a smirk as he walks up and says, "You'll be glad to know they get some pretty cute boys at this place too! Shel told me you're not into chicks, but that's cool, you can still have fun here."

Bach raises an eyebrow at Tom but doesn't answer him. He ignores Sheldon, who'd cadged a ride from the party organizer. Sheldon, who'd not been one of the cool guys at school and who'd no doubt been only too happy to tell Tom all about what a fag-boy Bach was.

Barry sends him an apologetic glance and Bach returns a sideways smile and a shrug. Yeah, there are assholes. What are you gonna do?

Tom, who'd collected $120 from each of the other four attendees -- a hundred each to get in, plus twenty for their share of Barry's fee -- led the way through the door into a shabby reception office. Tom was a longtime member but everyone else was handed a form to read and sign.

Blah, blah, blah... will produce proof that he/she is over twenty-one... blah, blah, blah... swears and affirms that he/she is free of sexually transmitted diseases -- right, like that's gonna guarantee anything -- blah, blah, blah... agrees that all activities are entered into voluntarily... blah, blah, blah... house safeword is "Halt" and will be abided by immediately... blah, blah, blah... all playrooms may be monitored -- and that's the first vaguely smart thing he's seen so far -- blah, blah, blah... agrees to hold the Holding Tank, its employees, management and owners blameless and free of responsibility, and that they shall not be liable for any damages in case of... blah, blah, blah.....

This is total bullshit and Bach's smarter half is telling him to toss this back on the desk and leave right now. But Barry's his oldest friend, the one guy who stood by him in school. There's no rule saying he has to actually fuck anyone. He can go in with the group, have a few drinks, talk to Barry until he gets occupied -- assuming he even does; he's not looking too terribly enthused about this whole deal himself -- and then take off. So, muttering to himself, he scrawls his signature at the bottom and slides the form back at the woman behind the desk. She takes it and hands him a coded elastic wristband.

He's apparently the only one who actually read the thing all the way through, because the others are clustered around the far door waiting for him. A burly guy with a ponytail tells them that tops go left and bottoms go right, before ushering them through the heavy steel door leading into the club proper. Or at least, into a bare hallway leading -- what else? -- left and right.

The group heads left, although Bach notices that Tom was watching him with another smirk as though expecting him to go the other way. Right, 'cause all gay men bottom.

Tom leads the way down the lefthand branch of the hall, which eventually leads to a set of double doors and then into the (real) club proper. This larger room is actually fairly comfortable looking, with decent carpet and some tables and chairs scattered around, and a few booths with upholstered seats. There are about a dozen men and a couple of women hanging around, most with drinks in their hands, and the focus of attention is the far end of the room and the huge plate-glass window set into the wall.

Seeing the prices on the drinks at the bar -- twelve bucks for a Bud?! -- Bach decides to hold off and wanders over toward the window. Seating over on this end of the lounge is theater-style, three rows of staggered chairs all facing the window. On the other side is a bare, concrete room with bare-bulb lighting, no furniture and a drain in the middle of the floor. There's a door in the near end of the righthand wall, one in the connecting wall next to the window, and another one in the back wall.

There are also about eight people in the room, sitting, standing or pacing, most looking frightened or at least nervous. Six of the people in the next room are women and two are men; all of them are at least reasonably attractive, which actually surprises Bach. The reality of most sex clubs is that the regulars are people who have a hard time finding regular partners of their own, but the pickings here aren't bad. He sits in a chair off to one side to watch and figure out how this works. Of course, the fact that he has to figure it out from observation doesn't improve his opinion of the place any.

A few minutes later, a chunky guy sitting a few chairs down from Bach finishes his drink, stands up and heads over to the door next to the window, which is guarded by another one of the bouncer-types. The guy just opens the door for him and waves him through, closing it behind him.

Bach watches Chunks swagger up to a dark haired woman about ten years younger than he is. He grabs her by the arm and hauls her to her feet, smacks her across the face and snarls something Bach can't hear through the glass, then drags her to the door at the rear of the room, where another bouncer lets them out. And that's it.

Bach blinks a few times. That's... it's.... And then he gets it. This is a place for people who like to play fantasy-rape. No wonder the subs are all at least decent looking; they put themselves on display and have no say in who chooses them. It'd be embarassing, to say the least, to be left sitting in that concrete room all night, with everyone watching you be passed over again and again.

And this is really ironic, because while part of Bach is swearing inside at what a fucked-up set-up this is, another part of him is absolutely struggling not to get a hard-on because this is his absolute favorite kink. Shit.

He's about to take off and get a beer, twelve bucks or no, when the door in the side wall opens and another guy comes literally flying through it. He hits the concrete rolling and thuds up against the opposite wall, looking dazed, then shakes it off and gets his back to the wall. He's pressed up against it, looking all around as though he expects to be jumped on any second. His young-looking face is a mask of fear and he pushes one hand nervously through his short, sandy-blond hair, his shoulders hunched and his other arm curled protectively around his middle.

He's cute. And he looks terrified.

A shoulder jostles Bach and Tom's smarmy voice pollutes his ears. "Hey, Box! See anything you like? Noticed you couldn't wait to check out the meat!"

Bach gets up and walks away, 'cause so help him if he has to say a word to Tom he's gonna deck him.

Half an hour later he's sitting in a booth with Barry, nursing a twelve-dollar beer.

"I swear," Barry says, "I had no idea what Tom was planning. He's not a bad guy, really. He just gets kind of over-enthused, you know?"

Bach just rolls his eyes and takes another sip. He's not about to bad-mouth a guy who's apparently a pretty good friend of Barry's, but he's not about to agree with him, either.

"He's been trying to get us to come to this place for like a year, going on about how great it is and what a blast the sex is, but I'm just not into this stuff, you know? Even before Ellen and I got engaged I just wasn't, and now? Christ, if she finds out where we went tonight she'll kill me! If I'd known what his 'great surprise' was gonna be I'd have headed him off. I was thinking a titty bar or something, you know? But this?? Ellen'll kill me!"

They have a fair view of the plate-glass window. Three more women have been shoved into the concrete holding tank -- shoved, not tossed -- and three women and one of the men have been roughed up to one degree or another and taken out. Bach's sort of surprised that the one guy wasn't the blond kid; the other two guys who'd been there before weren't bad looking, but the blond kid would do okay even at Citadel, where the average attractiveness level was several points higher than it was here. But the one guy who'd gone in and chosen a man had apparently wanted someone burlier -- he probably enjoyed taking down a bigger guy. Bach could get into that, but imagining someone young and pretty and scared cowering on his bed....

Stop that, he snapped at himself. You are not going to get a hard-on here, sitting with Barry. You're just not, so deal with it.

"You don't have to hang out with me, you know?"

Bach starts, his attention drawn back to Barry. "What?"

"I, you know, remember." Barry looks down into his own beer, his cheeks blushing bright red. "When you told me? That you're into kinky stuff? If you wanna...." He makes a vague, waving gesture with one hand toward the window. "You know, pick someone and go have fun, that's cool."

Bach feels his own face heating. Yeah, he remembers that conversation now. They'd been nineteen and home from college for the summer, still good friends and pretty drunk. Bach had just recently figured out how much fun forcing someone who loved being forced was, among other things, and he'd been babbling on to his best-and-still-only-straight-friend Barry about how cool kink was. That'd been... fuck, ten years ago, and Barry still remembers?

"It's all right," he says, fidgetting with his glass. "I have my own friends, you know? People I see when I feel like playing."

Barry nods quickly. "That's fine, sorry, I mean, it figures you would, right?" He drains his beer and starts making condensation rings on the table with the empty.

Bach sighs. This is gonna be a long evening.

Not quite two hours later, Tom, Shel and one of the other guys have all been through the concrete room -- the "holding tank" after which the club was named -- once. The fourth guy'd come up to Barry with a few muttered excuses and taken off over an hour ago and Bach was considering doing the same. The place is actually pretty boring if you're not fucking. The drinks are nowhere near good enough to justify the price. There's cheesy lounge-type music coming in through a few speakers but no one's dancing. There's nothing else to do -- not a pool table or dart board or even a TV. Since everyone in the lounge is a top, and a pretty predatory one at that (well, except Barry) there isn't even anything going on to watch.

Bach thinks of the Citadel bar with longing.

Just to prove that the evening could indeed get worse, an obviously drunk Tom plops down in the booth next to Barry and slings an arm across his shoulder.

"Hey, man, you're not havin' any fun! Can't have that -- you're the one who's going into the slammer tomorrow! You gotta have some fun 'cause this is your last chance! Right, Box?"

Bach sighs and ignores him. Barry hunches down over his third beer and says, "I can't, Tom. It wouldn't be right, you know? I mean, I'm not even into this stuff, I told you."

"Aww, come on! It's fun! They like it, they really do or they wouldn't be here! There's a blonde with huge tits who's in there right now, she loves to be knocked around, I've fucked her before an' she's great!" Tom shook Barry's shoulder in a way he probably thought was coaxing but Barry just knocked his hand away.

"Leave it, okay? I'm not kidding!"

"Come on! Ya gotta try new things if you're gonna have fun! Hey, how about if we share? There's a pretty little boy been sittin' there for a while, we can do him together! It's not gay if you're the one doin' the fucking, right? Women got asses too an' everybody's ass is the same, an' hey, no one sucks cock like a fag! Ain't that right, Box?!"

Bach and Barry are just looking at each other. Barry's looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and in fact he starts shoving at Tom, trying to get out. "I'm really sorry," he says to Bach. He finally succeeds in dislodging Tom and stands up, stepping over him as though he were a particularly disgusting stain in the carpet. "I'm taking off. I'm sorry I got you into this, seriously, man. We'll get together some other time, I'll send you an e-mail and we'll have lunch or something. I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"Sure," says Bach. He stands up as well, thinking that leaving is a really good idea, the best Barry's had in years. "I'll be there. I'm looking forward to meeting Ellen."

"Not a word, man! Promise me!" Barry looks like he's struggling with an agonized conscience.

"Not a word. Unless she hears from someone else," he adds, not looking at Tom, who's pulling himself to his feet next to them, "in which case give me a call and I'll tell her you just sat with me and drank beer all night."

"You're the best, man. Thanks." Barry reaches out and squeezes his arm, then makes his escape.

Bach's about to follow him when Tom snarls after his supposed friend, then turns awkwardly back toward the window. "Fine," he mutters. "Fuck 'im. I'll go by myself." He glances up at Bach with a nasty smirk and says, "Nothing better'n a pretty fag-boy who loves to get kicked around, huh, Box?" He winks and heads off for the door to the holding cell, managing to trip over the pattern in the carpet before he's taken two steps.

Shit. Bach looks up and searches the figures in the concrete room, hoping.... But no, the blond kid's still there. He shoots Tom a look of frustration and hatred. There's no way he's going to let that asswipe get his hands on that kid. There's forcing and there's forcing and even if Tom had seemed the sort to usually play SSC, he's drunk and he's pissed off and he's looking to really hurt someone.

And it's not like it'll be a hardship anyway, he thinks as he glides past Tom's stumbling body and crosses the room to the door. He's had the kid's face in the back of his mind all night, trying not to think about him, trying not to remember that the kid's obviously into the same things he is, trying to convince himself he's not at all interested in playing here. And he's not, but he's interested in the kid. That's different, right?

He steps up to the bouncer on the door. The guy lets him through and shuts it behind him.

Seven pairs of eyes lock onto him. The blond kid's retreated to a corner and is sitting there in a huddle, trying to make himself as small as possible. He's visibly trembling under Bach's gaze and Bach starts wondering if he really does want to be here. Who knows with these little hole-in-the-wall clubs? He could pass for a high school kid -- he might be a runaway and what better place than this to stash someone who'd been sucked into a prostitution ring? Any protests he made would be assumed to be part of the game.

It's unlikely but it's enough to firm Bach's decision. He strides over and tugs the kid to his feet.

"No, please!" Huge blue eyes are begging silently while the kid babbles pleas out loud and Bach's torn between lust and concern. Concern's winning and he has a half-formed plan to take the kid to a room just to get a chance for a private talk, to see if he really needs help, until a tug slams the slender body up against him and he feels a steel-hard cock under the faded jeans.

He relaxes and lets loose a predatory smile. "Shut up and come on," he snaps. He crosses the boy's wrists and grabs them in one hand, then hauls him toward the back door. As he passes through, the bouncer there mutters, "Number eight," and points down the hall to the right.

The room is simple, downright squalid compared to the luxurious rooms at Citadel, even the least expensive, but it has a king-size bed with a cheap quilt that looks fresh. There's a nightstand with a large, plastic toy basket and a bowl full of condoms and lube packets.

Bach shoves the blond kid at the bed. He hits it and rolls over and off the other side and ends up cowering in the corner with nowhere to go.

"Please, don't. Please, don't touch me, leave me alone!" The kid wraps both arms around his waist and sinks down the wall until he's huddled on the floor, his eyes shining with tears.

Bach tosses his jacket onto the only chair in the room and stalks over behind the bed. He pulls the kid to his feet, hands gripping his upper arms, and slams him back down onto the mattress. He pulls the boy's polo shirt over his head, roughly but without tearing it, and tosses it to the floor. Then he pins him down with one hand while fishing through the toy basket. He pulls out a steel collar on a length of chain and snaps it around the kid's throat. Its lack of a lock makes him feel a little better; it has a simple thumb-catch and there's a snap-lock on the other end of the chain. He loops the free end around the center spindle of the heavily-scratched brass headboard and snaps it to one of its own links, making a loop. The kid pours out a stream of pleading words and tugs on the chain, but makes no move to release himself.

Not in quite such a hurry now, Bach fishes through the basket again. He doesn't trust most of the toys -- the plugs, dildos, vibrators, gags -- but finds a pair of handcuffs with thumb-catches like the collar. It doesn't matter as much whether they're perfectly sanitary.

"I'm getting really sick of listening to you whine," he snarls, then backhands the kid hard enough to leave a red mark on his cheek. He cuffs his wrists behind him, shoves him onto his back and yanks him down just far enough that the collar's tugging. The kid's shoes hit the floor, then his socks, then his jeans and briefs.

Bach straddles the boy's knees and takes a good look. Oh, yeah. This is just what he's been imagining and then some.

Blue eyes are dripping fearful tears and the kid's whole body is trembling. His mouth is barely open, his breath coming in quick, panicky little pants. But the kid's cock is calling him a liar -- or one of the best actors Bach's ever fucked -- 'cause it's fully erect and oozing come onto the boy's belly. He's slender but solid, with a hairless chest and perfect pink nipples that are drawing Bach's tongue like crinkled magnets.

"Oh, man...." He reaches out and flicks one tight bud.

The boy sucks in a sharp gasp, then moans out a, "Noooo!"

Bach grins and lowers himself down over the pale, naked body. His lips go right to one nipple, with a sharp bite and then a long suck, while his fingers pinch and twist the other. The kid bucks under him, his eyes squeezed closed, his head shaking violently while his hips thrust up into Bach's belly.

He fumbles a packet of lube out of the bowl and tears it open, slicking up one hand and shoving two fingers into the kid's ass. The result is a predictable, "No! OhpleaseGodnodon't!" around panting and desperate moans.

By the time he's got the boy prepped it feels like Bach's cock is about to pop the zipper on his trousers. He yanks it down, rolls on a condom and lubes himself up with what's left on his hand, then positions himself at the kid's entrance and shoves in. The two of them cry out in chorus and Bach's thrusts are met by the frantic hips rising to meet him.

The kid's arms are still fastened behind him and it puts a lovely arch into his torso. Those nipples are at the peak of the arch, as though offering -- begging -- for attention, and Bach fastens his lips onto one with a moan. The kid wails and comes, spurting between them, warm and sticky. His ass clenching around Bach's prick yanks him over the edge and half a dozen frantic strokes later he's coming so hard he nearly blacks out.

When he finally pushes up onto his elbows, the mess gluing his shirt to the kid's belly is getting uncomfortable, but he ignores it for the moment and runs his unlubed hand through the boy's sandy hair. He reaches up and kisses him gently, his tongue teasing between the soft lips. When he pulls back, the boy's staring up at him in shock.

"You're incredible, you know that?" He smiles down at him, still petting his hair. "You should be an actor, seriously, 'cause, man, the way you get into role is awesome." Another light kiss and then he rolls off the still-silent boy, stretching. His shirt's sweaty and stained with semen; he'll remember to take it off next time.

He looks around and asks, "Do they have any towels here? Kleenix? Anything?"

The kid tosses his head toward the nightstand and murmurs, "Cupboard."

Bach opens the handleless door at the front of the nightstand and finds a stack of threadbare towels. He grabs two with a snort. They probably hope people won't find them, he thinks with a smirk. Save on laundry that way.

There's no water in the room so he cleans the mess off the kid's belly and ass as well as he can, asking, "What's your name, anyway?"

The kid blinks at him, still looking confused, but finally he whispers, "Mickey."

"Nice to meet you, Mickey. I'm Bach. Here, let me help you with those." He tosses the dirty towels into a corner and unsnaps the collar from around Mickey's throat, then turns him gently up onto his side and gets the handcuffs off. He rubs the kid's shoulders, then pulls him into a stiff cuddle -- stiff on Mickey's side; he doesn't seem sure what to do.

"Want to rest for a few? Or do they kick us out as soon as we're done?" he asks, rubbing Mickey's back, trying to get him to relax. Shit, the kid's tenser now than he was when they were fucking.

"Umm, I don't know," Mickey whispers. "Umm, I mean, usually you'd just... leave and I'd leave and that's... the end. I guess."

Bach rolls his eyes and tightens his grip. Aftercare, what's that? "You want to go get something to eat? Or a drink at least? You were in that room for a long time and I didn't see a water fountain or anything -- you must be pretty dehydrated."

"No, I... I mean, that's all right." Mickey sounds like he's working himself back into a panic and he's struggling to sit up. Bach lets him, then just watches as the kid scrambles back into his clothes.

He pauses at the door, then turns and sends Bach a shy glance. "Umm, bye."

Bach says, "See ya, Mickey," to the closing door, and then he's alone in the cheap little room. And he knows he's going to be back.

Backstory -- Getting Away [Chad (Mickey)]

Tue, 29 Nov 2005 20:20:09 GMT

[Note: "Nono" is Italian for "Grandfather." It's pronounced gnaw-no and, like "grandfather," has an initial cap. when used as direct address and doesn't when it's used as a simple noun.]

October, 1996
Chad sits in a plastic chair by the window of Nono's hospital room and wishes he were anywhere else in the world. Guilt bows his shoulders -- he should want to be here, Nono is dying and Chad is about to lose the only adult he really loves, including his parents and Grandmother and Grandfather Murray, but that's why, really. He hates seeing Nono like this -- pale and thin and unshaven and so obviously sick. The whole room smells weird and he just wants to get up and run out the door and find some fresh air, some place where he can forget that Nono's dying and that Nono will never again come and visit and everything's going to be dark and awful forever.

His mother is sitting next to the bed, holding Nono's hand. She's been there all afternoon, just sitting and watching Nono breathe. She hasn't cried and doesn't seem to want to talk to him. It's like she's just there because it's what a dutiful daughter does and Mother always does what's proper.

Father is standing by the window, looking out across the parking lot with his hands clasped behind his back. Chad's brothers and sisters are standing awkwardly in various corners of the room, beside the door and next to the equipment carts. Chad's the oldest at fifteen, and got the second chair because Father doesn't care to sit.

The whole family is in black, Father and the boys in black suits and ties, Mother and the girls in black dresses, as though Nono were already dead. Father says it's a way of showing proper respect for the solemnity of the occasion. Chad thinks it's just one more way to kill anything that might be light or optimistic. But then, there's nothing optimistic about Nono's dying because he's a Catholic and he's going to hell. Or so say all the other adults in Chad's family, who are faithful members of the Holy Christian Covenant. They've been trying to convert Nono ever since Mother and Father became engaged and Chad thinks that most of Father's slightly annoyed look is because he failed in that particular task of faith and is about to lose his last opportunity to accomplish it. Chad can't imagine he's actually upset about Nono dying. They've never gotten along and Nono was nothing more than a periodic disruption of the household's smooth organization and a challenge to Grandfather Murray's discipline.

Chad had looked forward to Nono's infrequent visits with desperate longing. He was a source of smiles and jokes, gifts and treats and time spent having fun just to have fun, an unknown in Chad's family. Studies and worship and carefully supervised play activities all focus on the goal of molding the children of the family into proper Christian citizens. Chad remembers "playing" worship when he was small, learning how to behave at a worship gathering. He "played" house with his mother and younger siblings, learning how to be a husband and father, how to guide children and administer discipline with stern love, so he'd be prepared when he some day had a wife and family of his own to teach and lead.

Unsupervised play leads to chaos and wickedness, but they'd been unable to prevent Nono from spending time with his grandchildren and "supervising" their activities while he visited, not without committing the sin of disrespect toward an elder family member. Nono brought toys and games and books and taught his grandchildren how to have fun, even though he'd soon learned that he needed to take the gifts away with him when he left, to bring again when he next visited, since the children weren't allowed to keep them once he'd gone.

Nono stirs in his bed with a whisper of sheets and a sway of tubes. His eyelids flutter for a moment and then he's awake. His crackly-paper voice whispers, "Mickey?"

Chad -- Chad Michael, called "Mickey" by his mother's father, much to the disapproval of his father's family -- bounces up out of his seat and moves over to Nono's other side, opposite his mother. "I'm here, Nono," he says, laying a hand gently on the old man's thin, dry wrist.

"I want to talk to you." Nono looks around the room and musters a glare. "I want to talk to Mickey alone."

Father turns away from the window and says, "Surely you wouldn't deprive the rest of your family of these last minutes with you, Father Fontana."

"Surely you won't refuse a dying man's wish," retorts Nono. Even as weak as he is, his dislike for his son-in-law radiates from him. "I'll be gone soon and you'll never have to clean up after me again. I want to talk to Mickey alone. The rest of you go get something to eat or pray for my soul or whatever you feel like doing."

David Murray's expression turns harsh, but his voice is even when he says, "Come. We'll leave them alone for a moment." He takes his wife's elbow and they usher the other kids out of the room. Margaret looks back over her shoulder, her eyes wide and shining with tears; she loves Nono too and looks like she's afraid he's going to die while she's gone. Thomas, Steven and Catherine just walk dutifully out without a last glance.

"Close the door," Nono whispers. Chad obeys, then comes back and sits in Mother's vacated chair. He takes his grandfather's hand in both of his and waits.

"I'm sorry, Mickey. I wanted to be here to help you. I set things up as well as I could but you're going to have to do it yourself when it's time." Nono stops to take a raspy breath. "Take off your jacket and roll up your left sleeve."

Chad obeys without question, even though he's wondering if maybe his nono's mind is wandering.

"There's a felt pen in the drawer there," Nono says, jerking his head toward the small table next to the bed. Chad gets it out and waits. "Write this on your arm..." says Nono, then dictates a name, an address and office number, a telephone number, and a bank name and a long account number.

"I've left a trust for you. Ten million. I set it up years ago and it's yours already, it won't appear in my will. It's as much as I could separate out without causing suspicion." Chad's eyes widen but Nono keeps going, as though he's aware they have only a little time. "When you're eighteen you'll be legally an adult. You can leave the Murrays if you want to, and with money you can do whatever you want. Go to Art, he's my lawyer and he arranged everything. He knows your situation and he'll help you. The Murrays won't let you go without a fight, and for all their preaching about being good Christians they're as dirty as any mafia family. They own the police in your county, half the judges, and enough of the key politicians in Massachusetts that you'd never get away on your own. They have connections all over and you won't be safe until you have a power base of your own. The money will help and Art has friends who'll protect you."

Nono rasps out a cough and his hand flutters toward a plastic cup on the table. Chad fills it with water and helps his nono drink. The old man nods his thanks, then continues. "Once you're established, help the others, the ones who want to leave. Maggie and maybe Cat. Thomas is theirs, he'll make a good little patriarch, but Maggie doesn't belong there any more than you do and Cat and Stevie might still be salvageable. But don't say a word to them." Nono's hand clutches at Chad's. "Not a word until you're out and untouchable. Don't tell anyone. Copy this--" he touches Chad's arm, "--and keep it somewhere safe. Or memorize it. And when you're eighteen, get out." Another cough, another sip.

"Put your jacket back on. Then get the envelope out of the drawer and put it in your pocket." Chad obeys, rolling down his shirtsleeve and getting dressed, then fishing a white envelope out from the side table and slipping it into his breast pocket while his nono goes on. "It's a letter. You don't need to read it. It's appropriately seditious and your father will believe that's why I wanted to talk alone, so I could give it to you. Let him confiscate it. It'll make him feel better."

Chad nods and can't help smiling. Nono grins back at him, then goes serious once more. "You've a lot of education to catch up on. What your parents taught you is mostly garbage and you'll have to make up before you can get a proper degree. Find a good junior college -- Art'll help you -- and start wherever you need to. Don't worry about how long it takes, just do what you need to do and then make something of your life. Whatever you like. You can do anything, Mickey. Give yourself time to discover the world. Then help the others."

"I will, Nono."

"Remember I love you. I did my best but I failed with your mother and all you kids are suffering for it. I'm trusting you to fix it for me."

"I will." Chad nods again and to his shame he feels tears running down his face.

Nono's grip tightens slightly on his hand. "It's all right to cry. I'll miss you too. Just remember, three more years, less than three, and then it'll all be over and you can live. You'll be free and I wish I could be there with you but I'll know. Just knowing you have a way out...." He trails off in another spate of coughs and while Chad holds the cup for him once more, the door opens. Everyone else files back into the room, Nono is frail and dying once more and the whole five minutes alone seems like a dream except for the barely noticeable stiffness on the left side of Chad's jacket.

Father found and took Nono's letter as soon as they got home that evening; Chad never got to read it. Nono died that night and life went on, days and weeks and months spent on the estate, lessons with his parents and grandparents, studying with his brothers and sisters, worship and reading the Bible, and occasionally some other approved book from Grandfather Murray's library. Two years and ten months later, Chad turned eighteen. He started watching for a chance to get away unnoticed.

He watched and waited and finally, another twenty months later, an opportunity arose. He was flying with his father to a business meeting, directed to watch silently and learn, and they were at the airport. Chad had his ID card and his plane ticket, although he had no money. He went to the restroom and then just kept going. It was a large airport and the most crowded place he'd ever been to in his life; his father wouldn't be surprised if it took him a while to find his way back. He went back to the counter where they'd checked in, where the man had been helpful and friendly, and explained that he couldn't fly after all and needed a refund on his ticket so he could take a cab.

April, 2001
It had taken Chad an entire day to find his way to the office of Art Deloria, Nono's lawyer. He spent the night hiding behind a huge trash bin in an alley, sleeping fitfully, but now he's here and Chad's sure it's the right office; he'd memorized everything Nono'd dictated before washing his arm and if there's one thing he's good at it's memorizing things. This is the right address, but Mr. Deloria's name isn't on the sign.

Chad dithers outside for a few minutes, walking up and down the block as though some other building with the same number but the right name on it would appear. If he waits much longer he might well hallucinate it; he's been too nervous and scared to eat anything since early yesterday and he's feeling lightheaded.

Finally he goes in through the door. There's a middle-aged lady sitting behind a desk just inside. She looks him up and down, then smiles and says, "May I help you, dear?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm looking for Mr. Deloria." Chad stands straight and doesn't fidget, another thing he's good at.

"Mr. Deloria?" She looks puzzled. "Mr. Peter Deloria?"

"No, Ma'am. Mr. Art Deloria. Does he work here?" Peter? Who's Peter? Did Nono get the name wrong? Or maybe "Art" was a nickname, like the way he'd called Chad "Mickey?"

The lady looks very sad and says, "I'm so sorry, dear. Mr. Art Deloria died last year. He had a stroke, poor man, and was gone in just a few hours. If you like, I can see if one of his partners has time to talk with you?"

Chad's head whirls. Dead? How can he be dead? He has to be alive, Nono said he'd help me, I can't do this by myself!

The lady calls someone on the telephone and soon after Chad's shown into a fine, wood-panelled office and into a comfortable chair across a huge wooden desk from a stout, middle-aged man in a grey suit. The man, Mr. Blanchard, assures him that everything's going to be all right, that he has absolutely nothing to worry about, that he can relax and they'll get him something to eat. Mr. Blanchard has some meetings he can't cancel, but later in the afternoon he'll be back and he and Chad will discuss what he's to do next.

Chad lets himself be ushered into an empty office and settled in. He eats the sandwiches and drinks the coffee but he's nowhere near relaxed. Mr. Blanchard had smiled and smiled and patted him on the shoulder, but he had cold eyes just like Grandfather Murray and Chad feels an itch in between his shoulderblades, as though someone is watching him. He's hungry and eats until he can't stand to look at another bite and all the time he gets more and more nervous.

Finally he pokes his head outside into the hallway and asks a young man passing by the way to the restroom. The large restroom has two doors, one to the hall he just came from and another which leads to a narrower hall at the rear of the building. He goes in the first door and out the second, then strides down the narrow hallway looking for an exit, trying desperately to look calm and relaxed, like someone who knows exactly where he's going.

A brisk looking lady steps out of an office carrying a coat and a purse. He follows her to a back door and out into a parking lot. Free, finally!

And then not. Because pulling into the parking lot at that exact moment is Grandfather Murray's big, black car.

Chad ducks down behind a smaller car, huddling next to a tire, praying they won't see him, Grandfather Murray and his driver and his assistant. They hurry into the building and Grandfather Murray looks grimly angry. Chad almost pisses himself with fear, but as soon as the door closes behind them he turns and runs. He has no idea where he's going, he just knows he has to get away.

Bio

Tue, 29 Nov 2005 18:14:14 GMT

Name: Chad Michael Murray (Mickey Fontana)
Journal: cit_mickey
Mun Name/Nick/Handle: Angie
Mun Journal: AngiePen
AIM: AngiePenCA
YM: angiepenrose
E-mail: AngiePen at Gmail dot com
When you can be reached and preferred method: I have a highly irregular but generally open schedule and have no problem making appointments. I prefer live scening but am learning to like mail-tagging. [wry smile] Feel free to ping me if I'm around, or e-mail me if I'm not. Usually I'm not; I'm rarely logged into chat unless I have an appointment with someone or have come in specifically to look for someone, and when I am it's usually YM, so e-mail is the best way to make contact.
Pup's Physical Info: 24 yrs (born in '81), 6'0" and slender but solid, blue eyes, sandy-blond hair
Pup's Location: New York
Pup's Orientation: homo/sub
Pup's Kinks: con-non-con like whoa -- has a difficult time getting erect unless he's being forced, see backstory; bondage, pain, humiliation, being shared
Pup's Hard Limits: willingly serving someone sexually, anything involving dead people, or living or dead animals
Pup's Soft Limits: elimination play, permanent marks
Pup's Safeword: halt
Pup's Hobbies: reading, drawing
Game Membership: yes
Game Occupation: odd jobs wherever he happens to be -- has a trust fund but whenever he draws money out of it he has to move
Game Connections: none
Pup's Bio: Mickey was born Chad Michael Murray, to the very wealthy and powerful Murrays of Boston. His family belongs to an extremely conservative Christian sect and he was raised in an incredibly austere and harshly disciplined environment. He was indoctrinated from the time he was small to believe that sex was evil and filthy, to be engaged in only within the bonds of marriage for purposes of procreation, with as little physical pleasure taken as possible. (Which means none for women, and only enough for men to achieve ejaculation.) His head knows better now, but his gut still believes it and the only way he can take any pleasure in sex is if he can pretend he's being forced, well enough to convince his gut which is always telling him that Good Boys Don't.

His maternal grandfather, Joseph Fontana, who died of cancer when he was fifteen, left him a trust fund with ten million dollars, on the understanding that he'd leave his family as soon as he could (Nono Joseph could tell that fifteen-year-old Mickey was unhappy with his life at home) and help as many of his brothers and sisters escape as wanted to, but only after he himself was established so that his very powerful father and paternal grandfather couldn't get at him; without a strong foundation of Mickey's own, they have enough economic and political power to force him back to the family, no matter the legalities once he's an adult.

When he was nineteen he finally ran away. The first place he went, on the direction of his now-dead grandfather, was the office of Nono's lawyer. Fontana had arranged with the man to help his grandson disentangle himself from his family, but Chad found that the man had died a year earlier of a stroke. The partner who spoke with him said he'd help him, but some instinct told Chad to leave and he asked for the restroom and snuck away.

Chad, close to panic, went to the nearest branch of the bank that held his trust and took out a thousand dollars. Naive, sheltered, homeschooled Chad thought that would be enough money to keep him for a long time. He soon found out otherwise and all the plans he'd made with his Nono fell apart.

Chad's been on the run ever since. He had some close calls and lived on the streets for a while, and discovered the hard way not to withdraw money from the same branch twice, to the point of taking train trips several states away just to get money when he needs it. He makes occasional large withdrawals -- just a few each year -- and lives with the possibility of being robbed, since he has no choice but to carry the cash on him. He eventually got fake ID under the name of Mickey Fontana and has been living under that name since he was nineteen, although without a valid social security card he can get only casual, under-the-counter work.

When he was twenty-one he met Oliver Bachman at the Holding Cell, a sex club for people into rape fantasy. Bach was a Citadel member, and was at the club only because it was the site of a stag party for an old friend who was getting married the next day. He took Mickey to prevent an agressive drunk from getting at him and was struck with how beautifully the kid got into his rape victim role; it complemented Bach's own favorite kink perfectly, and despite his very expensive Citadel membership he found himself returning to the Holding Cell frequently to see Mickey.

It took a while, but Mickey, who'd discovered that con-non-con was the only way his well-indoctrinated upbringing would let him enjoy sex, finally came to trust Bach enough to tell him the truth about his background, and the man eventually sponsored him to Citadel under his new name. Bach, a high-level corporate security consultant, was looking into helping Mickey escape from his family for good, but the Murrays' political clout was making it difficult and even Bach was finding the process slow and delicate. Before any real progress could be made, Bach was killed on the job, while foiling a bit of corporate espionage that got bloody.

Left alone again, Mickey has a large stash of cash Bach left him, a safety net he dips into reluctantly whenever he absolutely has to. His Citadel membership is paid up for the next several years, with enough money on account that he can indulge in food, drinks and services occasionally, but his future is uncertain and he's wary of becoming entangled with anyone; he knows his family will find him eventually, and they won't hesitate crush anything between them and Mickey, including Citadel.

Mun Hard Writing Limits: none. I honestly can't think of anything I absolutely won't write, so long as it supports the plot. There are things I'm not into and won't write just for their own sake, like elimination play and femslash, but if the story needs it then I'm there.
Mun Kinks: bondage, non-con, rescues, bad guys getting their asses kicked, romance, people taking care of each other
Type of Characters Pup Likes: Mickey will play with anyone who'll force him hard enough to get past his inbred -- brainwashed, when you get right down to it -- reluctance to let himself enjoy sex.
Play Situation: Mickey is open to casual sex and friendships. He wants someone permanent but is afraid to involve anyone in his problems and has resigned himself to casual hook-ups. Ultimately I'd like to get him hooked up with someone who'll help him get away from his family for good (i.e., help me write that plotline), and someone who'll love him and help him work through his psychological blocks. If that turns out to be the same person, so much the better, but it's not absolutely necessary.
Last Updated: 29 Nov 05