we're going out tonight, my son

The Shoggoth Variations: Part Three

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 06:51:40 GMT

Reid runs a hand through his hair, rubbing the heel of it against his forehead. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Prentiss swings the bookshelf out another few inches, then stares down at the hole cut into the floor. “I guess if you’ve got a good routine going, why mess with it?”

“At some point, you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on here,” Ethan says, from his place at the office door. None of the officers out front batted an eye when he followed them behind the desk. Somewhere, Reid thinks, J. Edgar Hoover must be rolling in his grave.

“Do we follow it?” he asks Prentiss, crossing the room to peer over her shoulder. The hole looks like the top of an old well, with rounded, stone-paved sides. An iron ladder is bolted to one side, rungs starting to corrode from age. What he can see of stone shaft looks worn and soft, too old for a 1970s building. The light from Whateley’s office only illuminates a few feet of the passage, and Reid’s stomach lurches in protest at the thought of voluntarily climbing into that ancient, narrow patch of darkness.

“I think we have to,” Prentiss says, sounding equally enthused by the idea. “Ethan, if you’re going to pretend to be FBI, can you go tell Officer Morgan we need some help back here? And some flashlights.”

...

Thankfully, the tunnel is shorter than it looks. Wider, too. Reid’s still halfway above ground when he feels the wall behind him drop away as the tunnel widens into a full room. Full, but low-ceilinged, and he has to crouch to avoid hitting his head.

There’s another doorframe at the opposite end of the room, and another long, narrow—but thankfully horizontal—passage leading off it. Prentiss is already peering down it, hands pressed together at the wrists so the barrel of her gun follows the same path as her borrowed flashlight. On the other side of the doorway Officer Morgan’s holding the same position.

A cough behind him and Reid ducks into the room, so the next officer can get down without kicking him in the face, and pulls his own weapon from its holster. Funny how it never even occurred to him to leave it in Virginia. Maybe he and Prentiss were asking for this.

“We ready?” The voice is familiar, and when Reid turns around he’s not surprised to find Officer Rice scowling at him as usual. “Just got here,” he says, as though Reid’s asked him a question. “I sent your friend back out front.”

Busted, Ethan. For the first time, Reid’s halfway glad for the darkness of their surroundings. Anywhere else, and he’d never be able to pass himself off as straight-faced. “I think we’re about ready. Agent Prentiss?”

“Ready,” she nods, steps into the doorway. Morgan drops into place behind her, with Reid and Rice following.

The tunnel’s path is almost perfectly straight, without a single fork or corner. With no blind spots to clear they’re able to move quickly, but Reid’s hunched shoulders are starting to ache by the time they reach the end of the passage and step into a second small room.

“Another ladder,” Prentiss says, flashlight beam sliding up the wall to reveal the outline of a trap door. She’s got her hand on the bottom rung when Reid sees her freeze. “Do,” she swallows audibly. “Can anyone else smell something?”

Reid moves away from the door, inhales hard, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Manure and pennies. Dirt and meat. “Whateley’s car,” he says, pressing a hand over his mouth.

“Yeah,” her voice is weak, and Reid sees the muscles in her throat work, fighting her gag reflex. “Stay behind me, okay?” It doesn’t come out protective or patronizing, like he’d expect. It’s not an order. It’s a plea.

“I’ll be right there,” he says, and gives her as much of a smile as he can manage with his lurching stomach. Got your back, Prentiss.

The smell gets stronger near the trapdoor. Reid aims his gun and light past Prentiss’ shoulder, watches her push it open and clamber up into the space above. Scrambles up the ladder behind her, and feels something sharp against his palms as he levers himself into a huge, half-lit space.

Straw.

He puts his back to her, scanning the area in front of him. Sunlight filters in through gaps in old boards, illuminating coils of rope, a stack of two-by-fours, a trough along one wall. And smears of something ash-coloured and thick, giving the walls and floor a wet, oily sheen.

“Oh hell no,” Prentiss says, behind him. And over her voice Reid can hear the soft, sonorous drone of several dozen cows, still in the pen just outside.

When he turns, it’s easy to see what’s caught her attention. At one point the barn’s main door must have been impressive: a sliding, aluminum affair much younger than the original structure. Now, it’s torn through at the middle, metal bowing outward on either side of the rip, as though something wide and solid pushed its way through. Even from here, Reid can see the same milky fluid clinging to the wreckage, see the path of bent grass and downed trees leading up into the hills.

“What happened here?” Morgan says, behind them. And, for the first time ever, Reid sees Emily Prentiss jump.

...

“I don’t know, Reid,” Prentiss says as they hike back to the hotel, aboveground this time. Funny, Reid thinks, how different this walk felt less than twenty-four hours ago. How the roll and plunge of the field didn’t seem so casually dangerous, so full of places to hide and watch and wait.

“What don’t you know?” His revolver is back in its holster, but he can’t keep his hand from drifting towards it. Can’t stop touching it to make sure its still there, in case—he’s not even sure. In case something.

“Assuming Whateley hasn’t summoned a monster—which he hasn’t, obviously, of course, because that’s impossible. Assuming that, he’s doing a damn good job of making it look like he has. Why?”

“To distract us? If Whateley’s operating at a high enough level to stage all this, maybe nothing we’ve seen is real.” He hesitates, waits till they’re on top of another hill. Until he can see anything that comes at them. “Emily? Obviously we’re not, but what if we really were looking for a monster?”

“Fuck,” she turns, puts a hand on his chest to stop him. “Reid, do not go all Spooky Mulder on me, okay?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he holds his hands in front of him, and gets a flash of Ethan. “It’s just. Nothing about this feels right, does it? Whatever Whateley’s planning, it’s been months—maybe years—in the works. And if he’s trying to reenact the events of 1928, which seems most likely right now, we have to assume he’s had help, and lots of it. But there’s no indication of outside involvement. He hasn’t so much as made a personal phone call in the last six months.”

“Hotel staff?” she cradles her face in her hand, shoulders slumping. “There has to be something we’ve missed.”

“Yeah,” Reid says, turning to look back at the barn. Thinks back to this morning and has a vision of himself, asleep next to Ethan, unaware of some silent thing moving over the hills beyond them. All those missing cows—it must have been so close.

He should be horrified, sick. Instead, as he looks back the way they’ve come, all he feels is relief.

Maybe his instincts are better than he thought.

“Reid?” Prentiss whispers. Her voice is strained and he can hear her breathing, fast and ragged. “Turn around. Slowly.”

She’s got her hand on her gun. Hasn’t drawn it yet, but the snap holding it in place is undone and her fingers are curled around the base. He follows her gaze over the field, towards the hotel outbuildings. The land between them is still and empty, not so much as a shrub in their way. Nothing that should smell like—

“Oh god.” He doesn’t cover his mouth this time, but only because his hands have frozen. Prolonged exposure ought to make this easier, but it’s worse than before. Worse than it was in the barn, in the ditch, in Texas, when they drove straight past the meat packing plant on their way to the airport.

“I thought I saw something,” Prentiss’ voice comes out high, panicked. She grimaces, hisses so low he can barely hear—except every sound they make seems so loud, suddenly. “I thought saw something move. By the shed. I couldn’t—I didn’t get a good look.”

He’s got his gun out, when did that happen? Next to him, he hears Prentiss’ own slide free. Safety still on, trigger finger held firmly against the barrel—by the book, even when Reid can see her shaking, and he can’t believe he’s the person she trusts to back her up.

To an outside observer, they must look so strange. Creeping down one hill, up the next, guns drawn, straining for any sign of something they can’t see or put a name to.

When the roof of the shed crashes in someone screams, and Reid can’t tell if it was him, or Prentiss, or both. The building shudders for a fraction of a second, then collapses out in an explosion of wood and plaster, and Reid flashes back to Whateley’s car, how it must have looked as it flew off the road, only to have something come down on it again when it landed in the path of the onslaught.

They’ve dropped down on instinct, and next to him he sees Prentiss pull herself to her knees, hears the click as the safety comes off her gun. If she runs towards the hotel Reid knows he’ll follow, couldn’t do anything else. But for now all he can do is push himself up in the grass and hope she won’t. Because there’s a shape moving in the haze of drywall dust and debris. Bigger than the shed. Hazy, this far away, but he can tell that much. Maybe it’s a trick of the light—oh god, he hopes it’s that—but from here it looks—

Wrong. That’s the only word for it. For that writhing, too-big lump moving through the wreckage. Not just moving, slithering. Undulating. And already fading from view, as it shakes off the dust clinging to it and glides away from the caved-in remains of the building. Ten feet out, and a swiftly forming path of trampled grass is the only sign of its passing. That, and a soft squishing noise he can just hear over the rattle of his own breath.

It’s moving quickly. Too quickly, too softly for something that size. Two hills away, now, and the dead smell is stronger, so much stronger. Reid curls his finger around the trigger of his revolver. Wonders if real-world bullets can stop a nightmare.

Shouts behind them. The sound of boots hitting grass at a dead run. Another small explosion, then again. Gunfire.

The trail of grass swerves right, towards the mountains. Moving even faster than before. The thing crashes into the undergrowth, kicking up trees and dirt as it moves. Reid gets another glimpse of something soft and round, like a jellyfish walking upright. Sees a small trail of rocks stream down the hillside. And then. Nothing.

“What the fuck?” Officer Rice. Officer Morgan, too, weapon still clutched in one hand. They’re out of breath, panting. Half-stumbling by the time they reach them. “What the fucking—Christ.”

Next to him, Prentiss lets out a sob of air. She hasn’t moved an inch.

“Emily,” he says. She twitches and Reid says it again, trying to mimic her usual tone. “Emily. You can put the gun down.”

She takes it down slowly, arms locked, hands trembling. Clicks the safety on again, once it’s hanging between her knees, then lets her chin thump against her chest. “So,” she says after a pause. “What’s the FBI procedure for hunting monsters, again?”

...

The hotel bar is nearly empty, save for small group of guests who look like they’ve been working on a bottle of Jose Cuervo for most of the afternoon. The bartender practically vaults the counter when Rice flashes his badge and tells him they’ll watch the place while he takes a break.

“Monsters,” he says, sliding in behind the bar and pulling down four highball glasses. He gets a bottle of Jack off the counter, pours at least two shots worth of liquor into the bottom of each, then slides one to Reid, Prentiss and Officer Morgan. He takes a long pull off his own, shakes his head, says it again. “Monsters. Jesus Christ.”

“So far it looks like we’re only dealing with the singular,” Reid says, flicking his wrist until his own drink sloshes against the sides of the glass. Rice gives him a look and he flushes. “One monster, I mean. Sorry.”

“We’re as out of our depths as you are,” Prentiss says, taking a sip and letting the alcohol sit on her tongue. Reid never thought she’d be a whisky drinker, but now he can’t remember why he made that assumption. “Believe me when I say this scenario is not included in any of the FBI training manuals I’ve read.”

“Invisible monsters not as common as serial killers?” Morgan’s glass is already half empty. “That’s a relief, I guess.”

No one seems to have a response for that.

He’s halfway into a swallow when it occurs to him. “Prentiss, what happened to the original creature?”

Her glass thumps down on the bar. “You don’t think there’s another one?”

“No,” he hopes not, anyway. “Those articles we read, the villagers sounded like they’d been terrorized, yes, but think about the way it was reported. Something had been there. Something was loose in the hills. It sounded like they knew it was over. Like the thing was already gone by the time anyone got there.”

“That’s pretty nuanced for an 80 year-old newspaper article,” Prentiss says. Then, with a faint note of hope, “Should we call Garcia?”

“I’ll do it,” he drains the last of his drink. It burns on the way down, but right now he can think of worse things. “I left my bag with Ethan, anyway.”

...

“Okay, the next time you and Em go off to play paranormal investigators, remember to check in every once in a while,” Garcia sounds out of breath and pissed. Reid sneaks a glance at his watch and winces. “The two of you had better be okay, or I’m coming down there with holy water. Or an elephant gun, whichever works.”

“Speaking of holy water,” he starts. “Did you find out anything else about the original attack on the village? Like, say, what they did to get rid of the monster?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. “Garcia?”

“Be straight with me, genius boy,” Garcia says in a rush, words coming out just above a whisper. “On a scale of one to ten—with one being Scooby-Doo and ten being a full out, blood in the elevator, creepy children chanting ‘redrum,’ all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy horror show—”

“Eleven,” Reid says, wearily.

“The paranormal is in evidence?”

“And the supernatural.” He pauses, “no television jokes.”

“I can’t believe this is happening without me,” Garcia sighs.

“Trust me, it’s not as glamorous as you’d think.” He edges down the hall, until he can peer at the mass of people still cramped together in the hotel lobby. Ethan’s got his back to him, and Reid ducks out of sight before he can turn around. “Did you read anything that might help us stop this thing?”

“I can do you one better,” she says, and Reid can hear her clap her hands together on the other end of the line. “Get a pen and paper and I’ll give you the number for your local Ghostbuster.”

...

Reid’s outside watching Rice suck down his third cigarette in ten minutes when Dr. Armitage’s truck pulls up. It’s amazing, he thinks, what an otherworldly occurrence will do to professional pretences.

The truck is a cherry red quad-cab, a few years old and solid. Next to it, the Arkham police cars look small and insubstantial. Reid feels a faint stirring of hope, and even Rice’s frown smooths into a flat line.

Then the engine cuts and a small white haired woman springs out of the driver’s side door, a green canvas backpack slung over one shoulder. Reid glances at Rice, sees him narrowly avoid eating the end of his cigarette, and tries to suppress a smile.

“Dr. Armitage,” he jogs over to her parking spot and offers a hand. “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. We spoke on the phone?”

Helen Armitage looks up at him, scrutinizing him through red-framed bifocals. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, blue veins visible in the backs of her hands. She can’t be more than five feet tall, and he hunches down instinctively. Watches her thin, red-painted lips curl up into an indulgent smirk. “Pleased to meet you.” She gestures to the bed of the truck, “I have supplies in the back. If your friend doesn’t mind helping me, could you run inside and see about putting on a pot of tea? We’ve got a lot of work ahead.”

Officer Rice catches him at the front door, “You sure about this?”

“She’s an icon in the occult studies world,” Reid says, still trying to clamp down on his grin. “She put Miskatonic University on the map, back in the sixties. Admittedly, modern scholars following her work spend most of their time trying to debunk her theories. But, given what we’ve seen today—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rice says, stubbing out his cigarette and shooting him one last, rueful look before heading for the truck. “Generally accepted, this ain’t.”

Ethan pushes through the crowd as he edges back into the lobby. Reid shakes his head, mouths ‘later’ and makes a run for it. Monsters first, relationship issues later. Or never. He could go either way.

Prentiss and Morgan have cleared the bar by the time Reid finds a teapot and hot water spigot. He’s working on cups when Armitage slips into the room. Officer Rice is a few steps behind her, carrying a Tupperware container the size of a moving box.

He finds a cache of hotel-branded mugs on one of the bottom shelves. “Tea?”

“Please, agent,” she says, and it almost sounds like a pet name. Prentiss holds up a hand as well, and Reid snags three mugs.

“Now,” she starts again, as Reid hunts for sugar packets and the rest of the group settles into chairs around a large, circular table near the back of the room. “ Doctor Reid told me a bit about your problem on the phone, but I’d like to hear from the rest of you as well.”

The sugar packets are in a box next to the lemon slices. Reid stirs five into his mug, and listens as his fellow teammates lay out the story piece by piece, each of them dropping off and jumping in at random.

Teammates. He blinks and looks at the room again. Cut out the faux-hunting lodge decor, the fireplace behind them and the bar itself, and they could be in the briefing room at Quantico. They’ve even got a Morgan here and—well, Hotch smiles slightly more often than Rice, but he could think of worse stand ins. He looks at Armitage again, taking in the cat’s eye frames of her glasses and the red-leather boots on her feet. Garcia would approve, he thinks, sliding into a vacant seat next to Prentiss. It’s an oddly comforting thought.

When they’ve finished, Armitage reaches into her bag and pulls out an old, leather bound notebook. “What do you know,” she asks, after a pause. “About the horror of 1928?”

“We read the articles in The Advertiser,” Prentiss says.

“And AP,” Reid adds, reaching for his bag and coming up empty. Damn, he should have talked to Ethan, if only to get their files back. Morgan and Rice look bewildered and he tries to gloss, “Ah, a local family disappeared. Their house was caved in. Locals blamed it on an unnatural creature that was supposed to have escaped from the Whateley family farm.”

“Oh, of course,” Rice says, shaking his head. “So you think this is the same thing?”

“Almost certainly,” Armitage says, thumbing through the book. The pages are covered with cramped, spidery handwriting and Reid leans forward to get a better look. “One of Whateley’s descendants tried to open the gate to Yog-Sothoth, and paid dearly for it.”

“Try that again?” Morgan says, bracing her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands.

“Yog-Sothoth knows the gate,” Reid says, lokoing up towards the ceiling as he fishes the rest of the passage out of his memory. “Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again.”

Silence. Even Prentiss, who should be used to this by now, is staring at him. “Uh, the Old Ones are thought to be creatures from another plane of existence, who ruled the earth before humans evolved.” It sounds ridiculous, even to him, but Armitage is nodding at him across the table, eyes still trained on the book in her lap. “Their, I guess you could call them ‘followers,’ believe that the rituals in texts like the Necronomicon could revive them, or them bring back to our plane of existence.”

“So this thing can call up more of its kind?” Morgan asks. “Because, between all of us, I don’t think the entire state has a police budget big enough to handle many of these.”

“Which is why you’re here to stop it,” Armitage says, laying the book face-down on the table. “Officers, would one of you pass me my container?”

Rice slides the box across the floor, and Reid can hear a rattle of shifting metal inside. She pops the lid off to reveal three pump-activated spray guns, the kind of thing an exterminator might use in an old black-and-white film.

“When my great uncle Henry Armitage faced the original horror, he devised a method for making the creature visible. I had the university lab prepare the powder for you this afternoon.”

“One of your relatives took on one of these things?” Prentiss says, looking at the metal tubes at their feet with an uneasy expression.

“And won,” she says with a small, proud nod. “Uncle Henry was seventy-four years old at the time. So the four of you ought to have it much easier. Now,” she flips the book upright and pushes it towards the centre of the table, “Dr. Reid, I assume you’re the one with the talent for memorization?”

...

The Dunwich Resort has a surprisingly good emergency preparedness plan, though Reid suspects none of the staff—Will Whateley aside—ever expected it to be used in a situation like this.

Most of the hotel guests who’ve come from out of state decide to spend the night in the ballroom, sleeping on mats on the floor. Rice, Morgan and a few other members of the police force offer to escort anyone who wants to leave back to Arkham, and Armitage heads back with them, after thanking Reid for the tea.

By the time the sun is down the lobby is almost vacant, though the noise drifting in from the ballroom makes it hard for Reid to believe he and Prentiss have an entire lounge area to themselves.

“Prentiss, how do you think ‘y'ai'ng'ngah’ is supposed to be pronounced?” He asks, stretching his legs out in front of him and letting Armitage’s book slide into his lap. Memorising the spell hasn’t been a problem, but actually speaking it is starting to look like a challenge. When he’s flustered, Reid has enough trouble getting complete, comprehensible sentences out in English, never mind some dead, alien language that was probably never meant to be spoken by anyone with human lungs.

Prentiss unfolds herself from the armchair she’s curled up in, and drops down on the couch next to him. “Try speaking from the back of your throat. If what we saw today is accurate, I bet this is a pretty phlegmy language.”

Reid tries it, and nearly spits on himself. “You’re taking this well, you know,” he says, pulling a hand across his mouth and grimacing.

“I could say the same for you,” she’s cradling a coffee cup in one hand, and the smell makes Reid’s mouth water—unfortunately, since more saliva is the last thing he needs. His own mug is empty, and he’d go for a refill if the hotel staff hadn’t moved almost all of the resort’s coffee urns into the ballroom, along with pretty much everything else drink-related in the building.

“Well, I thought there was a monster before we saw it this afternoon,” he shrugs. “I’m just happy I was right, and not completely insane.”

She gives him a small smile and returns the shrug. “Honestly? If Whateley had done everything we saw today to distract us, I think his main event would have been a lot worse than one trans-dimensional creature on a rampage.”

They lapse into silence, staring at the night sky through the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling windows. The moon is high and bright, only a few days away from being full, but it’s the stars that hold Reid’s attention. He’s lived in cities most of his life. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that all those points of light are still there when he’s not looking through a telescope.

“Em?”

She looks up, confused. Morgan, Garcia, JJ, they’re the team nicknamers. He and Prentiss have always operated on a last-name basis. “Yeah?”

He flips Armitage’s book shut, sets it on the table. And he’s not good at these conversations, but seeing as they’re less than twelve hours away from a confrontation with something that’s killed at least twenty people, it seems like he should at least try. “After Georgia—before that, too, I think—the way I acted towards you was really,” he flounders for a word, “unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional?” she makes a face at him. “Now you sound like Hotch.”

“Bad word choice,” he says. “It’s just, I care about everyone on the team. But when the agent before you—when Elle left, I lost a friend. And I know it wasn’t fair of me to blame you for that, or take anything out on you.”

“Reid,” Prentiss says, putting a hand up to his mouth, fingers hovering an inch away from his lips. “I know what you’re trying to do. Stop it.”

“What I’m trying to—”

“Make amends,” she says, cutting him off again. “I appreciate it, I do. But don’t make it so easy to take you out.”

“This really isn’t going the way I expected it to.”

“I’m just saying, never settle everything,” she smiles again, but there’s a fierceness to it he doesn’t expect. “If the world’s going to take you, make it take you kicking and clawing and screaming. Tomorrow, when this is all over, you can buy me an apology dinner. Until then, leave yourself with at least one messy patch, okay?” she looks past him, over his shoulder. “But maybe just this one.”

When he turns to follow her gaze, Ethan is hovering at the edge of the lobby, still holding Reid’s forgotten bag in one hand. Prentiss gives him a quick, soft pat on the shoulder, and is up off the couch and walking back towards the empty bar before he can manage a single protest.

“Hey,” Ethan drops into the armchair across from him, still holding the bag on his knees. He’s got the strap of it wrapped around his knuckles, twisted tight enough to makes his fingers turn white from lack of blood.

“Hey,” Reid shoves his hair behind one ear and folds his arms over his chest. Casts around for something to say, and comes up empty. “Sounds like everyone’s having a good time in there,” he manages, at last. “Though I’m not sure an open bar is part of the standard emergency response procedure.”

“I read your files,” Ethan blurts. “And heard you and Emily talking. Are you telling me there’s an honest-to-god monster out there?”

“Technically, I wasn’t telling you anything,” Reid mutters. It would be easier to be angry if he didn’t think he’d do the same thing in Ethan’s place. “You can’t tell anyone, alright? Panic isn’t going to help us, especially not the kind this would create, assuming you could get anyone to believe you.”

“Shit,” Ethan says, falling back in his chair. “You’re actually serious about this.”

“Believe me when I say I had a very strange afternoon.”

“Shit,” Ethan says again. “You guys figured out what to do with it?”

“Hopefully,” which is the truth, but doesn’t seem to make Ethan feel any better. “Don’t worry, Prentiss and I will keep the horror movie rule in full effect.”

Ethan groans and rubs a hand over his face, letting his head tip back against the chair. “You can be such an asshole, you know that Spencer?”

“Regret inviting me yet?” It’s the wrong thing to say and Reid knows it the second it leaves his mouth, because all that easy, familiar camaraderie dries up in an instant.

“You know I don’t,” Ethan’s smiling, but it’s the one Reid doesn’t recognise. Loaded and strange, and he’s amazed the air between them isn’t throwing off sparks, it’s so tense. When Ethan stands up and comes to sit beside him, it’s like watching a car crash in slow motion on tv. Frame by frame of agonising detail. Glacially paced, and still no way to stop it. “Not the way you planned on spending your vacation time, is it?”

“Somehow, I thought there’d be more jazz and fewer tentacles.” Ethan boggles at him, and Reid grins in spite of himself. “Trust me, you don’t want details.”

“Not really, no,” Ethan lets the bag slip out of his fingers and settles back on the couch. Close enough that Reid can feel his shoulders move as he breathes, even though they’re not technically touching. He’s not cold, but the sudden warmth of another person is comforting, steadying. Exhausting, too.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Why not?” He turns, until his knee bumps against Reid’s thigh. No pretense, at least, and he can’t help but feel a little grateful for that. “If you’re worried this is a panic thing, don’t be. I liked you before this weekend went all Tales from the Crypt Keeper.”

“I’m not,” and his heart doesn’t skip a beat at that admission. It doesn’t. “And it’s not because I don’t,” wrong track. He digs his nails into his palms and tries again. “Do you remember the first time I called you, after the case in New Orleans?”

Ethan looks confused. “You mean that time we talked about piano tuning for two hours?”

“No, the time you talked about piano tuning for two hours. And then read me the news feed on CNN for forty-five minutes, because I was so out of it I couldn’t get through a simple sentence without turning myself around.” Reid pulls his arms in closer. Outside the moon is still so bright. He wonders what Whateley’s monster thinks when it looks up at the sky. Assuming it has eyes. Or anything resembling a brain.

Ethan’s hand touches his knee, and Reid can’t decide whether he should press himself into the arm of the couch to create some space, or lean in and take what he can get.

“Spencer?”

In the end, he doesn’t move at all. “You know that comment you made, when I visited you, about John Coltrane?” He keeps his eyes fixed on the window, scanning the night outside for a familiar constellation. Finds the Northern Cross, outlines Cygnus the swan in his mind. “Let’s just say booze wasn’t the thing that was going to do me in.”

“Aw, hell,” Ethan whispers, fingers tightening on Reid’s leg. “I didn’t think—”

“I didn’t care. The funny thing is, the withdrawal wasn’t that bad, compared to some of the stories I’d read. It was just, having to pretend nothing was wrong,” there’s a tingling sensation building in his sinuses, a too-familiar ache in the back of his throat. “You were the one person I could talk to, where it didn’t matter if I was fine.”

“You scared the shit out of me, you know that?” Ethan curls in front of him, forcing himself back into Reid’s line of sight, hands on either side of him to hold him in place. His eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion, and Reid finds himself wondering what Ethan was doing, while he slept in the grass this morning. “Those first few calls, you sounded so fucked up. I thought I was going to lose one of my best friends before we even got a chance to have a real conversation again.”

“This is going to sound incredibly pathetic to you, but you’re not ‘one of my best friends.’ You’re my best friend. Full stop.” He blinks and looks away, except there’s nowhere to look where he can’t see Ethan. “I really can’t do this.”

“Spencer,” a hand on his face and it’s not fair, it’s just not. Ethan tips forward, until they’re resting forehead to forehead. “I’m not going to mess you up. I promise.”

As though it’s that simple. As though that’s all there is to it.

“What about me?” he snaps, pulling back as much as he can. “I’m a workaholic in a dangerous profession, where there’s a not inconsiderable chance of violent death. I have an—a history of drug use. I’m at risk for a debilitating mental illness. I suck at dealing with my emotions, I’m mean, and I don’t even respond that well to physical contact. I could mess you up in more ways than you can even imagine. I’m a terrible person to date.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ethan says, fondly. And Reid’s half ready to strangle him when he pushes back into his personal space, tracing the curve of his cheek with his thumb. “But if it’s worth anything, I’d date you.”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Reid says. “Obviously.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?” He grins, and for a second Reid is sure they’re going to kiss. Instead, Ethan squeezes the back of his neck, then gets to his feet.“I know you’ve got a lot going on right now. But if you get the chance, think about it, okay?”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the camp out,” Ethan says, waving a hand towards the ballroom. “Someone’s gotta keep the masses entertained while you hero-types save the world.”

“Trust me,” Reid says, reopening Armitage’s book with a sigh. “Right now, your job is definitely better.”

...

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when Prentiss tosses a sugar packet at his head, he starts awake and finds himself slumped over the arm of the couch.

“Coffee?” She passes him a mug without waiting for a response. “I wasn’t sure how sweet you wanted it. Six packets okay?”

He takes a sip, and the liquid is sweet enough to make his back teeth ache and his tongue feel heavy. “It’s perfect. Did Morgan and Rice get back yet?”

“They’re outside. Apparently they worked out a system with the highway patrollers to track this thing down.” She grimaces, “A car on the night shift managed to get behind it, and followed it to a gorge about three miles away. Assuming it didn’t sneak off in the last couple of hours, we should be able to corner it down there.”

Reid tips his head back and pours as much coffee as he can down his throat, then takes another look at her. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her face has a greyish tinge. “Are you ready to deal with this?”

“Of course not,” but something in her expression relaxes, and the smile she gives him almost makes it to her eyes. “You?”

“Not in the slightest,” he says, and downs the last of his coffee in another long gulp.

Rice insists on driving, and since they’re taking one of Arkham’s squad cars there’s not much room to complain. Prentiss takes it worst, and spends most of the drive twisting her seatbelt in her fingers.
Reid tries to concentrate on Armitage’s book, but can’t get through more than half the spell without something flickering in his peripheral vision and making him lose his place.

The gorge is shallow by Dunwich standards. Maybe a mile deep, at most, with gently sloping sides. From the highway, Reid can trace the creature’s path without thinking. A wide trail of broken bushes, followed by a caved-in section of hill, where it must have gone down.

“Ran across my trail,” the highway patrolman is saying to Rice and Morgan. “Didn’t even see the thing in the dark. If I hadn’t had my window down, I probably wouldn’t even have heard the crash.”

“Thanks for your help,” Morgan says with forced ease. “We can take it from here. You might want to report back in—if this thing runs, we don’t want anyone getting caught in its path.”

“What did you tell him we were looking for?” Prentiss asks Rice, when the officer is back in his car and out of earshot.

“Escaped animal,” Rice says, pulling the spray guns from the trunk of the car, and tossing one to her and Morgan. “With one hell of a camouflage. There’s a zoo up at Innsmouth. Figured it made about as much sense as any other explanation.”

...

The smell kicks in about halfway down the gorge. Reid cups a hand over his mouth and nose and Rice curses under his breath.

“I guess that’s a good sign?” Morgan says, then makes a choked noise in the back of her throat as she tries not to breathe.

Next to her, Prentiss points down the ravine with the nozzle of her spray pump. The trail of debris stretches out in front of them, then vanishes abruptly at the bottom of the hill. Reid feels his heart kick in his chest, and watches Morgan and Rice tighten their grips on their guns.

“When we get to the bottom,” Prentiss says under her breath, “count to three, then fire once. If it’s there, we cover Reid and keep our fingers crossed. Good?”

She’s looking at him. He nods, gives her a weak smile and clutches Armitage’s book to his chest. Right now, he’d rather have a flamethrower, a machete, Garcia’s theoretical elephant gun. Anything besides his brain and some blank verse he can barely pronounce.

In the valley below, he’s sure he hears something stir.

They’re still a hundred feet away when the dust cloud kicks up. Reid doesn’t know who starts running first, but soon they’re all scrambling down the hillside in a ragged line as the deserted ground in front of them kicks up rocks and uproots a bush. Another few seconds of running and he feels a moist heat on his face, hears a soft rumbling like an old car engine. Feels something immense and solid rise up in front of him, even as his eyes stare at the cliff face on the other side of the gorge.

“Three,” someone yells, and the air around him fills with a fine, yellow powder. For a moment it just hangs there, barely visible in the morning sun. Then something seems to suck it in, and in the space of a blink it coalesces into—

He doesn’t know how to describe it. Wrong, he’d thought last time, but ‘wrong’ suggests something that can be fixed, made right, given some place in the natural order. The thing is vaguely egg-shaped, he thinks, but hidden under hundreds of thrashing, grey-blue tentacles. He’s dimly aware of a dozen, bulging eyes, at least as many mouths. Every part of it oversized to the point of absurdity, the suckers on its tentacles alone are as big as his head.

And above it all, half submerged in the thing’s gelatinous, translucent body, is a face. Round and chubby. Like a baby. Like a doll. Flushed a faint purple, but other than that unbearably, awfully human.

Reid squeezes his eyes shut, and starts to recite.

The wind kicks up as suddenly as the dust before it, catching the ends of his hair and whipping it against his face. Beneath his feet, something moves in the earth and he stumbles forward, eyes snapping open as he lurches towards one of those mouths.

A hand on his shoulder. Rice. Beyond him, he sees Morgan draw her gun. On his other side, fingers lace through his and he knows it’s Prentiss without having to look.

The sky above them has gone gray. Not from dust, not from clouds. It’s more like someone’s turned off the colour around him. The earth rumbles again, and the sky seems to ripple in answer. There’s a crack and a fork of lightening kicks up a spray of dirt, too close for comfort. The wind is blowing so hard Reid has to shout to be heard, and when the first scream shreds the air he’s sure it’s his.

When the second scream comes, torn out of twenty mouths, in a pitch that makes his blood churn in his veins, Reid knows it’s not anything he could ever hope to reproduce.

He reaches the end of the spell and starts again from the beginning. The words come out of their own volition now, and he’s not sure he could stop if he wanted to. His throat is burning and his knees are starting to shake, but those ancient, alien words fly off his tongue.

There’s a hole in the sky, now. A blackness he’s never see before. Not so much darkness as an utter absence of light. The thing screams again, and Reid’s voice cracks along with it. The ground seems to make a leap for the void, and his feet go out from under him as the whole world bends and twists and cracks.

The final wave of force is enough to right him, then knock him back again. Rice and Prentiss go down with him, landing in a heap of tangled limps, so they all hear the second and final crack of lightening more than they see it.

The silence, when it comes, is as deafening as the storm before it.

...

They don’t speak on the walk back to the car. Somewhere in the distance a whippoorwill trills, and Reid realises it’s the first bird call he’s heard all weekend.

None of them look back, either, though the damage must be spectacular from above. Nearly every plant on the hillside is knocked flat. Only a few low-lying shrubs made it out in one piece. When a breeze kicks up behind them, it smells of match heads and char.

In the end, they drive about twenty feet down the highway before Rice has to pull over and light a cigarette with shaking hands.

...

Morgan and Rice don’t bother coming into the hotel. Prentiss promises she and Reid will come by the station and check in before their flight back to Virginia, and that seems to satisfy everyone. Reid’s pretty sure the Arkham officers are either off to bed, or the bar. Most likely the latter, even if it is 11 a.m.

Ethan’s asleep in the lobby when they walk in. On the same couch Reid remembers waking up on less than two hours ago. Hard to believe so little time has passed, he thinks, and taps Ethan on the shoulder until he groans and swats at him.

“I’m going to bed,” Reid says. Well, croaks really. His throat is aching, and if he swallows wrong he’s sure he can taste blood. Hopefully no one at work’s going to need him to say anything of consequence for the next week.

“Everything okay?” Ethan asks, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Yeah,” he sneaks a glance at Prentiss, sees her wink at him before heading for the elevator. “I’m just tired. You coming up?”

“With you?” It’s oddly satisfying to see Ethan get flustered. Nice to know there’s a bit of the old Cal Tech geek still lurking behind the beard.“Yes, absolutely. Yeah.”

“Great,” Reid rasps, then concentrates on making it to the elevator without falling face down onto the floor. He hears Ethan scramble off the couch behind him, which is good because he honestly can’t remember what button he has to press to get to his floor just now.

The hotel bed is perfectly made, with a neat line of decorative pillows and a small cardboard notice telling him linens will be changed by request only. Reid sweeps it all aside with one hand, and falls face first onto the mattress, bouncing once on his way down. He takes a moment to wriggle up the bed, buries his face in a pillow, and is dead to the world ten seconds later.

...

When he opens his eyes, the digital clock by the bed reads 3:30 and someone is untying his shoes. Reid rolls over with a groan, shoves his hair back out of his eyes and stares at a startled, sheepish Ethan.

“I guess you forgot to take them off,” he says, jamming his hands in his pockets and retreating a few steps. “I didn’t notice before I fell asleep.”

Reid nods and toes his Converse the rest of the way off, ignoring the way they thump to the floor. The world’s a little blurry around the edges, like he’s still asleep. Everything feels soft and unreal and safe. And after everything that’s happened, it’s about the best feeling he can imagine.

“Come here?” his voice is barely a whisper, this time, but when he holds out an arm Ethan sinks down onto the bed next to him, fitting himself along Reid’s side. He smells like stale coffee and shampoo and sweat, and Reid buries into it, letting his eyes drift shut.

“Does this mean you thought about it?” Ethan’s hand lights on his stomach, fingers tracing a path from Reid’s navel up to the hollow of his throat.

He hums in approval. “Actually, I didn’t think about it at all.”

Ethan clears his throat, hand stilling just above Reid’s breastbone. “Oh. Okay.”

“I just talked down a monster the size of a house,” he rolls onto his side, reaches out blindly to cup Ethan’s face. “Something like that puts a lot of things in perspective.”

“Such an asshole,” Ethan mutters, and leans in to kiss him. His hand drifts up to Reid’s throat again, fingers just barely pressing on either side of his windpipe, like he can massage his voice box back into proper working order.

Reid curls a hand around his hip, pulls him in until Ethan’s half sprawled on his chest, free arm crunched against his side. And after that it’s easy for Reid to spread his legs and prod at him until he lies between them, to tug Ethan’s shirt up out of his pants and run his hands down his back, over his hips and around to the front. He starts unbuttoning the shirt from the bottom, and when he smooths a thumb down the dark trail of hair leading into his jeans, Ethan’s head drops to his shoulder and Reid feels him groan as much as he hears it.

They’re moving fast, he knows. One second he’s pushing Ethan’s shirt off his shoulders, the next he’s listening to his own belt buckle rattle against itself as his pants are shoved past his knees. But it doesn’t feel fast, and when they’re all the way naked and pressed together time seems to bend and fold in on itself, the way the earth did a half-day earlier. So easy to get caught up in the feeling of Ethan’s cock, hard against his hip, or the scratch of his beard against Reid’s chest as he mouths over a nipple. Easier than that to close his eyes and lose track of everything, to roll his hips up and just feel.

In the end, it’s the little things that do him in. The way Ethan jolts when Reid scrapes his fingers down the inside of his thighs. The way he presses their faces together, cheek to cheek, and laughs into Reid’s hair when he finds a ticklish spot near the small of Ethan’s back. The way he hums, low and melodic, against the back of Reid’s neck when he’s curled behind him, three fingers pressed in so deep Reid can feel it everywhere.

“Please tell me you have a condom,” he manages to rasp out, one hand fumbling behind him until his fingers close around Ethan’s hip and dig in.

Ethan lets out a low, pleased chuckle at that, chest vibrating against Reid’s back. “How presumptuous am I going to look if I say I do?”

“Incredibly.” His own laugh comes out more like a wheeze, wrapped up in a cough. Ethan’s free hand skates down his chest and stomach. Palms Reid’s cock just long enough to make him twist and moan. “Ah—and you say I’m the asshole here?”

Ethan kisses him under the ear and, mercifully, doesn’t make the obvious joke.

It shouldn’t be this easy. To bare his throat and turn his back, to let Ethan pin him against the headboard and hold him there as he presses in, to let go and enjoy this. And he wonders what the universe is trying to tell him when—after all the chaos and catastrophe of this weekend, this year—it is.

“So now that you’re a sell-out,” he mumbles later, when they’re sprawled out and panting, “I hear there’s a totally commercialised jazz festival in DC you could play next summer.”

Ethan huffs out a laugh against his neck. “Seeing you is going to kill my reputation.”

“On the plus side,” Reid says, grabbing for one of the kicked-down blankets at the end of the bed, “if an unearthly horror shows up to any of your other gigs, you’ll know who to call.”

...

“Prentiss?” Reid asks, as the SUV winds its way out of the mountains for the final time. The landscape’s lost some of its menace in the last twenty-four hours, but as he gazes up at the too-round peaks and their pillared tops, Reid can’t help but be glad that the Dunwich Jazz Festival is going to be out of commission for a few years at least.

“Yeah?” She pilots the car over the last gorge-spanning bridge, then gives it a mock salute in the rearview mirror. Reid gets the feeling he’s not the only one in the car glad to be heading back to Virginia.

“I was thinking about what you said the other night,” he says, folding his hands in his lap and resisting the urge to look away. “If you still wanted that apology dinner, I know there’s a pretty decent Indian restaurant not far from the airport in DC.”

When she glances at him, the smile on her face makes her eyes crinkle at the corners and Reid thinks he might, just maybe, get to see her look the way she did at the start of this weekend again. “I could go for Indian,” she says, then turns her gaze back to the road.

Reid glances out the window again, just in time to see a shaft of sunlight glitter off the black water of the Miskatonic River.

All in all, he thinks, he’s had worse vacations.

...

“Wherefore do ye toil; is it not that ye may live and be happy? And if ye toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Ye toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song? ... Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. Were not death more pleasing?”

—HP Lovecraft

The Shoggoth Variations: Part Two

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 06:48:16 GMT

“So what’s up with you and Ethan?” Prentiss asks, as they’re standing in Will Whateley’s study, staring up at empty shelves. The room is covered in bookcases, but the only books they’ve found so far are a copy of the Arkham telephone directory and last year’s edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, lying on their sides on the floor. Whateley’s desk is just as unhelpful. He and Prentiss haven’t found so much as a post-it or a ballpoint pen in any of the drawers.

“Twenty people are missing and this is what we’re going to talk about?” Twenty people and about five dozen cattle, he corrects. “Do you know if there’s another pasture in the village?”

“I didn’t know there was any pasture,” Prentiss says, crouching down to examine the bottom of the desk. She hesitates, then rushes into her next sentence at double speed. “Reid, you know it doesn’t matter to me who—I mean, your sexual preference is not an issue.”

“I really preferred it when Morgan was the only person making inferences about my love life.” Reid presses his fingertips hard against his temples, half hoping his headache will come back with enough force to distract him. “Also, Ethan’s not—he’s a friend.”

“Does he know that?” Prentiss asks, then makes a face as she pulls herself upright. “Sorry, sorry. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Technically, we can’t talk about it, because there is no ‘it.’” He’s turning red. This is awful. “Packing up a room this size would take hours. Whateley couldn’t have done it all this morning,” the subject change is awkward, clumsy, and he doesn’t care.

Down the hall from the study, Whateley’s bedroom is a mess. Clothing everywhere, drawers overflowing. Reid’s left his room looking the same after trying to pack a bag last minute. But here everything is orderly. There’s no dust on the shelves, outlining the previous placement of objects. No papers in the wastebasket standing by the door.

“Whatever had him packing,” Reid says, “I don’t think it was supposed to happen today.”

“You think there’s another unsub?” Prentiss asks, then shakes her head. “Assuming Whateley’s involved. Assuming there’s something for him to be involved in.”

“We’re talking about nineteen missing guests, I think you’re allowed to assume something’s going on.” Reid drops into Whateley’s desk chair and stares at the far wall. Another line of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all in dark wood. “Maybe we’re looking for a group. Does this room seem small to you?”

“I thought it was the shelving.”

“So did I, but,” he rolls his eyes upward, trying to remember where they are in the house, “isn’t that supposed to be an outside wall?”

He watches Prentiss do the same internal mapping.“Unless there’s a breakfast nook we didn’t notice.” She crosses the room and sticks her hand into one of the middle shelves. “These can’t be more than a foot deep. Do you think...?”

Reid squints, tilts his head. The sides of these units are thicker than the others, moulded at the edges. Rounded corners just the right size to wrap your fingers around. “This is going to sound strange, but try pulling on those.”

“You really think—” Prentiss gives the far right shelf a quick, hard tug and nearly stumbles when the entire unit slides away from the wall. She pulls again, and a shaft of sunlight filters into the room. “Right. Never mind.”

The space behind the shelves is about the size of a small bathroom. There’s an old, beaten-looking book rest in the centre of the room—empty, of course. Cream coloured walls, neutral carpeting, a standing lamp for light. Even a framed art print hanging over what looks like an Ikea-issue desk.

As far as secret rooms go, it’s entirely unremarkable. Or would be, if it weren’t for the words scrawled across the back wall in what Reid desperately hopes isn’t blood:

N'gai, n'gha'ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y'hah;
Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth

“Prentiss? I think we might have a problem.”

...

“Garcia, you’re on speaker phone,” Reid says, when the call goes through.

They’re outside Whateley’s house, staring down a tree lined street that runs all the way to the river front. The afternoon sun is so bright he has to squint, but from their vantage point the Miskatonic looks as flat and black as it would on a cloudy night. He frowns down at the old growth elms and gabled houses sloping away from them. Wonders if it’s paranoia that makes Whateley’s gentrified Georgian neighbourhood look sinister, even on a perfect summer afternoon.

“Hey Em,” Garcia says. Reid can practically see her waving on the other end of the line. “How’s the country life?”

“Surprisingly creepy,” Prentiss says, trying for levity and not quite making it. She’s got her profiling face on again, and Reid feels a sharp, strange pang of nostalgia for the last thirty-six hours, and the expressions he didn’t even know she had.

“Somehow, not surprised,” Garcia says. Prentiss raises her eyebrows and looks away from the phone to share a glance with Reid. “I ran the search you asked for, and aside from a few DUIs at roadside check stops and bar fight or two your festival is squeaky clean.”

“But?”

A pause. Reid raises his eyebrows back.

“Okay, I was running through newspaper archives, to see if anything came up that didn’t make it to the formal complaint stage, and something definitely hit the weird-as-hell filter. But it’s a little old.”

“How old?” He can feel the beginnings of a shiver pooling at the base of his spine, and this time it feels harder to write it off as a symptom.

“Like, 1928-old.” Garcia sounds sheepish, but it’s enough to unloose the chill and make Reid’s shoulders jerk in response. “I found something in the Arkham Advertiser—it’s only a few paragraphs, but AP picked it up too.”

“Go on,” Prentiss says, eyes still on Reid. He hopes she hasn’t noticed the flinch, unlikely as that piece of luck would be.

“The details aren’t great—apparently that whole ‘putting information in reports’ thing didn’t catch on up there. But it looks like at least one family went missing. Actually, missing might not be the right word.” She pauses. “It’s more like, they were wiped off the map. According to the Dunwich townsfolk—who are described, and I quote, as ‘a queer, decadent people’—someone from the Frye farm calls the town’s party line one night, screaming. The next day, the farm is gone. No cattle, no Fryes, even the farmhouse was caved in.”

“Was anyone charged?” Prentiss asks.

“If they were, no one thought to write about it, and the Arkham PD’s online records definitely don’t go back that far. But I went back a bit further—something had that town terrified for weeks. There are reports of strange noises, earthquakes,” she makes a small, disgusted noise in the back of her throat, “mutilated cattle. Add in a few crop circles and you could probably get M. Night Shyamalan to make a film about it.”

“Garcia, what do you mean, ‘something’?” Reid says, trying to keep his grip on the phone from going white-knuckle.

“Um, yeah. That’s where the weird-as-hell bit comes in. The townsfolk claimed someone in Dunwich had, ah, summoned a creature from another realm, then let it escape.” She lets out a small laugh that sounds as nervous as it does embarrassed. “Which is crazy, I know. But according to the reports, the Frye house wasn’t blown up or burnt down. It sounds like something stepped on it. Something big.”

“Who was this monster supposed to belong to?” Prentiss says drily. Reid glances over at her again, and wonders how someone can be such a terrible card player with a poker face that good.

“I don’t know. It didn’t make the AP story. But I’ll check the Advertiser again, and. Huh.”

“Garcia?”

“Your back-water black mage is one Wilbur Whateley. Which, if my Google-fu is in proper working order—”

“Is the name of our missing festival organizer.” Reid sucks in a breath, lets it out as slowly as he can manage. “I know it’s not an official case, but do you have any more time to look into this?”

“Are you kidding?” The hesitation’s gone. Garcia’s smile practically radiates out of the speaker. “Give me another couple of hours and I’ll have the full paranormal roundup. If it goes bump in the night, you’ll know about it.”

“Ten bucks says she calls you ‘Scully’ the next time you call her,” Prentiss says, once they’ve disconnected.

“Could be worse,” Reid shakes his head and manages to dredge up a smile. “If she makes a joke about the Winchesters, I’m hanging up on her.”

She gets about halfway into a laugh before she stops herself. “Reid, you don’t think what happened to those people—”

“There are stranger things in heaven and earth,” he starts, trailing off when she rolls her eyes at him and pulls a face. “Do I think Will Whateley’s growing a trans-dimensional being in his backyard?” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, shrugs. “No. But I think he might think he is.”

“That writing inside,” Prentiss says, looking over her shoulder with what Reid suspects is more apprehension than she’d like to show. “I didn’t recognise the language. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

“I’m not surprised.” He digs his hands further into his pockets. There’s another shiver trying to climb his spine, and he rolls his shoulders, forcing it down. And if he didn’t know the answer, he’d wonder why it seems to bother him so much more, these days, when their unsub has a mythology.

“Prentiss, have you ever heard of the Necronomicon?”

Arkham’s police station is five blocks up from the Miskatonic River, but smells like it might be halfway submerged. The building itself is a gutted Georgian mansion; all gables and moulded cornices on the outside, but as full of linoleum, industrial-grade carpet and particle board furniture as any old police station in the country.

It should be familiar, comforting. Might be, if Reid could get the smell of damp, rotting wood out of his nostrils. The whole station feels moist and swollen, as though water might start leaking from the walls at any minute. Prentiss keeps rubbing her palms against her trouser legs, trying to dry them.

In the end, they tough it out until Garcia’s faxed them every bit of information she can find on Will Whateley, then decamp to Arkham’s only Starbucks—another three blocks uphill. It, at least, appears to have been built in the last century, and Reid can’t think of a time when he’s been this happy to see a generic terra cotta paint job and florescent lights.

“How did this town not give you nightmares as a child?” Reid asks, cradling a latte in one hand and Whateley’s financial statements in the other.

“Who says it didn’t?” Prentiss gives him a wry smile, flipping through her own sheaf of paperwork. “I’ve got an obituary here: Zebulon Whateley. Moved to Arkham in the seventies to build the Dunwich resort. Died in January. Survived by his only son, Wilbur Whateley. Could be a trigger.”

“It might,” he nods, passes a file of his own across the table. “It looks like his father financed the resort using money he inherited from the original Wilbur Whateley. Maybe he sees himself as a living legacy, finishing the work his predecessor started.”

“But what would he do with nineteen people?” Prentiss asks, frowning into her coffee. “If Whateley really believes he’s summoned a monster—that level of delusion doesn’t fit with the level of organization you’d need to attack that many guests in one night. Especially if he had to deal with them individually.”

Reid doesn’t have an answer for her.

They lapse back into silence. Garcia’s sent them two copies of the articles from 1928, and Prentiss hands one over when she finds it in her stack. The Starbucks in-store radio station shifts from one unfamiliar acoustic song to another. A few tables over, two college-age girls quiz each other for a chemistry test.

“Cows,” Reid says, nearly dropping both the printout and latte.

“Come again?”

“Cows. A whole fucking ton of cows.” He sees Prentiss’ eyebrows jump and almost smiles. Jabs a finger at the newspaper clipping instead. “Villagers say Whateley was constantly buying livestock, but never seemed to have more than a few dozen animals at any time.”

“You’re saying our theoretical monster likes hamburgers?”

“There’s a barn behind the hotel,” the shiver hits him out of nowhere, and lukewarm coffee sloshes over the edge of his cup. “I saw it this morning. More than a hundred head of cattle, too.”

“According to the story, whatever terrorised the village in1928 escaped from the Whateley family farm,” Prentiss says, eyes back on her own paper. “You’d raise an unearthly horror in the same place you’d raise any other animal, wouldn’t you?”

They’re halfway to the SUV when Prentiss’ phone starts to ring. “Can I put you on speaker—” the end of her sentence gets lost in a small, choked noise and she freezes, one foot on the sidewalk, one on the road. “How long ago? Where? We’ll be there as soon as we can.

“That was Rice,” she says, before Reid has time to ask. “They found Whateley’s car. He said,” she stops again, blinks twice and looks down at her phone with a dazed expression. “He said it looked like something stepped on it. Something big.”

...

Whateley’s car is only a few miles out of the town site, but when they pull up at the scene, Reid can see why it’s taken so long to track it down. The hillside is a mess of downed trees and debris. From the road, there’s nothing to see but a tangle of vegetation. If it weren’t for the three police cruisers pulled to the side of the highway, he wouldn’t know he was looking at anything other than the remains of an old rock slide.

The smell hits him as he’s climbing out of the SUV. Motor oil and gasoline, tree sap and the green chlorophyll smell of crushed leaves. And rising over them, the rank, rotting smell of standing water, and something harder to pick out, that reminds him of a case he worked in Texas. A mix of manure and meat, pennies and dirt, one that blew into town every time the wind shifted.

Slaughterhouse, Reid thinks, pressing his nose into his shirt sleeve to block it out.

Officer Rice appears over the side of the drainage ditch, head and shoulders the only things clearing the road. “You’d better come see this,” he says, and Prentiss is loping down the shoulder of the road while Reid’s still dragging in one last gulp of cloth-scented air.

“Oh hell,” she says, and Reid stops with his heels still on the pavement, staring down.

Whateley’s car is on its back, wheels pointing outwards at unnatural angles. Half a tree, wider than both of them, lies across its back, jagged at the bottom where it cracked off from the stump. He can’t see the top half from here, but chunks of shatterproof glass catch the sunlight, patches of white light in the grass. Broken branches, shoved to one side, mark the path to the driver’s-side door.

He practically slides into the ditch, catches himself on another tree branch—big enough that he can imagine sitting on it as a child, if he’d been the kind to climb trees. Now that they’re on the same level, he can see the back end of the car is sitting at least a foot lower than it should, pressed into dry dirt. The front half is nearly flat, metal curving in a too-smooth arc.

Down here, the smell is worse, and he takes a few steps closer, crouching next to Prentiss, bracing himself for what must be absolute carnage.

There’s no blood. No body. Nothing but an ash-coloured, milky smear on the compacted remains of the door.

“Is that?” Prentiss reaches out towards the stain, then jerks her hand away.

“Don’t think so,” Rice says, dropping down next to them. “Crime scene tech’s still on his way, but it doesn’t,” he pauses, mouth pulling into an s-shape. “Well, smell it.”

Reid braces his hands on his knees and inclines his head forward. “Sulphur?”

Prentiss pushes back to her feet, reaching down to brush off the knees of her jeans. “Is there any sign of a body?”

“Nothing yet,” Rice says. “He must have dumped the car. I don’t think he’d be walking away from this. Wouldn’t get far, anyway.”

“Do you have any idea what could have caused this?” Reid asks, crab-walking towards the back of the car. “Even if we assume Whateley was travelling well over the speed limit, flipping his car wouldn’t cause this kind of damage.”

“Rock slide?” Rice doesn’t sound convinced.

He squints through the jagged hole that used to be the car’s back window, fingers making tripods on the ground, steadying him as he leans in. Something yellow-white in the back seat. Papers, he realises, scattered everywhere, leaking out of toppled—trampled—boxes. Whateley’s library.

“Does anyone have gloves?”

Rice jogs back up the hill, returns with a pair of nitriles in sky blue. Reid slips them on and reaches into the back seat. Carefully, because the last thing he wants to do is contaminate a crime scene with his own blood.

The closest book is still mostly intact, only its cover missing. Little flakes of binding glue and crumbled paper-edges swirl in the air when he pulls it out. The pages are stiff under his fingers, it’s amazing the rollover didn’t grind it into dust.

He feels Prentiss behind him, bending down to read the flyleaf. “Nameless Cults?” she says, translating out of the German and adding a third language to Reid’s mental list of Things He’s Learned About Emily Prentiss.

Reid passes it to her without comment, reaches in again, pulling out a handful of pages from the roof-turned-floor. Shuffles through them with as much care as he can. Ignores the Diana-Reid-instilled-outrage he always feels at the sight of a ruined book.

There’s a mess of languages in his hands. Latin, Arabic, something that might be Coptic. He nearly misses the first page in English, nearly drops it when he sees the name in the upper left header, across from the page number: John Dee.

“Reid, is that—”

“John Dee’s English translation of the Necronomicon. Most scholars consider it an imperfect translation, as Dee allegedly integrated bits of his own dreams into the text, and excised large segments of the original, in order to fit it into a single volume. However, occult scholars have noted his version contains a remarkably high number of key incantations and rituals,” he’s babbling. Deep breaths. He sucks his lips in over his teeth, swallows. “If Whateley was trying to summon something, this would be his equivalent of The Anarchist’s Cookbook.”

Prentiss offers him a hand, and Reid realises he’s tipped forward onto his knees.

“Why do you know all this, anyway?” She asks, as he strips off the gloves and dusts the worst of the dirt off his pant legs.

“Dee’s translation isn’t that difficult to find if you’re even passingly familiar with a search engine. And after that case with the fake Satanic cult last year, I thought it might be useful to know more about the practices of true believers.” He shrugs, “And it’s hard to find a good horror story when you’ve already memorised the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe.”

Prentiss shakes her head, mouth tilting up at one corner. Then the wind shifts, bringing another wave of dead-animal smell, and her smile turns queasy. “So wherever Whateley’s gone, he doesn’t have his monster manual with him.”

“It doesn’t look like it.” Reid frowns, “But that doesn’t make sense. The Necronomicon isn’t just about summoning creatures—most of it is about controlling them. Without the book, Whateley wouldn’t have any more control over his theoretical creature than I have over a feral dog.”

“Would he know that?” Prentiss gestures towards the road. Reid nods, maybe a little too quickly. The smell doesn’t seem to be fading with prolonged exposure. If anything, it’s getting worse.

“Most likely,” the air in the SUV is warm and stale, and Reid gulps it in with relief as their doors thump shut. “These texts are dense—people dedicate their entire academic careers to interpreting a few pages of the Necronomicon. Anyone who’s studied enough to believe they could call forth a creature has to know what would happen if one actually showed up.”

“Which would be what?”

“If no one were controlling or restraining it?” He looks past her, back towards the wreckage of Whateley’s car. Something like that, he thinks, and bites down on the side of his tongue to stop that train of thought. “Chaos.”

Prentiss follows his gaze, then looks at him like she thinks she should say something, but doesn’t want to. “Where does that leave us?”

Reid thinks of the barn, surrounded by cows. Inhales, and can almost taste the raw-meat smell of the ditch in the back of his throat. Pictures the unseen, barely described Frye family farm, circa 1928: buildings crushed in at the centre, like a wrecked sandcastle at the beach. Imagines the glass in the Dunwich Resort’s lobby littering the ground. Big, shattered chunks reflecting light out of the ruins.

“Could we check back at the hotel?” he blurts, feeling his face heat up even as a small trickle of panic works its way into his stomach.

“Worried?” She smiles at him a little too indulgently, but turns the key in the ignition and steers them back onto the road.

“It just seems like a good idea to check in, make sure no one else is unaccounted for.” Plausible. Reasonable. He has to ruin it, of course. “It’s not about Ethan.”

“Reid, you know the line about the lady protesting too much?”

“Hamlet, act three,” he stares out the window. At the window, really. “Did you know that while the line is usually misquoted as ‘methinks the lady doth—’”

“Reid,” she says, with force this time. “If you’re attracted to him, and he’s attracted to you, what’s the problem?”

He presses his forehead against the passenger window, lets his eyes unfocus until all he can see is a blur of green. “If Ethan had asked me to come up here a year ago, I wouldn’t have brought anyone from the office. I would have taken someone from my Thursday night pub trivia team, or one of the TAs I get coffee with at Georgetown. Maybe, if I was feeling brave or suicidal, the girl at the comic book shop I’d had dinner with a few times.

“After Georgia,” he stops, grits his teeth, swallows down all the inflection trying to creep into his voice. Easier to say if he can’t feel it. “My friends knew what my job was, but how do you tell the girl you’re not even sure you’re dating that you’re walking with a cane because a serial killer beat you hard enough to fracture your metatarsals and dislocate your ankle? That you can’t even go to the movies because you know you’ll try to pull your gun every single time someone moves behind you in the dark?”

The resort’s alpine roof slips into view. Still in one piece, and Reid wonders why he’s so surprised.

They pause at the top of the road, just before it slopes into the village. Prentiss is watching him, foot on the brake, waiting.

“Ethan knows when it’s not a good idea to ask how I am. I don’t have a lot of friends these days, I want to keep the ones I’ve got.” Short, simple. Maybe now they can drop this. God, he hopes they can drop it.

Prentiss presses the gas again, rolling into Dunwich at fifteen miles per hour. “Is this about Gideon?”

“Actually, it’s about Hotch.” The SUV lurches to the side and Reid turns to see her staring at him, mouth hanging open. “Not like that.”

“You’re trying to make me crash this thing, aren’t you?” she asks, but there’s laughter under it.

“I didn’t mean,” it occurs to him, too late, that she’s given him an easy out. A chance to make it into a joke, to make this whole topic of conversation disappear for at least a few minutes. Long enough to get them back to the hotel, anyway. “Never mind.”

“Reid.” He hates it when she says his name like that. Serious, and maybe a little wounded.

“Well, look at Hotch, then,” it comes out bitter. He doesn’t care. “He’s one of the strongest, most devoted, dedicated people I know, and his entire life is falling apart. I think he’s sleeping in his office now. How, exactly, am I supposed to do better?”

Prentiss jerks the car into the parking lot with more force than she needs to, making his head thump against the glass. “What happened in Georgia wasn’t your fault.”

“What about what happened after?” he snaps, and the way she goes still, even as she’s turning into a parking space is enough to tell him she knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“I thought you said this wasn’t about Gideon,” she says, finally, and Reid feels something inside him, some thin wall of reserve, snap.

“Leave it.” He tears off his seatbelt, slams the door on his way out.

Prentiss waits a full thirty seconds before following him. Reid tells himself he doesn’t care.

...

The hotel lobby is packed so full, Reid has to wedge himself through the front doors. From the look of the crowd, every guest in the hotel is down here, along with most of the staff and several dozen people in unfamiliar uniforms, who must have come in from the village.

A hand grabs his elbow, tugging him around so quickly he doesn’t even have time to panic before he’s half-falling into Ethan. “Hey, what’s going on out there?”

One of Ethan’s hands settles at his waist, holding him steady. Reid bristles and twists away. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” He holds his hands out, placating, and Reid jams the toe of his sneaker into the hardwood, to keep from kicking something. “It’s just crazy in here. The police aren’t letting anyone leave, and once people started hearing why,” he gestures to the crush of people around them. “Safety in numbers, I guess.”

The front doors slide open behind them, and he turns his head to see Prentiss heading for the cluster of Arkham troopers standing near the front desk. She glances in his direction, but doesn’t stop moving. Great.

“Come on,” he says, heading towards her. Ethan follows close behind him, putting a hand on Reid’s shoulder when the crowd shifts and threatens to separate them. Too much fear in the room, he guesses, for his polite ‘excuse me’ to register. Fingers slide down his bicep, curl at the inside of his elbow and he stifles a gasp. Tries to pretend the hair on his arms isn’t standing on end.

He shouldn’t have come up here. On opposite sides of the country, it’s easy to pretend the tone of their friendship hasn’t changed. That there’s nothing strange about exchanging text messages with Ethan at 3 a.m., when a bad case keeps him awake in his hotel room. Or that, while they still only talk on the phone a few times a month, they e-mail each other almost every day when he’s in DC.

Easier to write off the way his heart pounds in his ears before every phone call as social anxiety when Ethan’s not two inches behind him, close enough for Reid to feel the heat from his body.

There’s about half a foot of space separating the handful of Arkham’s finest from the rest of the room. Reid’s glad to see a police uniform still carries some weight. The law enforcement presence is probably the only thing keeping the crowd from a full-scale panic.

“Is anyone else missing?” he asks, nudging his way into the half circle of officers.

“So far it’s holding at twenty,” a women to his right answers. She’s short and freckled, with sandy blonde hair, and when Reid glances down at her name tag he has to suppress a laugh: Morgan.

“While we’re here, we should take a look at Whateley’s office,” Prentiss says. When Reid looks at her, she doesn’t avoid eye-contact, but the small frown she’s wearing makes him feel guilty enough.

“Good idea,” he says, offering an apologetic smile in return.

“You’re nearly there already,” Officer Morgan says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, towards an archway behind the main desk. “First door on your left. We went through it earlier, didn’t find much. It’s all business—didn’t see so much as a paperweight in there.”

Prentiss’ expression turns thoughtful. “Are there bookshelves?”

“Along one wall.”

Her grin is sharp, and gone before it fully registers. “Anyone looked behind them yet?”

Part III

A Jazz Musician in New England

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 06:40:40 GMT

Title: The Shoggoth Variations
Pairing: Reid / Ethan (Criminal Minds)
Word count: 18,000+

Summary: When Ethan invited Reid and Prentiss to the Dunwich Jazz Festival, they were expectinge a relaxing weekend of drinking, music and, well... drinking. But now the festival’s guests are going missing, the manager of the local hotel has disappeared, and the very fabric of reality itself is starting to look dangerously thin.

Author Notes: If you’ve never read HP Lovecraft’s “The Dunwich Horror,” (on which this fic is based, sort of) you can check out the full story over here. You don’t need to have read the original to understand the fic, but as this is one of my all-time favourite horror stories, I’d be remiss not to recommend it here.

“Memories and possibilities are ever more hideous than realities.”

–HP Lovecraft

“The Dunwich Jazz Festival?” Reid says into the phone with barely concealed delight. “You’re playing The Dunwich Jazz Festival?”

Ethan groans. “One joke, G-Man, and I’m taking you off the guest list and putting my VIP passes on eBay.”

“VIP passes,” Reid starts, then puts a hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep the grin out of his voice, “to the event you one referred to as, what was it again? Oh, yes. ‘An excuse for pandering sell-outs to fellate record company executives as true art withers and dies in a corner, behind the chocolate fountain.’” He pauses. “Were you serious about the chocolate fountain?”

“Okay, so I may have said—”

“That playing Dunwich would be the equivalent of taking jazz out behind the woodshed and shooting it?” He hears Ethan choke back a laugh and grins to himself, kicking off against his desk so his chair spins in a lazy half-circle. Across the bull pen, Morgan gives him a look. And Reid would feel worse about taking a personal call during office hours if he and Prentiss weren’t playing trash-can basketball over there.

It’s been a slow month. Even Hotch is talking about using up some of his comp time.

“So are you coming or what?” Ethan says, and Reid’s grin widens to the point of almost-painful. The last year may have been a colossal disaster most of the time, but one thing he doesn’t regret is reconnecting with Ethan. He’s enjoying this having a social life thing, even if it is almost entirely telephone based.

“I’ll talk to my supervisor, but I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

“I’ve got two passes, is there anyone you want to bring?”

“You’re not bringing anyone from New Orleans?” He spins his chair back around in time to see a new window pop up on his computer: 1 new message. THE DUNWICH HORROR :D, the subject line reads, and there’s an attachment: jazzfestbrochure.pdf. “Oh, I got the information you sent me.”

“I’m trying to keep anyone in the city from hearing about this for as long as possible,” Ethan says, a little sheepishly. “Keeping the accusations of, uh, record-executive fellatio to a minimum.”

“That reminds me, what’s the going rate of pay for taking jazz out behind the woodshed and shooting it?”

Ethan groans again, “Trust me, you don’t even want to know.”

...

“Have either of you ever heard of the Dunwich Jazz Festival?” Reid asks, stepping in front of the trash can Prentiss is aiming for, then ducking when she lets the ball of paper fly anyway.

“Dunwich, as in Massachusetts?” She asks, wincing as the paper bounces off Reid’s shoulder and goes skittering down the aisle between their desks. “My father’s family has a summer home about thirty minutes away, in Arkham. We used to go every summer when I was a kid.” Her expression doesn’t change, but Reid is sure he sees her eyes cloud over. “He was a huge jazz fan.”

Was. It’s the most he’s heard her say about her father since she joined the team. Some day he’s going to work up the nerve to ask about that. But for now he jams his hands in his pockets, nods and says, “Yes. A friend of mine’s playing it this year, and I’ve got an extra pass if anyone wants it.”

“That would be fantastic,” Prentiss blurts, then makes a face at herself and turns red. “I mean, if no one minds.”

Behind her, Morgan grins and shakes his head. “Nah, jazz gives me a headache.”

Reid shrugs, “So long as you help me talk to Hotch about getting the time off, I’m in.”

...

“Do you know much about Dunwich?” Prentiss asks him, as she pilots their rented SUV over yet another narrow, wooden bridge. Below them the Miskatonic river chugs along, its surface a glossy, haematite-black. Reid stares at it, fascinated. Aside from the airport and a few gas stations, nothing in Arkham looks modern enough to cause this kind of pollution. Even if there were an industrial cause, they’re twenty minutes upstream now. But the water shows no signs of fading.

“Not much,” he says, digging his fingers into the passenger door armrest for support as the bridge ends and they bump back onto the dirt road.

“Liar,” she says with a smile, but doesn’t stop talking. Reid hasn’t seen her this happy since she caught him cheating at cards. “It was a ghost town, originally. The last residents moved away during the Depression. I think everyone in the area forgot it was even out here. When the state put the land up for sale, no one could figure out where it was supposed to be.

“I was about eight when they built the resort out here. They started the festival a year later—dedicated one of the buildings as an artist’s retreat.”

The SUV goes over another bump—a tree root, this time—and Reid bounces in his seat. “Yet they couldn’t pave the road?”

She shrugs, “Part of the atmosphere.”

Reid has to admit, she has a point. The ditches on either side of the road are choked with grass and wildflowers. To their west a lush, sprawling tangle of trees reminds him more of a rainforest than the area’s usual spruce-fir mix. Even the hills rising steadily in front of them seem to glow with vegetation, like scoops of over-dyed pistachio ice cream. “It is beautiful.”

“Brutal drive, though,” she says, and as they round a bend in the road Reid sees a gorge open in front of them. This high up, the Miskatonic is a thin black snake. Funny, he didn’t think they’d climbed that far yet. “I bet it’s almost impossible to get out here in the winter.”

Another wooden bridge, this one looking about as reliable as the last. Reid swallows hard and stares up at the hills instead. For all the plant life clinging to them, their tops are oddly bare. He shields his eyes, squints. “Are those the pillars?”

“Yeah,” she follows his gaze to the stone circles capping each hill. “Massachusetts’ very own Stonehenge.”

“I read about them in the guidebook—” he starts. Next to him, Prentiss mouths ‘knew it’ and Reid feels his face flush.

“If we can see those, then we should be almost,” she trails off, turns the car around another bend, then slaps the wheel, “Aha, here we go.”

DUNWICH, the sign reads, 5 MILES.

...

The Dunwich Resort is built in the style of an Alpine chalet, with a sloping black roof and log cabin walls. The design must have been a big hit with the developers, because nearly every building Reid can see is built in the same style, from the line of restaurants and shops on Dunwich’s ‘Main Street’ to the tourist information hut on the outskirts of town.

Ethan’s slumped on a sofa in the hotel lobby, a glass of what Reid assumes is Jack Daniels dangling from his fingers. He looks up when the sliding doors whish shut behind them, crossing the hardwood floor in big, leaping steps.

“Hey, you made it,” he says, then pulls Reid into a hard, unexpected hug. He’s just recovered enough to raise his arms when Ethan pushes him back again, studying him at arm’s length. “You look good, Spencer.”

Reid blinks, shoves his hair behind one ear automatically and tries to keep his face from going red. They’ve been talking every couple of weeks, at least, since the case in New Orleans. But it’s been six months since they’ve been face-to-face. And he knows he’s been getting better—the whole sleeping through the night once in a while and not jumping at every shadow in his peripheral vision thing was a bit of a tip off.

But it’s different to hear someone else say it. Someone off the team, who doesn’t have to assume he’s making it through the days, who doesn’t have to worry about competency in the field or fitness for duty.

“Thanks,” he manages, and looks away. Next to him, Prentiss is still smiling to herself, and Reid remembers his manners. “Ethan, this is Agent—uh, Emily Prentiss. She works on my team at the BAU.”

Ethan offers her his hand, and they shake. “So he managed to drag you to this debacle, hey?” Behind her, Reid drags a finger across his throat and shakes his head. Ethan winks back, and keeps talking like nothing’s happened. “There’s a kickoff party at seven. Go dump your stuff and get ready, you can meet me here around then. I’ll introduce you to some of the other musicians.”

About an hour later the three of them are leaning against the bar at the back of the hotel ballroom. There’s a stage set up along the opposite wall, and Reid watches a tall, thick-waisted man in a black pinstripe suit step up to one of the microphones. He taps it, and the noise echoes through the room. “Hello?”

There’s a cheer from the crowd. Next to him, Ethan holds up his drink in a mock salute, before tipping half of it down his throat.

“Hi there,” the man says, more confident this time. “My name’s Will Whateley, and on behalf of the Whateley Hotel Group and the Dunwich Resort, I’d like to welcome you to the twenty-eighth annual Dunwich Jazz Festival.”

Another cheer. Reid glances to his right, to see Emily hoist her own drink in the air. She’s smiling so wide he can see her gums above her front teeth, and her face is flushed red with excitement (and possibly vodka). He’s glad he asked her to come, he thinks. It looks like he’s not the only one on the team who needed a little time away from his life.

On stage, Whateley’s busy thanking sponsors. Reid sips at his gin and tonic and lets himself tune out, floating along on the hum of unheard conversations and the faint buzz of alcohol in his veins.

“You really do look better, you know,” Ethan says, leaning in so his mouth is only an inch from Reid’s ear. “You had me worried there, for a while.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Or rather, there are too many possibilities. Too many secrets. He settles for another swallow of gin, then smiles, leaning in so their heads are bowed together. “I ready a study that showed males between the age of twenty-five and thirty are healthier when they eat and sleep on a regular basis. The results were interesting, but not conclusive, so I thought I’d run an independent study.”

Ethan shakes his head, smiles, and clinks their glasses together.

The rest of the room is cheering again, Prentiss whooping right along with them. Reid turns his head to see Whateley shake hands with a woman holding a guitar, before relinquishing the microphone and disappearing into the crowd.

“Oh God, it’s Keziah Mason,” this time it’s Prentiss speaking into his ear. “She used to play shows in Arkham every summer when I was a kid—she must be almost eighty by now. I can’t believe she’s still performing.”

“Really?” The woman on stage is white haired and even from here her glasses look thick enough to repel bullets. But other than that, she looks as though she could be in her early sixties. Younger, even. He’s about to ask Prentiss if she’s sure, when Keziah—if that’s who she is—strums a chord and opens her mouth. For the first time all night, the room goes still, and Reid can’t remember what it was that was so important a moment ago.

...

Four a.m. finds him in Ethan’s room at the Lavinia Whateley Art Centre, sprawled out in the only armchair, legs kicked up over one armrest as he sips from a mini-bar bottle of shiraz. Prentiss is on the ground next to him, shoes off, bare toes curling in the hotel carpet.

“Okay, I admit it,” Ethan says from the bed, curling one hand around a two-ounce bottle of Glenfiddich. “If this is what selling out gets you, I am so in.”

“Mm,” Prentiss nods, stretching her arms above her head and leaning back against Reid’s chair. “If you need groupies, I think Reid and I can be persuaded to come along for the ride.”

“What do you think, Spencer, want to be my groupie?” There’s an edge to his smile Reid’s never seen before. Dark, and suggestive—and, god, he is too drunk to deal with that thought.

“Shut up, Ethan,” he says, and flips him off. On the floor, he hears Prentiss clap a hand over her mouth to stifle a snort of laughter.

“JJ is never going to believe you just did that.”

Reid lets his head thump against the back of the armchair and takes another swig of wine. Tries to remember the last time he did something like this. CalTech? Maybe. It feels like one of those nights, back when he and Ethan were still rivals more than friends. Sitting around the engineering building in the middle of the night with a box of cheap wine, while the rest of the PhD candidates tried to make sure none of the security cameras were pointing at anyone under the legal age.

He’d enjoyed that degree. Math and theoretical physics were solitary subjects. Solving a proof never seemed to require the same team spirit.

“Ugh,” Prentiss yawns, the grabs the armrest next to his head and pulls herself up. “I need bed. You coming, Reid?”

“Not yet,” he starts to say, then stops himself. It’s a three minute walk back to the hotel, at most. The area’s well-lit. He’s seen at least two security guards on the grounds since they left the party. But still. Don’t split up. “Actually, never mind, I’ll—”

“No, no,” she puts a hand out to shush him, then stoops to pick up her shoes. “I’ll be fine. Fellow agent, remember? And look,” she puts her arms out and manages to walk an almost-straight line. “See you in the morning.”

...

“Remind me to do this more often,” Reid says, pushing himself up off the mattress with one elbow when Ethan passes him the bottle. The shiraz is gone and they’re on the white wine now, something dry and harsh tasting that has him pushing his tongue against the roof of his mouth to try and moisten it.

“What, drink?” Ethan steals the bottle back as he’s in mid-sip. There’s an edge to his voice, barely noticeable with the way he’s slurring, and Reid thinks he knows which part of his ‘booze and heroin’ comment in New Orleans was supposed to hit home.

“No, not that,” he steals the bottle back, takes a swig to make up for losing a turn. “This. Other people. I think I need to get out more.”

“Serious?” He holds out a hand for the bottle, and Reid takes another sip, just because he can. “Don’t bogart the chardonnay. Weren’t you like, the fucking king of cool when we were in college?”

“Right,” his knees are starting to go stiff, and it’s a fight to keep from scissor kicking his legs out in front of him, pushing off the headboard to get the kinks out of his elbows. The last thing he wants to do is remind Ethan they’re drinking—and lying, together—on his bed. “Me, cool. Sure.”

“You think I would have talked to you if you weren’t?” Ethan swings his arms above his head, fingers laced together, pushing until his knuckles crack. “Why, because we went to the same high school? I still wouldn’t talk to most of those assholes, even if they were offering me a four-album contract.”

Reid feels himself grin, decides to chance the stretch. Presses his hands flat against the headboard and pushes until he can feel his elbows burn. When he lowers his arms, Ethan’s watching him, mouth open and, no, still too drunk to think about this.

“You must have some kind of social life,” is all he says, to Reid’s combined relief and dismay. “I’m willing to count your WoW guild.”

“Ever tried to keep up with an MMORPG when you’re away from your home computer for two thirds of every month?” He shrugs, motions for the wine bottle. “Since when do you know anything about computer games?”

“Funny, I seem to remember kicking your ass at Diablo more than once, back in the day,” he ignores Reid’s dirty look. “What about Emily?”

“What about her?”

“Are the two of you friends? Or more-than-friends?”

“We’re not really either. We work together, and sometimes we all go out, as a team. But I don’t think we’ve ever spent any time alone, before this weekend.” And I was a jerk to her for most of my recovery, and probably before that, too. Yeah, maybe he won’t bring that part of it up. “If you drink the rest of the wine, I’m getting my gun out of the hotel safe.”

“Fine, fine,” Ethan grumbles. The hotel mattress sags in the centre, and when he leans over to pass the drink he rolls onto his side—unintentionally, from the look on his face. Their fingers bump on the bottle. Reid sits up fast, and practically pours the last of the wine down his throat.

The awkward silence lasts a beat, then a full measure.

“Hey,” Ethan says, grinning again like nothing’s happened. Thank god for alcohol’s adverse effect on the short-term memory. “You want to go see something?”

...

The sky’s turning pink around the edges by the time he and Ethan make it outside. Reid checks his watch: a quarter past five. No wonder all the festival’s events are scheduled to start after noon.

Ethan leads him past the staff cabins and the maintenance shed, towards the back edge of the resort property. The ground behind the hotel dips and rolls in a series of shallow mounds, smaller versions of the semi-circular hills he and Prentiss saw on the drive in. They’ve just crested the third of these when Reid gets his first glimpse of the barn.

Even at a distance, he can tell the building is a relic of the original Dunwich. The aluminum roof looks relatively new, but the wood on the sides is a weathered black-brown. The foundation must be just as old, because the whole building leans at an unnatural angle, as though the ground is trying to swallow it whole.

Reid’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t realise he’s stopped walking until Ethan turns back, “Spencer, you okay?”

It’s just a barn. An old, breaking-down barn. Too old to be familiar, to look like—he presses a hand to his chest, feels his heart beat against his palm. Sucks in air and holds it, lets it out slowly, counting to ten in his head. And, god, it’s not as though he hasn’t spent most of his life dealing with chronic, incurable illnesses. So why is he still surprised that this hasn’t gone away?

“I’m fine,” he says, and starts walking again, as though he can’t feel Ethan staring a hole through his head. “You wanted to show me a barn?”

“You didn’t see them?” They’re walking down the slope now, another hill blocking the building from view. Reid feels something in his chest ease. “Listen,” Ethan says, “you can hear them.”

They stop again, in the round hollow between the hills. Reid lets his eyes flutter shut, and pretends it’s in aid of his hearing. And then, on the early morning breeze, he hears it. Mooing.

“Cows?”

“Not just cows,” Ethan grabs his elbow, pulling him up the hill, and Reid nearly trips over his own feet. “A whole fucking ton of cows,” he finishes with a grin, one arm thrown out in front of him as he points at, well...

A whole fucking ton of cows. Jerseys, Black Angus, Red Polls, and a few more breeds besides. All clustered together around the sides and back of the barn.

“What are they doing here?”

“Hell if I know,” Ethan says, dropping down to sit in the grass and patting the spot next to them. “There must be a hundred of them, hey?”

“One hundred and twenty-four, at least. I think there’s more around the side.” He doesn’t sit. There’s something about this place that makes his stomach twist and his lungs shrink. Hypervigilance, he tells himself, gritting his teeth as though that’s going to help him relax.

He lost a lot of things in Georgia, but he never thought his faith in his own instincts would be what he’d miss most.

“Sit,” Ethan says, voice going soft. “There’s a band playing this afternoon I think you’ll like. Nyarlathotep. They do this cool Cuban-fusion thing.”

“Great,” it takes nearly all the control Reid has to get his knees to bend. Once he’s down on the ground, he can’t keep himself from sinking his fingers into the dirt, twining them around grass roots. “Are we sleeping first, or is this another one of your ‘power through it’ weekends?”

“I could nap,” Ethan says, letting himself fall back on the grass and sending shards of ice into Reid’s bloodstream. “All those cows, it’s better than a white noise machine.”

“I don’t—” he doesn’t know how to explain this away. They’ve never talked about Georgia. Never even come close. ‘I have an irrational dislike of farms’ isn’t going to cut it as an explanation, and tonight’s been good. Better than good, better than anything’s been in ages. “Fine.”

The grass is sharp against the back of his neck. Above him, the moon is turning muddy red in the light of the sunrise. Ethan’s breathing is already evening out next to him and he focuses on that, trying to match it. Deep breath in. Hold it. Slow breath out. He’ll wake him up in half an hour and they’ll go inside. Thirty minutes in the grass, he’s survived worse.

When Ethan nudges him awake three hours later, Reid’s so shocked he almost doesn’t notice that half the cows are missing from the pasture in front of the barn.

...

There’s a police car outside the hotel. Two, actually, a standard Ford model hidden behind an SUV with the Arkham PD’s logo on the side. A few feet away, Prentiss is talking to a uniformed officer. Reid’s halfway to her before he realises he’s running.

“What’s going on?”

“Reid?” She throws an arm out, like she’s going to hug him, then drops it just before her fingers touch his shoulder. “Is Ethan with you?”

“Right here,” he’s out of breath when he jogs up behind them. “What’s up?”

“That brings the total back to fifteen,” Prentiss says, turning back to the cop. He’s middle aged, dark hair just starting to grey at the temples, and he looks as annoyed as Prentiss does relieved. “Officer Rice, this is Special Agent Reid from the FBI and Ethan, uh.”

“Walsh,” Ethan says. “Jazz musician. Fifteen what?”

Reid sees Rice frown and look at Prentiss. She nods, then turns to Reid and brushes a hand through her bangs and gives him a pointed nod. When he touches a hand to his own head it comes away filled with grass. Oh.

“Some of the festival’s guests haven’t made it back to their rooms yet.” Rice frowns again. “Like I was telling Agent Prentiss, it’s rough country. Most of them probably got drunk, wandered off, got lost.” Reid ignores the pointed look thrown his way.

“Were any of the missing guests seen together before they disappeared?” he asks instead.

“A few of them left in pairs, but so far most of the reports have come in from separate parties.” Rice smiles, but somehow it still looks like a frown. “Must have been one hell of a kick off.”

“If there’s anything we can do to help—” Prentiss starts.

“We’ll organise a manhunt in a few hours, round up whoever hasn’t made it back here. If you’ve got the shoes for it, you’re welcome to volunteer.” He shrugs. “Until then, you may as well get yourself some breakfast.”

They’re barely out of earshot before Prentiss leans into Reid and asks, “Are you calling Garcia, or am I?”

...

“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?” Garcia asks, in lieu of a greeting.

“Uh, sort of.” Reid shrugs, then realises she can’t see it and rolls his eyes at himself. “How is everyone?”

“Bored. They sent Morgan on a consult, so now there’s not even any eye candy to keep me distracted,” she sighs, a little louder than necessary. “Any news from the mount?”

“I don’t know yet,” he can feel the beginnings of a headache settling around his temples. Probably a hangover. Fantastic. He looks at his suitcase, still unopened, on the hotel luggage rack and hopes he thought to pack an aspirin. “Can you find out if anyone’s disappeared from Dunwich before? During the festival, I mean.”

“Before?” he can hear the panic leech into her voice. “Reid, are you and Em—”

“We’re fine,” he cuts her off, “But a few of the guests never made it back to their rooms last night. It might not be anything.”

“A few?”

“Fifteen,” he admits, wincing. “Prentiss is trying to get names.”

Garcia lets out a low whistle, and Reid’s looming headache spills into his frontal lobe. “I see why you called. I’ll do some digging.” A pause, “Should I call this number?”

“Hotel room,” he lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, fights the urge to pull a pillow over his head to block out the light. “No cell phone reception out here. I’ll call you back?”

“Give me two hours, tops. And sweetie?”

“Yes?”

“Try to have some fun, okay?”

...

By the time Reid showers and makes it back downstairs, Prentiss’ shoes have changed from heels to hiking boots, and Officer Rice’s frown has moved from mildly irritated to a miserable, full-faced wrinkle.

“What happened?” Reid asks, shoving still-damp hair out of his face and casting around for Ethan.

“Three of the guests made it back,” Prentiss says. “But one of the bands is missing. Only one of their musicians showed up for sound check this morning.” She points to one of the sofas in the far corner of the lobby, where a women with red dreadlocks is hunched over, clutching her stomach as another police officer takes her statement.

“How many other members are there?”

“Seven,” Rice says, then lets out a long, slow sigh through pursed lips. “It gets worse. Whateley’s gone AWOL.”

“Hotel staff say he came into work this morning,” Prentiss adds, before Reid can finish formulating a question. “But no one’s seen him since nine, and he isn’t answering any of his phones.”

“We sent a car to his place in Arkham,” Rice says, pressing his index and middle knuckles to his lips before exhaling again. Reid wonders if he’s trying to quit, or just doesn’t want to step out for a smoke while the FBI’s watching. “Clothing’s gone, and the boys at the scene saw a lot of empty shelves.”

“Shit,” Ethan says, practically into Reid’s ear. “You think he’s involved?”

“We’ve got an APB out on his car,” Rice’s frown tightens at the corners, sliding back towards annoyed. Reid pretends something across the room’s caught his attention, and slowly slips his hand off his gun and back into his pocket.

“I know it’s not our jurisdiction, but Agent Reid and I are willing to help if you want us,” Prentiss says, not for the first time. “If Whateley’s running, there’s a good chance he knows something valuable. We might be able to help you find him.”

For a moment, Reid actually thinks Rice is going to smile. “I’ll phone Arkham and let them know the two of you’re coming. You’ll want to see his place?”

“That’s my cue to find something to do with myself, isn’t it?” Ethan asks, under his breath.

“Try to stay in well populated areas,” Reid blurts. “Indoors, if you can. Whatever’s happening to these people, it seems to be happening when they’re in small groups. If there’s an unsub, he’s not looking for a high profile—”

Ethan holds up his hands. “Spencer, I have enough training to count as one third of an FBI agent. I can follow the horror movie rule.”

“The what?”

“You know.” He claps Reid on the shoulder and grins, “Don’t split up.”

For some odd reason, Reid feels less than reassured.

Part II

I'm Blaming this on the Newest Metric Album, Honestly

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 20:36:37 GMT

Title: Trust Fall
Pairing: Morgan and Reid, sort of. Ish.
Word Count: 715
Summary: So I was reading prompts for Rounds of Kink to distract myself from my actual writing project and ran into: Blindfold, Spencer Reid/Derek Morgan, Working On Trust Issues. Oh hey, awesome, I thought. I’ll write some emotionally fraught blindfold porn!

...and then I wrote this instead. Um. Yeah.

Reid is shaking. Not trembling, not shivering—outright fucking shaking, so hard Morgan can feel it in his chest and thighs. Hard enough that he half expects Reid’s joints to start rattling in their sockets, finds himself straining to hear a click of bone on bone over the hum of the motel air conditioner.

“Hey,” He flexes his fingers on Reid’s hips before he speaks, trying to give him a signal. Doesn’t work. Reid jerks in his arms, elbows thrown out to the sides, drawing in one quick breath after another without ever letting them back out.

Damn.

“C’mon, kid,” he sucks in a big breath of his own and blows it out against Reid’s jugular. “You start hyperventilating and I take that thing off, got it?”

Long, thin fingers find his hands, curl around his wrists and squeeze. Reid exhales in a noisy, unsteady huff that makes Morgan think of birthing scenes on tv. When he turns his head, the fabric over his eyes shifts, and Morgan wonders if he’s just opened his eyes, or closed them.

“Don’t take it off.” His voice is tense, like it’s taking all the concentration he has to keep his jaw still, his teeth from chattering. Honestly, Morgan wouldn’t be surprised if that’s it, exactly. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” he says, not thinking, and Reid tenses against him. “Oh, you wanna argue this one, pretty boy?”

“It’s not,” Reid pushes away from him, hands held out in front, feeling for obstacles. When he finds none he tucks his arms tight against his body and locks his knees, bracing himself, making himself small. “The fabric’s not wide enough. I can still see light, around the edges. A scarf, or some sort of face mask would probably be more effective.”

Morgan watches his eyebrows knit together above the thrift store tie. Reaches out and slides a hand along Reid’s arm, watching him flinch. “Try again.”

“You know, as much fun as having you question my judgement is, it really makes me less inclined to keep talking to you.” He leans in anyway, rests his forehead against Morgan’s shoulder, fists his hands in the fabric of his t-shirt. “How many minutes?”

“Don’t like the questions, don’t ask for my help.” He strokes down Reid’s back, keeps the rest of his body still. An anchor. A rock. A fucking mountain, if it helps. “About three. You wanna stop?”

“Not yet,” he hauls in another breath, waits, releases. And he’s still shaking, but without the same force. “I’m trying for five.”

“Reid, there are a lot of ways to deal with,” he stops. They can throw ‘post-traumatic-stress-disorder’ at an UNSUB like it’s nothing, but here on their own he knows just how far that’ll get him. “Your shit,” he says instead, “but I’m pretty sure freaking yourself out is not on the list of psychologically approved coping mechanisms.”

“Exposure therapy,” Reid says for what must be the eight millionth time since Morgan walked into their shared room to find him trying to tie his tie around his head. “Besides, I’m too old to be afraid of the dark.”

He wishes he could miss the edge of bitterness in that. Wishes reading people was one of those things you could shut off when you promised. Because he’d follow Reid fucking anywhere, trust him with his life—but it would be easier to trust the kid with himself if Morgan couldn’t see every little bit of his self loathing.

“You ever try this before?” he asks, eventually.

“Twice. It,” Reid hesitates, “didn’t go as well.”

Yeah, he bets.

“Five minutes,” he says, instead, and watches Reid pull the tie over his head and blink his eyes back into focus. He takes two big steps back, putting distance between them, and Morgan’s shocked at the feeling of loss. “You prove whatever you needed to?”

“It’s not,” Reid starts, then breaks off, tugging a hand through his hair. And maybe it’s false hope talking, but there’s an ease to him Morgan hasn’t seen in months. “Sort of.”

He winds the tie in his fingers, then holds his hand out, letting it slither to the floor. A splash of red on cream carpet.

When he looks up, he’s smiling, and Morgan can almost believe it’s real.

Remains: part 5/5

Sat, 03 Oct 2009 08:46:25 GMT

Title: Remains

Rating: R

Pairing: Nathan Harris / Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)

Summary: An AU look at episode 2.11, “Sex, Birth. Death.”
He knew this was coming. That’s why he’s out here, isn’t it? So they can get some closure. Except, that’s not what this feels like.

Warnings/Notes: More than any other part, this alludes heavily to the original episode. And yes, standard season two spoiler warnings, also.

Before we get to it, I just wanted to thank everyone who’s come by to take a look at this thing and tell me what they think. You guys are a pretty awesome fandom, and yeah, I’m totally going to have to do this again.

ACT V

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

“What do you think,” Morgan asks, “is this Harris guy our Unsub?”

They’re back in the briefing room. Everyone at the table except Reid, who hovers near the doorway. Even Garcia’s out of her office again, though Prentiss is starting to suspect she’s here for moral support more than the case.

“It’s too early to say,” Hotch replies. “He has unreleased knowledge of the crime scenes, his history matches the profile. At any rate, we’ll have enough to keep him in custody until we know for sure.”
He turns to the rest of the team—which, given that he isn’t making eye contact with her or Reid, and Gideon’s in his blind spot, pretty much consists of JJ and Garcia. “For now, keep working on the profile with an open mind. If you find a lead, follow it.”

“Hotch, you’ve said it yourself, this guy fits the profile,” Morgan points out. “And that story of his about looking for the killer doesn’t give him any kind of credible alibi. Why not focus on him?”

Hotch pauses, as though he’s working out his response in his head. “Even if Harris is our Unsub, I don’t want there to be any suggestion we’ve been less than objective in our investigation.”

Prentiss doesn’t let herself turn to look at Reid, but she wants to.

“If there’s a chance the killer is still out there, shouldn’t we be releasing this information to the press?” JJ flips her notebook open, clicks her pen. “I could have a conference set up in time for the eleven o’clock news.”

“Not yet.”

“With all due respect, sir, don’t you think the women working in the area should know they’re at risk?” The rest of the team is staring at her. Tone it down, Emily.

“We’ve been asked to keep this case out of the media,” there’s a definite pause before Hotch says ‘asked,’ and suddenly Erin Steyer’s afternoon visit makes a lot more sense. “There’s going to be a statement made on the Hill the day after tomorrow, about a major drop in the city’s violent crime rate.”

“And a DC serial killer doesn’t fit in with the image Congresswoman Steyer wants to project,” she manages to keep her voice even, this time, but Hotch gives her a warning look anyway.

—

“Agent Prentiss, can I see you in my office?”

They frown at each other across the expanse of Hotchner’s desk. If Emily’s honest with herself, she’s surprised this moment has been so long in coming.

“I don’t enjoy being disrespected in front of the team, agent,” if all you could hear was Hotch’s inflection, this would sound like any routine business meeting. She tries to make her’s match.

“With all due respect, sir, I could say the same.” She hasn’t figured Aaron Hotchner out yet, but she’s willing to bet subservience isn’t going to get her anything new. The worst he can do is ask her to leave. And if she had enough time, she’s sure she could imagine something worse.

“How do you know Congresswoman Steyer?”

Politics. She knew it was coming, but it’s still a disappointment. “She worked for my mother. She’s an old family friend.”

“Did you tell her about the case?”

“Excuse me?”

“You show up without being requested, with paperwork I didn’t sign off on—”

“You’re asking me if I’m a spy?” On another day, another case, maybe she would be able to reel herself back in. But the air in the bullpen has been close to igniting all day, and Holly Liddell’s death certificate is still lying on her desk. “Sir, this isn’t the X Files, and I haven’t smoked since I was seventeen. I work for you, and the same people you do.”

Hotch doesn’t seem to get the reference. Or, if there is a secret sci-fi fan hiding behind the tie and jacket, he ignores it. “I can’t run this team if I don’t trust its members. You’ve done good work here, but if you have a political agenda I’m sure there’s another department better suited to your needs.”

Politics again. She almost wants to laugh. One of the best profilers in the country, maybe the world, and he can’t read her at all.

“You’ve met my mother. Did you like her?”

—

Pasadena, California
February 1999

This girl is different this time. From the back, she doesn’t look like anyone from the magazines. Tall enough for a model, but skinny. All shoulders and legs. No hips, no curves.

Pretty, though. Blonde. And that’s enough for what he’s going to do.

Her face, he recognizes. The pink pulpy mass of his latest art project. Almost featureless now, except for a hint of darker red where her perfect, pouting lips used to be. Her body is familiar too, once it’s undressed. From something else—where? That flat chest, doesn’t seem right. But her skin, that’s dead on. So pale. When he draws the knife down through it, it looks so good against the red. Perfect, fucking perfect.

It’s not until she leans up that he makes the connection. Until she whispers, through the moist, ragged hollow that used to be her mouth, that it all makes sense.

“Nathan,” Spencer says, and his eyes snap open.

The first thing he sees, is skin.

He rolls onto his back and nearly falls off the bed. Spencer goes with him, puts a hand on his back to steady him. “Sorry, sorry. You have class in an hour. I thought you might want to go pick up your books.”

And he nods, gets up, gets ready, even drops a good bye kiss on Spencer’s shoulder before he goes. But all he can think of is the way the knife glinted, when it caught the light from Spencer’s desk lamp. How good the blood looked, spreading out on old flannel sheets.

All of it so fucking beautiful, and he doesn’t know what to do.

—

He’s on his way to dinner when he finds the package. An oblong box, wrapped in an old newspaper, with a single sheet of computer paper on top, folded in threes. ‘SPENCER’ it says on the outside, in Nathan’s messy, familiar scrawl.

Spencer shoves a foot in the door to wedge it open, picks up the box and carries it inside. Tries to think of a reason for the theatrics. It’s not an anniversary, as far as he knows. Six months won’t be until March, and they haven’t celebrated any of the other meaningless markers of time that couples at his high school used to. Valentine’s is coming up, maybe he’s just a few days early.

He unfolds the note, and the box hits the floor.

Spencer,

You deserve more than a letter. If I could do this face to face, I would, but I can’t.

I’m so sorry.

He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to pretend he’s got an average reading speed, that Nathan’s handwriting is hard to decipher, that he hasn’t seen the rest of it. That he can’t still see it, scrawled across the backs of his eyelids.

I tried to stop. I promise I tried to stop. But I can’t. I’m not even sure if I want to any more. I’m scared of how good this feels. How much better it might feel, to do more. I tried to think of something else, but this is all I could come up with. If I could fix me some other way, I would.

When you look in the box, you’ll understand.

I promise I’m never going to hurt you. I really, really promise.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

The last part is underlined so many times, there’s a gash in the page.

He doesn’t want to look in the box. Doesn’t, can’t, but he’s down on the ground anyway, fingers scrabbling at the wrapping, tearing, pulling. A Scrabble box, a little frayed around the edges. He doesn’t understand. Big, genius brain, and it’s not giving him anything.

He pulls the lid off, and blinks at a copy of Cosmopolitan from April 1997. The model on the cover looks vaguely familiar, probably in some movie he’s seen. The sell-lines look like standard women’s magazine stuff: fashion and sex tips and something about male psychology. Nothing out of the ordinary, except it’s almost two inches thick, its cover bulging away from the spine. Spencer pulls it out of the box, lets it fall open at random.

And gets it.

An ad for soap. A photo of a woman, mostly naked, curled in on herself, cheek pressed against her knee. Her legs are gone, replaced with a collage of taped-on images. Scars, burns, photographs that must be from newspapers—so small and grainy all he can see is red.

He shuts the magazine, then pulls it open to a different page. The head of a swimsuit model is a red haze, scratched out with pen. When he touches the spot where her stomach should be, his finger goes right through the page, touches an image of a car crash, scotch-taped into a shampoo ad. The magazine slips out of his fingers and skips across the floor, pages flapping with the momentum.

The next thing in the box is a copy of Maxim. He can’t even look at the cover of that one. Instead, he tips the whole box out. More magazines. Some pornography. All of it the same, inside. Pictures and punctures and pen scrawls. So much time spent. So much care.

“No,” he tells the collection of smiling, ruined faces spread out in front of him. “No, no, no.”

If I could fix me some other way, I would.

I’m sorry.

He leaves the letter on the floor, half-hidden under the lid of the box. He’s already halfway down the hall when he hears the door slam behind him.

—

When he gets to Nathan’s room, he nearly slides past the door. Too much momentum. He grabs the door handle to stop himself, and his shoulder collides with the wood. Inside the room, he can hear someone move. He bangs at the door with the heel of his hand, then his fist. “Nathan?” it comes out strangled, half panted. He’s not a runner. Twelve year-old geniuses don’t go out for track and field.

“Nathan,” he gasps in a breath, yells it back out. A few feet down the hall, he hears someone else’s door crack open on its hinges. Doesn’t care. “Open the door.”

A clunk as the deadbolt withdraws, then the door swings in and he sees ginger hair, freckles, green eyes. It takes a second to place the face, find the name, remember that Nathan lives in a double room. “Kevin, right?”

“Yeah,”Kevin doesn’t bother trying to guess his name. Not that Spencer blames him. It’s not as though they’ve been introduced. He hasn’t even been over here much, since privacy became a real concern. “He’s not here.”

“Can I come in anyway?” he asks, and shoves his way in without waiting. Nathan’s half of the room is cleaner than he remembers. Bed made, desk cleared off, bookshelf empty. Nothing in the drawers or the wardrobe. He jerks open Nathan’s closet to find empty hangers, and two filled suitcases sitting side by side at the bottom.

“Shit,” Kevin says, behind him. “Did he flunk out?”

When the laugh bubbles up in his throat, Spencer can’t keep it from spilling out. And then its too easy to keep going. To laugh until his vision swims and his throat burns, and he has to grab at the wardrobe for support. Behind him, Kevin says something, some version of ‘you alright?’ In a minute, he’ll have to turn around. Have to wipe his eyes and catch his breath, and get campus security on the phone.

But just now, it’s all too funny. Kevin’s question, the absurdity of the situation. Not to mention stupid, stupid Spencer Reid, who’s spent all this time walking on thin air. Waiting for the bottom to drop out of the world, when it turns out it was never there at all.

—

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

The best coffee shop in Quantico is on the other side of town. Garcia’s favourite Chinese takeout place, however, is just a few blocks away. When Reid shows up with an armful of cardboard cartons and a pair of chopsticks (plus a plastic fork, stuffed in his messenger bag), she looks dangerously close to kissing him.

Morgan and Prentiss are out canvassing again, so they have the bullpen to themselves. Garcia steals Morgan’s chair and kicks her feet up on his desk as she digs into a container of Singapore noodles. Her shoes are lime green patent leather and Reid wonders, not for the first time, what Garcia would look like if she’d decided on a career as a costumed crusader instead of becoming a technical analyst.

“Not that I object to you waiting on me hand and foot,” Garcia says, stealing a potsticker out of the communal tray. “But shouldn’t you be out with the rest of the Scoobies for the scavenger hunt?”

“Geographic profile,” he raises a shoulder in the direction of the scribbled-on map on his desk. “And more victimology. In case there’s another—” he trails off, and pretends it’s because he’s trying to fish the last of the ginger chicken out of the bottom of his carton. Another body. At this point, would that make things worse, or better?

“Do you still think he did it?” she swings her feet back onto the floor, leaning a shoulder against the desk instead.

“You know, no one’s asked me that yet,” he feels himself blink harder than he needs to, and looks away.

“That’s not a ‘yes.’”

“It’s not a ‘no’ either,” he points out, and slides down in his desk chair, until the top of his head is barely visible over the seat back.

“But, if you could choose, you’d like it to be someone else, right?” She copies his posture, wheels the chair forward. The FBI equivalent of a pillow fort. Reid isn’t sure he likes where this is going.

“It’s not that simple.” She nods, and doesn’t respond. A nice, open silence for him to fill. He almost smiles. Gideon would be proud. “Before he,” the words stick in his throat. He can’t remember the last time he’s talked about this. That, one, awkward conversation with Gideon before he joined the Bureau? He can’t remember if he managed to get this part out, even then.

Then again, Gideon didn’t have Nathan’s entire medical history saved in .pdf on his computer desktop.

“When Nathan tried to kill himself, he left me a letter. A—a suicide note, would be the correct term, I suppose.”

He doesn’t miss Garcia’s wince, and he’s ready to stop. More than happy to stop. Except she’s nodding at him to keep going. And ever since he saw Nathan at the metro station, he’s felt like he’s leaking, like every feeling and thought he’s kept to himself is boiling up, trying to get out at the seams.

“It was just lying there, outside my door. I know he must have come by while I was working. If I’d heard him,” he pokes his fork into the container again, dragging the tines through congealing pink sauce. “What would I have done? Could I have stopped him?”

“Reid, you can’t do that to—”

“I ask all these questions. But, most of the time? I think I would still have had this conversation. Just, four or five years ago, instead of now. And instead of sitting here, maybe I’d be in interrogation room two, telling all of you how he just,” his voice catches, and this time he lets himself smile. “Seemed so normal. I think, sometimes being there doesn’t change anything.”

“When this is finished, you’re coming over,” Garcia says in her don’t-argue-with-me-mister voice. “We’ll play Mario Kart until you can’t close your eyes without seeing Koopa shells.”

He nods, but her words barely register. Something’s tugging at him, in the back of his head.

Sometimes being there doesn’t change anything.

Failure.

Oh.

“Garcia, can you find out if anyone’s sent out a press release about that crime announcement yet?”

She blinks at him, then smiles, kisses two of her fingers and taps them against his temple. “On it, Master Grayson.”

This time, Reid finds he doesn’t mind the nickname so much.

—

Garcia’s list of names is almost three pages long. Reid’s looked up about half of them, and is in the process of Googling the Coalition for American Family Values, when Hotch’s door bangs open.

“DC Police just found another body,” he says, when Gideon and JJ lean out of their offices. “Across from the Capitol Building. Witnesses identified her as another local sex worker, and she’s been stabbed in the stomach.”

“Was there any message on the body this time?” JJ calls, already on her way down the stairs. Hotch and Gideon start towards her as well. Their paths converge near Reid’s desk, and he jumps up so he won’t be the only one in a chair.

“Nothing this time,” Hotch says. “Either he’s devolving, or it’s unrelated.”

“A dead body across from the Capitol Building, less than two days before a major announcement concerning prostitution sounds like a message to me,” she replies. And that’s Reid’s cue.

“Actually, Garcia and I checked, and there’s no information about the announcement available to the general public. The release Congresswoman Steyer’s office sent out only says there’s going to be a press conference the day after tomorrow, not what it’ll be about.”

“But the bill’s sponsors would have to be notified ahead of time,” JJ chimes in, “so they could draft their own releases.”

“Our Unsub feels powerless,” he grabs the list off his desk and holds it out, so the rest of the team can get a look at it. “The only thing worse than being a non-entity on the DC scene? Watching someone else take credit for your work—the work you’re doing out on the streets, on the front lines. He doesn’t want to stop killing. He wants us to help. To thank him.”

“Get Garcia to pare down her list as much as she can,” Hotch pulls out his cell phone and starts back towards his office. And he’s not sure, but Reid thinks there might be a hint of a smile on his face. “JJ, you call in Morgan and Prentiss,” he adds, over his shoulder. “I’ll get us the Congresswoman.”

—

Pasadena, California
February 1999

It’s Nathan’s mother who finally calls him, almost two days later. From the sounds in the background, she must be making the call on a hospital phone, and he’s choking back so much hope that he can barely manage a weak “Hello?”

“Spencer Reid? This is Mrs. Harris.” Her voice sounds tired, but calm. If he were—if anything serious had happened, she’d sound worse. Unless she’s in shock.

“That’s me. I’m Spencer,” he swallows down another lump of hope, and grimaces at the taste in his mouth. He hasn’t brushed his teeth in two days. Hasn’t done anything that would keep him away from the phone for more than a few minutes. “Is Nathan—how is he?”

“He’s in recovery,” she says, and Spencer lets his head thump down against the desk, too tired to hold it up any longer. “A... girl at the motel he checked into called the police before he could lose too much blood.”

And there’s no part of Spencer wants to ask what she means by that. Details are the last thing he wants. “Can I see him?”

“He can have visitors for a few minutes, if you come by this afternoon. He’s on the fourth floor at Huntington Hospital, in the east wing. Do you know how to get here?”

“I’ll be there,” he promises, as though he could do anything else.

—

Spencer’s never liked the smell of hospitals. Industrial grade disinfectant, detergent, rubber. Close your eyes, and you’d never guess you were in a building dedicated to the inner workings of the human body.

“I’m sorry about the letter,” Nathan says. His voice has a doped-up, dreamy quality to it, which Spencer assumes has something to do with the IV needle taped in place on his arm. The dressings on his wrists are held down with tape, too, but he’s trying not to look at those. “That was kind of shitty. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Yeah.” There’s a window in Nathan’s room. Probably a decent view, if they’re on the side of the building he thinks they are. Right now the curtains are drawn, the silhouette of the fading afternoon sun the only sign of the outside world. Spencer stares at it until he can see the round, glowing ball with his eyes closed.

Honestly, he thought he’d have more to say right now.

“Do you still have the box?”

“I threw it out,” he says, and pretends he can’t see the flicker of disappointment in Nathan’s eyes.

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

The tape on Nathan’s right wrist is starting to come loose at the end. Spencer watches him pick at it with his fingernails, rolling it back on itself as it comes away from the rest of the dressing. He should tell him to stop that. Right after he tells Nathan how much he scared him, how relieved he is to see him alive, how he would have tried to help, if he’d known anything before. How he’s so, so sorry.

“Mom’s looking at hospitals in back east.” Nathan’s picked about an inch of tape free by now. Spencer wonders if he’s even aware his hands are still moving. “Once they discharge me, she wants to find me a,” in his lap his fingers jerk, making quotation marks in the air, “long-term solution to my problem.”

“Oh.” It’s not a shock. In fact, he’s surprised at how little it registers at all. “I guess, this is it?”

Nathan nods, slowly, like the words are taking longer than usual to sink in. Or maybe they’re not sinking in at all. “Yeah. I guess.”

There’s a rap of knuckles against wood, and Spencer looks up to see a nurse standing in the door frame. “Sorry to interrupt, but—”

“It’s okay,” he pushes himself up from the visitor’s chair. Nathan’s picking at his wrists again and either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I’ll go.”

He hesitates at the door. And when Nathan looks up, maybe their eyes catch. Or maybe he’s just looking that way because he can hear sounds from the hallway.

“I love you,” he mumbles, more to the door frame than anything, then leaves without waiting for an answer.

And that, Spencer guesses, is it.

—

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

One of the first things Reid notices about Ronald Weems is how short he is. Five-foot-eight, maybe. Smaller than life. Not surprising, given the details of the case, but the sort of thing Reid imagines a lot of newspaper articles will mention, once he’s been formally charged.

For now, Weems is writing out his confession/manifesto under Aaron Hotchner’s watchful eye. It’s not the end of the case—there are still a few witness statements to take, and more than a few forms to fill out—but it’s close. Close enough, Reid tells himself as he edges his way out of the observation room, that no one will miss him if he disappears for twenty minutes or so.

He doesn’t quite run to reception. Too obvious in an office building, even at this time of night. But there are a few long stretches of hallway between the BAU and the main entrance, and if he takes a few of the empty ones at a jog, it’s just because travelling at a slightly accelerated pace is a more efficient use of his time.

Outside, Nathan’s standing on the pavement, hands jammed in his pockets, pretending to be interested in a crack in the concrete. Reid wonders how long he’s been here. Probably not that long—they’ve only had Weems in custody for an hour, and there’s a process for getting out of FBI custody, too. But he’s been waiting longer than he’d like. The tension in his shoulders alone makes that clear.

“Hey,” Reid says. “Do you need someone to show you how to get to the metro station? The first train should be coming soon.”

“It’s this way, right?” Nathan asks. His smile is almost blinding, and for the first time all day—longer than that, if he’s being honest—Reid feels something in him relax. Feels, dare he say it, normal.

They walk three blocks in silence before he asks, “When I saw you at the station, were you actually there about the case?”

“Kind of,” Nathan shrugs, walks another few steps, then stops altogether. “I saw your name on that poster, at school, and. I wanted to apologise. When we were,” he shakes his head, cups the back of his neck with one hand. “God, I was so fucked up back then. I didn’t say half of what I should have.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Reid starts walking again, but Nathan doesn’t follow. “It was a long time ago.”

“I know, but, I think about it sometimes. Us. How it ended.” He takes a few steps forward. Not walking, just crowding into Reid’s personal space. And he knew this was coming. That’s why he’s out here, isn’t it? So they can get some closure. Except, that’s not what this feels like. “I know love isn’t really part of the profile, but. I really did, you know? Love you.”

It hurts. He’d been hoping it wouldn’t, hoping he could take this conversation in a stride. As though the whole case hasn’t been building to this, or something like it. But now he’s here, and there’s a tightness in his throat he can’t work out, a weight in his stomach. He pulls back, starts walking again. Just move through it, that’s all he has to do. Maybe the elephant in the room doesn’t always need confronting. “I know.”

“Spencer. Wait,” Nathan’s hand on his arm, dragging him sideways. His back hits something hard—the side of a building, he registers that much—and the weight in his stomach turns to ice. Nathan’s hands come up to frame his face, push his hair back, stroke down his neck.

The press of his mouth on Reid’s is so familiar he could weep.

And it would be so easy to tangle a hand in Nathan’s too-short hair, to pull his body in close, to pretend it’s still 1999 and nothing’s changed. But the dead, frozen weight in his stomach is still there, even as Nathan licks his mouth open and pushes against him. The adrenaline pouring into his veins, his hands limp at his sides, the silent alarm going off in his head, they’re wrong too.

“Stop,” he slides to the side, back still against the building, but away from Nathan’s body. “I came out to give you this,” he fumbles in his pants pocket, pulls out a copy of his business card, bent at one corner now. “It’s got my work number and e-mail. I can give you my home and cellular numbers, too. So you have someone else to call, if the fantasies come back.”

Nathan takes the card from him in slow motion. And he’s out of reach now, but Reid’s still close enough to see something fade out of his expression, his eyes. “You don’t think I’m better, do you?”

“I promise I tried to stop,” The words are out of his mouth before he’s had time to think them. Just another recitation in the Spencer Reid catalogue. Another few lines of text he can’t forget, no matter how much new information he piles on top of them. “But I can’t. I’m not even sure if I want to any more. I’m scared of how good this feels. How much better it might feel, to do more.”

A hand on his chest, over his heart. He feels Nathan’s fingers press in, braces himself. Instead, Nathan pushes off him, and the business card cradled in his palm flutters in the air between them before landing at Reid’s feet.

“Goodnight, Spencer.”

He watches Nathan walk away, until perspective makes him disappear into the night. Nothing more than a smear of shadow and streetlight.

This time, Reid’s fairly certain it’s not the end of anything.

—

He wept. He promised 'a new start'.
I made no comment. What should I resent?

T.S. Eliot

[And over the fade to black...]

Remains: part 4/5

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 06:52:11 GMT

Title: Remains

Rating: R

Pairing: Nathan Harris / Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)

Summary: An AU look at episode 2.11, “Sex, Birth. Death.”

It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid. But everything—the clothes he didn’t take to California that still fit, the books left on his shelf he still remembers reading last summer—it’s so surreal to see. Like his life here never stopped.

Like the last semester didn’t happen at all...

Warnings: Graphic imagery, some gore, and sexuality — of varying kinds. Spoilers for the second season continue, as per usual.

ACT IV

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

Garcia’s office does have a door he can slam. She jumps when it rattles in its frame and spins to face him, clutching a feather-topped pen like it’s a baseball bat.

“Spencer Reid, you scared the crap out of me.” She presses a hand to her chest and sinks into her chair, turning back towards him with a squeak of wheels and springs. Which must be when she notices the look on his face, because her left eyebrow arcs up into her bangs and her lips settle into a worried moue. “Oh no, what happened?”

“Morgan tried to ask me if,” he starts, then shakes his head. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Ah,” she sticks the pen behind her ear, green feathers curling around the arm of her glasses. “I take it from your expression that you decided not to explain the intricate mysteries of bisexuality to our resident alpha male?”

“Something like—” he stops, blinks. “Wait, did you know?”

“Duh,” she spins her chair in another neat 180 arc and pulls up something on her screen. “I know everything. If I were you I’d be more surprised that Gideon noticed. I always thought you could take that man to a Pride parade and he’d just ask you when rainbows became so popular.”

Reid lets out a surprised puff of laughter and feels some of the tension slip out of his shoulders. “Actually, I told him when he first tried to recruit me to the Bureau. I didn’t think it was the sort of thing that would look good on an application form.”

“Sweetie, I know the FBI isn’t exactly the Castro, but J. Edgar Hoover’s been dead a long time.”

“You know what I mean.” The look Garcia gives him over his shoulder is so loaded it makes his stomach ache, and he starts talking again before she can say anything. “Is it okay if I stay in here for a bit? I just need to go over some things in my head, and it’s a little distracting out there.”

“Only if you promise not to eat, and keep that coffee away from everything.” She points to an unopened folding stool leaning against her spare desk. “Throw in a thank-you latte the next time you pass a coffee shop, and I’ll even let you sit.”

He’s got Holly Liddell’s autopsy report balanced his knees when Garcia asks, out of nowhere, “Was he your first?” Her voice is full of barely restrained empathy, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the computer screen. Reid remembers why he loves her.

“Boyfriend?” he stares down at the report, stumbling over words that are already etched into his brain. Tries to keep his voice steady, fights the urge to mumble. “He was the only one. I guess I don’t date much.”

“Spencer,” he looks up at that, then back down at the files when he sees her staring at him. “I read the hospital reports. I read all of them. I know about...” she trails off, touches a hand to her mouth, then lets it fall back to her lap.

“He never told me,” he doesn’t mean to say it out loud. Can’t quite force himself to stop. “For the longest time, I didn’t even know anything was wrong. And I know it’s egotistical to think that I could have fixed anything. I just, I always wondered if things would have been different, if I’d known.”

Garcia bites her lip and watches him with big, wet eyes. Reid hunches in on himself, and pretends he’s doing it because it makes it easier to read.

This time, both of them jump when Prentiss opens the door.

“He’s here.”

—

Washington DC
December 1998

His mother has an on-call shift at the hospital his fourth night back. She apologises for it about eighty times on the cab ride home from the airport. Nathan has to let her bribe him with pizza and twenty dollars in movie rentals, just to get her to stop talking about it.

Guilt money. It’s been a long time since that happened. For the first few years after his dad died, she’d have something every week. A video game when she had to work through parent-teacher interviews. A ten-dollar bump in his allowance when one of the university courses she taught got rescheduled and she couldn’t pick him up after school.

He thought DC would be different when he came back, but he didn’t think he’d be moving backwards in time.

He’s seen films like this. The Hero comes home after years away to find his childhood bedroom untouched, the neighbourhood practically preserved in amber, like a prehistoric insect. But he hasn’t been to war or prison, hasn’t left the country to make his fortune. Hasn’t even been gone six months.

It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid. But everything—the clothes he didn’t take to California that still fit, the books left on his shelf he still remembers reading last summer—it’s so surreal to see. Like his life here never stopped.

Like the last semester didn’t happen at all.

He wakes up on the couch. Ten minutes away from 5:00 a.m., halfway through the plot of a movie he doesn’t remember putting in. Turns it off, brushes his teeth without turning on the bathroom lights. He’s standing on a chair, rifling through the top shelf of his closet when he catches himself. Hands wrapped around a Scrabble box, old enough that the corners have gone soft and fuzzy with wear.

“Fuck,” it slips in his hands, nearly drops to the floor. He shoves it back in, hard, under an old math textbook and a box of Lego that holds about half the parts for a space station. Lets his legs fold under him, then drops onto the chair. Pushes down on his knees, to keep his legs from shaking.

Muscle memory. Or old habits dying hard. It doesn’t mean anything. Means nothing.

He wonders if it’s too late for a phone call in Pasadena.

—

He’s in the bookstore, browsing the Sci Fi/Horror racks in search of Spencer’s Christmas gift when he sees her.

She’s at the best-seller rack, up near the cash register, back to the rest of the store. Blonde hair spilling down her shoulders, short skirt riding up her thighs as she bends down to look at something—maybe that new John Grisham everyone seems to be reading on the subway this week.

His chest goes tight, and he doesn’t understand why he can’t breathe until he realises he’s got himself crushed against the bookcase so tightly that one of the hardcovers is pressing into his sternum. He eases off a little. Enough to let his lungs work, not enough to put him in anyone’s line of sight. Clutches at the side of the shelf and lets himself lean around it just enough to look.

She’s still bent over. Reading the little, hand written synopsis the bookstore does for all its top-selling material, probably. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and he can trace the line of it down to her hips.

God, his mouth is so dry. When he licks his lips, he can’t believe no one else hears it, hears every hoarse rattle of air he’s dragging in. He pulls himself—has to actually pull, finally understands how ‘tearing yourself away’ can be literal—back behind the bookcase. Puts his head down, so his forehead presses into the soft page-tops of a row of paperbacks. Hauls in air and counts to ten.

When he looks back around the corner she’s gone.

He doesn’t remember leaving the store. Outside, the street is choked with pre-Christmas traffic. He shouldn’t be able to find her. But there she is, half a block away, the only clear thing in a sea of half-smeared, out of focus faces. He doesn’t mean to run, but he blinks and she’s barely a foot away. His hand closes around her shoulder, pulls her around to face him.

For a second she looks confused. Then the red slash of her mouth pulls into a big, open ‘O.’ The blacked out rips where her eyes should be seem to crinkle up at the corners.

She takes his hand and pulls him off the sidewalk, into the dark. An alley. They do this in alleys.

He pushes his hands in, under her shirt. Her skin is sticky, warm.

Here in the dark it’s easy to push harder. Muscle and bone push back against his palms, trying to resist. Another push, and it’s like turning a key in a lock, just a click. So easy.

When he pulls back, there’s just enough light to watch the blood drain out of his cupped hands in a slow, red trickle.

Nathan wakes up with his face pressed into his pillow, heart thudding and sheets a sticky, wadded mess between his legs.

—

Dream time, real time, they’re not so different any more.

He barely remembers leaving the house. Getting dressed, throwing his bedding in the washing machine, locking the front door. Everything rushes by.

It’s cold in DC tonight. The people he passes in the street are all bundled up, even the drunk ones are trailing scarves, falling out of knee-length coats. Nathan stays close to the buildings, out of the wind. Hands jammed in his pockets, head down. This close to Christmas, everyone’s too busy to notice another teenager on the street.

It gets worse, the closer he gets. Neon lights leave smears on his retinas. Cars and bars and a few late-night stores blare Christmas tunes. Silent Night and Jingle Bells and Here Comes Santa Claus all muddling together into dissonant chords. Half blind, half deaf, it’s a miracle no one runs him down when he crosses at corners. That he doesn’t stumble out into the street.

Traffic on K Street is bad as always. Cars with one window rolled down pour little puffs of steam out into the night. A Lexus cuts off a taxi as it pulls up to the kerb, and a horn adds its sharp falsetto to the blur of noise pollution.

One of the whores is wearing a pair of felt reindeer antlers. Nathan tucks himself into a deserted doorway and watches her talk to the man in the car, leaned in with a hand braced on the door. Her coat is heavy looking, fur trimmed, but she’s got it folded back behind her, exposing herself to the street. Plenty of room to go around it. To find somewhere soft, and dig in.

He strokes his fingertips against his palms, from the heels of his hands, down across his laugh line, up towards knuckles. So good. It would feel so good, that warmth between his fingers. Would her blood make a sound if it hit the pavement? If a whore falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, he thinks, and feels a half-hysterical laugh wedge its way up his throat.

The man in the Lexus nods and the whore disappears around the side of the car and into the passenger seat. Just up the street, two more lean against a lamp post, sharing a cigarette. Another one appears from one of the alleys. Nathan turns his head away, gives the man she’s taken back there (for sex, a little voice keeps screaming at him, for sex, for sex, for sex) time to pull himself together and fall back into the faceless, formless crowd.

When he looks again, the third one of them is checking her reflection in a shop window, angling her head to see past the security bars. Her neck is thin, pale. He rubs his fingers across his hands again, harder, and settles back against the wall to watch.

—

Pasadena, California
January 1999

Spencer’s plane gets in an hour earlier than Nathan’s. He spends it drinking bad airport coffee, making a sign that reads ‘Harris’ in big block letters on a paper napkin, throwing the sign in the garbage when he decides the idea is lame instead of funny, then making another one when he changes his mind again.

He’s holding his second napkin in front of him in his best chauffer imitation when Nathan comes through the arrivals gate, backpack slung over one shoulder and a wheeled suitcase trailing behind him. Spencer watches him stop for a moment, look around, then double-take and grin when their eyes meet. Nathan crosses the twenty feet of space between them at a run, but Spencer doesn’t think to brace himself and nearly falls onto his own luggage cart when Nathan’s body slams into his, arms wrapping around his neck. He’s still got one arm out, windmilling for balance, when Nathan pulls his face down and kisses him hard on the mouth.

Over the top of Nathan’s head, he can see the other disembarking passengers stare, and feels his face turn red. But Nathan doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t care. Just buries his face in Spencer’s neck and holds on, suitcase lying forgotten on the ground behind him.

“Hey,” he whispers, tilting his head so he’s speaking into Nathan’s hair.

“Hey,” Nathan mumbles back. His voice is hoarse, scratchy. Too many hours breathing recycled plane air, probably. “Missed you.”

“Me too,” which is why he lets himself enjoy another few seconds of contact before bringing his hands up and stepping back. Nathan’s eyes are red-rimmed and unfocussed, and he squeezes his shoulders to get his attention before letting go. “We should find a taxi.”

“Mm,” he’s looking back over Spencer’s shoulder now, and he doesn’t have to follow his line of sight to guess what’s caught his attention. Three stuffed and bulging suitcases are stacked on his luggage cart. Everything he couldn’t fit, or couldn’t bring himself to leave, in his newly rented Las Vegas storage unit.

“Need help with those?” is all he says, and if Spencer believed in any sort of omnipotent, interfering deity, he would thank it right now.

—

They get about three steps into his dorm room, just far enough to toss their bags against the wall, before Nathan pulls Spencer against him. Or maybe he pushes Nathan into the door. Hard to say which.

“Really missed you,” Nathan breathes against his lips. He’s trying to unbutton Spencer’s shirt one-handed, and while it doesn’t seem to be working, even that little touch is making his knees shake.

He groans in what he hopes is an agreeable-sounding manner and pushes his hands under Nathan’s sweater and t-shirt, rucking them up over his head. Skin. Who knew you could miss someone else’s skin?

Nathan’s got his face pressed into his neck again, all teeth and tongue now. Hands fumbling with Spencer’s belt and zipper. “This would have gotten us kicked out of the airport,” he mumbles, trying to laugh and gulp in air and not really managing either. He gets a grin in response, feels a hand slide into his underwear and cup. Nearly gives himself a concussion when his head thumps against the door over Nathan’s shoulder. “Oh god.”

That his legs don’t give out before they hit the bed is a post-Christmas miracle in itself. He even manages to get most of his clothing slung over his desk chair, though all but one leg of his pants ends up on the floor. Nathan rolls on top of him, presses his legs open with a hip, makes him buck and whine. He flails out with one arm, until his hand smacks into the side of the desk. Feels along it until his fingers snag against the drawer handle, then pulls. The angle’s not great for picking anything out, but Nathan seems to know what he’s after, even with his eyes closed and his mouth burning a trail down Spencer’s ribs.

There’s a few seconds of fumbling, a few familiar sounds, then Nathan’s hand under his leg, pushing it up and back. And he’d read about this before, imagined it, but it’s always a shock how good that first press of Nathan’s fingers in him is. How good it feels to let his body take over, as his mind stutters and stalls. His fingers tangle in Nathan’s curls and he feels a moan against his throat more than he hears it.

And—oh, god—it’s been the worst month of his life. Sleeping in that house, her house, their home. Packing her things, trying to decipher the Las Vegas real estate market, which might actually take more than an IQ of 187. Trying to work up the nerve to visit. Spending Christmas alone, reading journal articles online and trying to breathe through the guilt. He doesn’t deserve to come back to this.

Nathan presses a third finger in, and that’s new, they haven’t tried that before. He doesn’t hear the noise it rips out of him, but it’s enough to make Nathan still and raise himself up on one arm. And Spencer’s not so far gone that he misses the way his elbow nearly buckles on him, the way his pupils are consuming his irises. “Can I,” he swallows, lets out a huff of air, “can I keep going?”

“Please.” It comes out remarkably steady, all things considered, but it’s enough to make Nathan’s arm give out, to make him press his fingers in until Spencer sees stars and has to press his forearm over his mouth to muffle a shout.

When Nathan reaches into the still-open desk drawer a second time, his brain finally catches up with the rest of him. He’s had a box of condoms in there since the end of November, shoved in the back corner. They haven’t exactly talked about it—about sex, he corrects, because if he can’t use the word he doesn’t have any business being in this position. But they both know the box is there. Know why it’s there.

I’m not going to die a virgin, he thinks. Of course, by some modern definitions he hasn’t been one since the night he kissed Nathan for the first time. Still. Wow.

Nathan sits back on his heels, condoms clutched in one hand, eyes wide and mouth open. Completely still, except for the hand trembling against Spencer’s thigh and the heave of his shoulders as he pants.

It’s a struggle to get himself upright. With his legs spread like this his balance is destroyed, and when he gets his head up a wave of dizziness nearly sends him back down. He grabs at Nathan’s shoulder for support, practically falls into a kiss. But he does manage a muttered, “Yes,” against Nathan’s mouth.

And the noise Nathan makes in response—even if he didn’t have an eidetic memory, he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to forget that.

—

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

Hotch pulls him aside outside the interrogation room, and one look at his face is enough to make Reid’s nails dig into his palms. “You’re not going to let me in.”

“If Nathan Harris is our Unsub,” Hotch says, and Reid doesn’t miss the stress he puts on ‘if,’ “you can’t be directly involved in this case. You’re emotionally compromised. If I put you in there, it could ruin any chance we have of prosecuting him.”

“I’m not—”

“Reid,” Hotch’s voice is still measured and even, but the effect is like running into a brick wall. Some day he’ll figure out how he does that. “Morgan and Prentiss are working on victimology. You can either go back to the bullpen and help them look for new leads or stay and watch. Those are your options.”

“I’ll stay,”he says. Hotch nods, and Reid half expects him to tell him to behave himself. Maybe instructions not to draw on the walls, and to put his toys away when he’s done.

But all he says is, “Good,” before he turns on his heel and heads back down the hall, leaving Reid to let himself into the surveillance room.

—

Aaron Hotchner tries not to spend much time thinking about his agents’ personal lives. Of course, Morgan’s one-night stands are the stuff of legend—he’s spent too many in-office days dressing out of his go bag for anything else—and he was already an SSA when Gideon’s ex-wife filed for divorce. But that’s as far as it goes. So long as nothing affects their work in the field, it’s none of his business who his team members see, or don’t see.

He hadn’t even known Elle Greenaway had an ex-husband until he ran into him at the ICU the night she was shot.

As it should be. The team needs a life outside of the BAU. Something to go home to that doesn’t follow them into the office the next morning. It’s why he doesn’t like letting Haley bring Jack in for visits, even when their cases keep him at Quantico for fourteen hours at a time.

On a team like this, it’s easy to bond. To become friends, even to form a sort of ersatz family. But this shouldn’t be all they have. Especially for someone like Reid, who Hotch suspects will start sleeping here more often than not when the Bureau gives him his own office in a decade or so.

At the end of the day, they’re all just co-workers. They deserve to have a few secrets.

Which makes his current position one of the most uncomfortable he can imagine.

He looks up from the case file. Across the table, Nathan Harris jerks the corners of his mouth up into a tight, awkward smile he doesn’t bother to return.

“Mr. Harris, do you know why you’re here?”

The smile flattens, Harris’ eyebrows knit together. “It’s because of the killings, isn’t it? On K Street? Someone’s murdering prostitutes.”

“We haven’t released that information publically.” Congresswoman Steyer saw to that. “How do you know about the victims?”

“I walk that way some times,” it comes out smooth, and just a little too fast. “It’s on the way to my mom’s apartment. We have dinner sometimes. I saw the crime scenes.”

“You must be close,” Gideon says, and Harris’ eyes widen in confusion. “To go there for dinner so often in one month.”

“I—okay, I started walking down there more often, after I saw the first scene. Just to see if anything else was happening,” he seems to sense the question they’ll ask, because he keeps talking, still a little too fast. “My degree is in Abnormal Psych. Prostitutes are pretty common targets for, you know.”

Under the table, Hotchner can see Harris’ leg bounce, knee barely missing the underside of the table. “For?”

“Serial killers. They’re sort of a research interest.” Bounce, bounce. “I... They hadn’t taken out the first body when I got there. That level of violence, cutting off their hair, it doesn’t usually mean someone’s looking to kill just once.”

It could be true. He’s seen enough serial killer buffs in his time. Enough would-be profilers, too. Still. “Mr. Harris, witnesses have put you in the area just after sunrise, about the time these women were murdered.”

“It seemed like the best time to look,” he looks past them both, at the mirror set into the back wall. Sits up straighter, asks, “Is this because I talked to Spencer?”

Spencer. Hotchner feels his jaw tighten, tries not to let it show. “We’re not here to discuss Agent Reid,” it comes out harsher than he’d intended. To his left, he can see Gideon looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He pretends not to notice and flips open the folder in front of him. Turns it so Harris can see its contents: autopsy photos, stacked so he can spread them across the table with a twitch of his hand.

“What can you tell us about these women?”

—

Pasadena, California
January 1999

“Nathan?”

Next to him, Nathan raises his head from the pillow they’re sharing to give him a bleary, half-asleep look. “Yeah?”

“I, ah,” Spencer sits up, feeling a small, unfamiliar ripple of pain shoot up his tailbone as he does. He ignores it, twines his hands together in his lap. “I know post-coital declarations don’t typically hold the same weight as regular conversation, but.”

His heart feels like it’s slamming against his lungs. He doesn’t have to say it. Shouldn’t say it, maybe. But there’s a part of him that needs to do this. To prove the bottom won’t drop out of the world when he opens his mouth again.

“Spencer?” Nathan’s rolled onto his side now, head propped up on one arm, watching. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yes,” it’s a forgone conclusion, anyway. He doesn’t think he could stop himself if he tried. “I love you.”

For one too-long moment the expression on Nathan’s face is unreadable. When he finally smiles, Spencer has to re-teach himself to breathe. “Yeah, love you too.”

—

Nathan doesn’t get a chance to unpack until the next afternoon. His roommate crashes out on the bed the second he gets in—a red eye flight from Dallas that got delayed on the runway. Nathan waits another half hour after that, until all he can hear is deep, steady breathing, before digging to the bottom of his suitcase, littering the floor with jeans and t-shirts and socks.

Even with a cross-country flight, the Scrabble box is no worse for wear. Maybe a little more scuffed at the corners, a little dented in the centre. But unopened, intact.

For a while he just stares at it, lying there in the bottom of the black nylon bag. Zipper teeth frame either side, like the face of a corpse in a body bag on tv. He traces his fingers over the letters, so lightly he can only just feel the softened cardboard against his skin.

It’s only when his roommate turns and mutters in his sleep that Nathan snaps out of his trance and shoves the box under his bed, back against the wall where no one will see.

—

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

Reid wonders if he’s imagining things, or if he really can see Nathan’s pupils dilate every time he looks at the photos of the victims.

Through the intercom, Hotch’s voice sounds canned and only half real. “Tell us about the time you spent in the Poplar Springs Psychiatric Hospital.”

Nathan doesn’t look surprised. No reason that he should, Reid thinks. The sigh he lets out, however, sounds awfully weary. “I had a problem with women.”

“A lot of people have problems with women,” Gideon says. The gentlest, most companionable Bad Cop you’d ever meet. “But most people who can’t get a date don’t spend years in psychiatric care.”

Reid bites hard at the inside of his cheek. He knows what Gideon’s doing—their Unsub is all about proving himself, taking back power. Make him feel small enough and he’ll lash out. Not that the logic does much to help his ego, or tamp down the resentment building inside him.

“I though about killing them,” Nathan says, monotone. “About cutting them open. All the time, and I couldn’t make it stop.”

Neither Gideon or Hotch says anything. A nice, open silence, waiting to be filled.

“When I was in DC I’d have these dreams, where I found one of them on the street and I,” he falters, “hurt her. I’d wake up, and it was like I was sleepwalking. I’d wander around K Street, watching them.”

“Them?” Gideon says, voice still so soft, like he could be a voice in your own head, reminding you to clarify your thoughts for the nice officers.

“Prostitutes, mostly,” and that gets a wry smile out of him. “When I said they’re a pretty common target, I knew what I was talking about.

“It felt like I was going crazy,” there’s an inflection starting to creep into Nathan’s voice now. Remorse? Nostalgia? “Right before I went into the hospital, I read everything I could find about—about the way I was feeling.

“The homicidal triangle didn’t fit, but the stuff the BSU was putting out—that bulletin? ‘The Criminal Sexual Sadist’? It was like someone was writing out of my head.” He looks down at his knees. Six years later, Reid still knows that heave of his shoulders. Can hear him sucking in air, even if the intercom isn’t sensitive enough to pick it up. “At Poplar, I spent a lot of time trying to figure out where it came from, trying to make it go away.”

“And?” Hotch, this time. Not as cold as before, but without Gideon’s veneer of empathy.

“It took a long time.” Nathan looks up again, back stiff, making eye contact. “You’ve probably seen the files, so I won’t pretend I didn’t backslide a few times. But yes. I’m better. I see a psychiatrist once a week, I can give you her number if you want, tell her it’s okay to talk to you.”

“Does she know you’re spending your nights on K Street again?” Hotch asks, and Reid can see Nathan flinch at the question.

“I told you, I’m looking for the killer. I’m trying to help,” his voice still gets scratchy when he’s upset.

“By watching prostitutes at four in the morning?” Hotch’s voice is cold steel again. “What are you really getting out of it?”

“You guys have science, but I’ve thought the way he thinks. It’s what I was trying to tell you on the subway, before I chickened out.” Nathan’s eyes are still staring straight ahead, but he isn’t looking at Hotch or Gideon. If Reid hadn’t already known he’d been made, this would be the tip off. “I thought if I could find him, I don’t know, maybe I could talk to him. Get him to turn himself in.”

Hotch pushes his chair away from the table. Gideon waits half a beat, then follows suit. Reid waits until he’s sure they’ve headed back to the bullpen, then lets himself lean against the glass, watching as Nathan drags his hands over his face and cradles his head in his arms.

ACT V

Remains: part 3/5

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 23:19:03 GMT

Today is one of those days when I desperately need distracting, so early editing and posting it is.

Also, on an unrelated note, anyone out there want to read 7 pages of a Lovecraft/Criminal Minds crossover and help me figure out what the hell I'm doing? You can see how clunky my prose is before rigorous editing. Exciting!

Title: Remains

Rating: R

Pairing: Nathan Harris / Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)

Summary: An AU look at episode 2.11, “Sex, Birth. Death.” Back at Quantico, the team's first brainstorming session raises more questions about their latest Unsub than it answers.

Warnings: Spoilers for the second season and also, um The Wrath of Khan. Other than that... zip. I guess this is the 'nice' chapter.

ACT III

Pasadena, California
October 1998

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Nathan says, sitting up so quickly he almost elbows Spencer in the stomach. “They can’t kill Spock. That doesn’t even make sense.”

Spencer stretches his arms over his head, feeling his spine bow away from the back of the couch, and tries not to smirk too much. “Well, logically—” Nathan whacks him with an empty videocassette box when he starts snickering. “Alright, alright. Just look the title of the next film.”

Nathan scrounges around on the table, until he comes up with the box for Search for Spock, then gives him the dirtiest look he can manage. “You tricked me.”

“Technically, screenwriter Jack B. Sowards tricked you. I’m just,” he coughs to mask another snicker—holding a straight face isn’t really his strong suit tonight, “participating in the narrative. Also, you should note the title says nothing about finding him.”

“You suck,” Nathan says, grabbing him by the waist and tugging at him until they both fall over, sprawled out across the couch. “You and screenwriter Jack B. Sowards.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to watch the third movie?” Spencer asks innocently, resting his chin on Nathan’s shoulder. His heart feels like it’s going three times faster than normal, and he hopes it doesn’t show. Being this close, it’s still strange. That they’re in a common room with an unlocked door doesn’t help either.

“Course not,” Nathan says, and slides a hand up the back of Spencer’s shirt like it’s something he does all the time, voice only hitching a little. “It’s shark week this week. We’ll never get the common room back. Just let me rewind this one first.” Spencer feels him lean to the side for the remote, then hears the soft whir of spooling videotape. Wonders how many people have made out on this particular couch over the years, then tries not to be scandalised by his not very scientific estimations. Wonders if he should add to the number, then tries not to be scandalised by himself.

“Is this the one with the space whales, too?” Nathan asks, breaking Spencer’s concentration by smoothing his fingers up his spine.

“Actually, the whales are standard Earth humpbacks. It’ll make sense when we get to the fourth film.” He licks his lips, listens for sounds from the hallway, then presses a quick kiss to Nathan’s neck. “Who’s your favourite of the bridge crew so far?”

Nathan sighs and tilts his head back. “Um, Spock so far, I think. Everything being logical sounds, I don’t know, nice. And the nerve pinch is pretty awesome. You?”

“I always liked Chekov,” he kisses Nathan’s neck again, just under his jaw. “It’s difficult to tell in the films, but he’s approximately a decade younger than everyone else on the bridge. It was a bit more obvious during the original series, when his character was in his early twenties, while everyone else was over thirty.”

“Why am I not surprised you like the prodigy?”

“So maybe I relate. A little.” He pushes himself up onto his elbows, so he’s staring down into Nathan’s face. And there’s still no sound from the hallway so maybe it would be alright—even appropriate, if his theories about the couch are correct—to kiss him.

He really doesn’t mean to do much more than press their lips together for a couple seconds. But then Nathan’s got a hand in his hair and his mouth open under his and it gets longer. Messier. When he finally pulls back, it’s with a shudder and a swelling lower lip. Nathan’s eyes are glazed, and he’s grinning like a loon.

“So, next film?” he says, and scrapes his nails down Spencer’s back, just hard enough to make him arch and groan.

“You suck,” he grumbles into Nathan’s neck, trying to ignore the way his arms shake when he pushes himself away and upright.

“Yeah,” Nathan says, reaching for the video again. “Me, you, and screenwriter Jack B. Sowards.” He gives Spencer another ridiculous smile, kisses him on the cheek, then gets up to slip Star Trek III into the VCR.

Spencer tries not to smile back, and fails miserably.

—

Washington DC
November 2006

Garcia picks up on the first ring. “Holy chequered past, Boy Wonder.”

Reid winces and prays the nickname won’t stick. Morgan calling him ‘kid’ and ‘boy’ is bad enough. He doesn’t need the rest of the team getting ideas. “Sorry?”

“Turns out there’s a little more to your not-a-suspect than meets the eye. Though I get the feeling you’re not going to be all that surprised by the news,” her voice raises at the end of the sentence. Reid can practically hear her arching an eyebrow on the other end of the line.

“Yeah?” He rubs at his temples, tries to fake curiosity. The throbbing in his head feels worse than it has all morning. Caffeine withdrawal. Right. “What’d you find?”

“I checked his medical records like you said to—which is still illegal, in case you’re keeping score—and it appears our young Mr. Harris spent his early twenties in a series of mental health treatment facilities in the DC area.”

“Getting treatment for what,” it doesn’t come out sounding like a question. Reid closes his eyes, leans back and lets his head hit the side of the SUV with a thump. In a few minutes Hotch and Gideon will finish up with the medical examiner and join him back here. He should have waited, had this conversation on speaker phone, let someone else ask the questions.

“Spencer Reid, if you’re not even going to pretend to be interested—”

“Homicidal fantasies, right? Sexual sadism?” He opens his eyes to see Hotch stride into the parking lot, Gideon half a step behind him.

“That, and a pretty severe case of depression, by the looks of it. I’ll keep sifting through things, but fair warning, I’m willing to plug a USB cable into your head, Matrix-style, if that’s a more efficient way to get answers.”

He ignores that in favour of watching the other agents draw closer, and wonders if he’ll be able to look Hotch in the eye when he gets close enough for that to be possible. “How long ago was his last stay?”

“Last long term stay ended in August 2001,” Garcia says. “Though it looks like he spent a few weeks back in care in March of ’02. Not exactly the spring break getaway you see in the movies, is it?”

And there are more questions he should ask, more information he should offer. But the only other thing he can think to say, as Hotch and Gideon come to a stop in front of him and his pulse kicks into overdrive is, “Do we have a current address?”

—

Las Vegas, Nevada
November 1998

Looking at the brochure, you’d never be able to tell the Bennington Sanatorium was located anywhere in Nevada, let alone a half hour bus ride away from the Las Vegas Strip. Sprawling green lawns and Japanese maples spread out on all sides of the otherwise unremarkable white building.

A testament to 127 years of sprinkler technology, Spencer thinks. That, and the city’s never ending desire to resemble anything other than Clark County’s desert floor.

A cough in front of him, and he looks up to see Dr. Norman staring at him. He rolls the brochure into a tube, shoves it into a pocket and tries to pretend he’s been listening.

“This is one of our common rooms,” Norman says, as though Spencer hasn’t been standing here daydreaming. Maybe he hasn’t noticed. Maybe the kindness is just another part of the sales pitch. “If you want to follow me in?”

The room reminds him of a student lounge. Flower patterned couches worn down just enough to look inviting, wood panelling on the walls. A few patients—residents, he reminds himself—sit near the window, reading or staring into middle distance. Not a bad space, if he ignores the buzz of the fluorescent lights, or the hospital smell of disinfectant.

She might not hate it here, he thinks, then digs his fingernails into his palms to keep that line of thought from going any further.

“Most of our residents spend at least a few hours a day here,” Dr. Norman is saying. “We try to encourage positive social interaction as much as possible…”

Spencer nods and lets him get through his prepared explanation before wandering towards the window. The sales pitch doesn’t change much from place to place. From here they’ll move to the dining room, and he’ll hear a prewritten paragraph on Bennington’s nutritional regimen. From there, maybe a tour of the grounds. Then, eventually, back to Norman’s office for the big talk. Terms of stay. Finances.

Been there, done that. Four times in the last three days. The glamour of choosing a long-term care facility is definitely wearing off, Spencer thinks, and fails to keep a grim smile from slipping onto his face.

Below him, Bennington’s grass is still the sonic green of summer, hardly touched by three months of fall. He imagines his mother sitting in the faded brown armchair to his right, a book open on her lap, staring down at the same green. Imagines, and feels something rise in his throat to choke him.

He pulls the pamphlet out of his pocket, smoothing it on his thigh. Stares at the photo of the perfectly groomed, perfectly generic building on the front. Tells himself she might not hate it here, until he almost believes it, and lets the brochure roll in on itself on his open palm.

“Dr. Norman? I’m ready to see the rest of the facilities.”

—

Pasadena, California
November 1998

Extra large pizzas weren’t meant to be carried one-handed, Nathan thinks with a wince as he jiggles the box, trying to keep the hottest parts of the cardboard away from the inside of his arm. He raps on the door with his free hand, then shifts the box away from sensitive skin, holding it out in front of him. Plasters on his best excited smile, and waits.

No response.

He tries balancing the box on his hip this time, where the denim can soak up some of the heat. Another knock, longer this time. And still not so much as a sound of movement from inside the room. Shit.

“Spencer?” He hits the door with his knee this time, feels it shake in its frame. “Spencer, it’s me.”

He’s in there, Nathan knows he is. He was there when Spencer booked his plane ticket to Las Vegas in the first place. He knows when Spencer was due back at school—and more importantly, he knows Spencer would get in touch if the airline delayed his flight by three days.

He gives the door another shove and wonders what Spencer’s dorm mates think of him, standing out here shouting at nothing. He can feel heat creeping into his cheeks, and under any other circumstances he’d call the whole thing off and flee back to his own room.

Then again, under normal circumstances Spencer would have left his room some time in the last 72 hours, and Nathan wouldn’t have spent the last three days hanging around outside the Avery House dining hall, hoping he’d at least come down for a meal. Under normal circumstances, calling Spencer’s dorm room would result in more than a busy signal. Under normal circumstances, he’d be inside by now, tearing into his second slice of pizza.

He shifts the box back to his arm. The cardboard’s already gone from hot to pleasantly warm. “Spencer,” he knocks harder, raising his voice to shout over his own noise. “Spencer, please.”

The door opens about an inch. Nathan goes still, waiting.

“Nathan?” Spencer’s so quiet Nathan can barely hear him.

“Hey,” he tries for cheery, but it comes out more like a relieved sigh with words attached. “Can I come in?”

A long pause, then, “I don’t really feel like talking right now.” And Nathan can’t see his face, but Spencer sounds so wrecked he doesn’t think he needs to.

“I brought dinner.” He pushes his knee against the door again, half surprised Spencer isn’t braced against the other side to keep him out. “And half of this pizza is covered in weird stuff, so you have to eat it.”

The room is dark, curtains drawn to keep out the glow of the streetlights. In the light from the hall he can just make out Spencer, still mostly hidden by the door, face turned towards the wall. Nathan closes his eyes for a moment, trying to adjust, then kicks the door shut behind him. Fumbles his way to the desk and sets the pizza down on a stack of hardcover books. Behind him, there’s a soft sigh and the familiar sound of Spencer tipping backwards to lean against the wall.

“Come on,” he tries to smile, even though no one can see it. “It’s getting cold.”

He expects an argument. Instead, he gets another sigh, and feels Spencer brush past him in the dark to sit on the edge of the bed.

They eat four slices each in silence, sitting next to each other, but far enough apart that Nathan can’t even feel Spencer’s body heat. “You want any more?” Nathan says, and his voice sounds disembodied, like he’s projecting it in from another room.

“No. Thanks.”

And after that there’s nothing but another minute of tense, absolute silence, until Nathan can’t stop himself and says, “It’s not your fault, you know.”

“Don’t,” Spencer snaps.

Nathan closes his mouth so fast his back teeth click together. Settles for staring at the faint outline of his hands instead. He’s imagined this conversation a few times, and in his head it was more like that night outside the physics building, with Spencer wrung out and sitting too close. It never occurred to him to play out a scenario like this. Cut off, closed, cold.

He wrings his hands together between his knees. Picks at the inseam of his jeans. Drums out a jittery beat on his thigh. Next to him, Spencer is so still Nathan can barely tell he’s there.

Of course, he’s the first one to break the silence. Again. “I thought you didn’t like the dark.”

“I don’t.”

“Can I turn on a light?” No reply, so he leans over to hit the switch on the desk lamp. Spencer grimaces, screws his eyes shut and, shit, just the sight of him, it slams into Nathan like a blow to the chest. Relief, and something he’s not sure he’s ready to put a name to. It’s good to see him again.

“Hey,” he says. And when Spencer turns, squinting in the light, he leans in without thinking, reaches up to cup his jaw and hold him in place.

Spencer doesn’t quite flinch, but he pulls back fast enough to keep Nathan from doing more than bumping his fingers against his chin. Now that his eyes have adjusted his face is blank and stiff, and it’s not fair. He doesn’t have to be here. The least Spencer could do is pretend to be even a little grateful that someone cares if he starves alone in the dark.

“Fuck,” he says, and when he can’t think of anything to add he settles for saying it again. “Fuck, Spencer.”

“Nobody asked you to come over. So don’t feel as though you have to stick around on my account,” Spencer says, voice clipped and fast, turning to stare at the wall opposite the bed, like Nathan’s not even worth acknowledging.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have come if I knew you were going to take out your guilt about your psycho mom on me.”

Spencer goes pale and whips his head around to stare at him, and Nathan actually didn’t think the temperature in the room could get any lower than it already had. He braces himself for the explosion, but it doesn’t come. Nothing comes. Nothing but more silence and Spencer’s blank, glassy stare.

He should go. But Spencer’s staring at him like—like, he doesn’t even know what it’s like, but it’s got him frozen.

And then, so out of nowhere that Nathan actually jumps, he laughs. At least, the wet, harsh noise he makes sounds like it’s supposed to be a laugh. He wraps his arms around his stomach, leans forward like he’s going to be sick.

Nathan shouldn’t be relieved. But this, at least, feels like familiar territory. “Spencer, I’m sorry—”

“Please just shut up.” Spencer’s bent so far forward he’s practically got his head between his knees. And all the anger that was just starting to diffuse in Nathan snaps back into form.

“If you’re trying to kick me out, just say so.”

Spencer shrugs, eyes still fixed on the floor. And this silence. Is just—he can’t take this. Can’t take another fucking second of quiet. His fingers dig into the soft space just below Spencer’s shoulder joint, and when he pulls him back towards him Nathan hears a soft grunt of pain. “Look at me. Tell me what you want.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer’s eyes keep meeting his, then flicking away. He hauls in a long, heavy breath, like he’s going to say something, then shakes his head.

“Do you want me to go?” He’s getting the feeling he already knows the answer, but the pissed off part of him wants to make Spencer say it out loud.

“I just don’t think you want to be the only person I care about who isn’t missing in action or—or psycho.” He’s glaring now, right back at Nathan, even as he falters over the words. “I’m trying to let you opt out. Happy?”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Spencer actually scowls at him. “Constructive criticism, thanks.”

“So, just to be clear, that’s a ‘no’ on the whole wanting me to go thing, right?” All this getting angry is starting to give him this weird adrenaline rush. Except instead of wanting to punch something, he feels like he could burst out laughing any second. He settles for leaning over until his side bumps against Spencer’s.

“Nathan, seriously.” Spencer frowns and reaches up to rub at his shoulder. “I don’t think I’m a good person to know. I have this effect.”

“Since when do you believe in curses?” he has to bite back a grin this time. This is all going to go to hell again if he can’t keep a straight face—and, wait, wasn’t he furious a couple seconds ago?

Spencer turns pink and stops trying to make eye contact altogether. “I don’t. I just,” he hesitates, and shrugs again. “The entire time I was home, I was sure I wasn’t going to do it. That I’d figure out something else before it got that far. Or she’d get better. Or, I don’t know, someone would find a cure for schizophrenia and the whole thing would be irrelevant. And then there I was, standing in our living room, trying to come up with a way to politely introduce the men in white coats.”

“So?” He sets his hand over Spencer’s, where it’s lying on the bed, threading their fingers together.

“So, it’s not the sort of experience than makes one think, ‘yes I should be spending more time with members of the human race.’” And the way he says it, still so stiff and sad, makes Nathan want to give the whole reassurance thing another try. Except that would probably get his head bitten off, so he settles for shifting closer on the bed.

“You know you’re my only friend, right? And when you’re not around I spend like all my time reading graphic novels and typing random things into search engines? If you don’t deserve that, you might want to consider killing yourself.” Next to him, he thinks he sees Spencer’s mouth twitch up at the corners.

“Did you ever try typing ‘death’ into a search engine?”

“All the time. It really confused Ask Jeeves.” This time he lets himself grin, and bumps their shoulders together again. “Are you letting me stay or not?”

“Do I have a choice?” Spencer asks, but he squeezes Nathan’s hand and elbows him back when he says it.

—

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

There’s something about cases like this that bothers Emily Prentiss. Cases with girls—young women, she tries to call them women, but even in her head it always slides back to girls—teenage girls, sixteen year-old girls.

She can imagine Holly Lidell, still alive, looking for johns on K Street. A runaway, maybe. Or kicked out. Not that there’s much difference between the two, sometimes. She can imagine her before that, too. A highschool sophomore sharing chemistry notes with her friends, or smoking under the bleachers instead of going to home room.

What she can’t imagine is looking at Holly Lidell and seeing a threat, a predator, an infection. Anything other than a sixteen year-old girl who didn’t deserve her death any more than any of the other victims she sees every day.

It shouldn’t be worse when the victim is someone like Holly. Shouldn’t, but always is.

“Prentiss?” Morgan says, an edge in his voice like he’s said it already, more than once. She blinks hard and frowns at the SUV’s glove compartment, wondering just how long she’s been staring at nothing.

“Yeah?” She tries to keep her voice light, like he’s caught her daydreaming.

“You think Garcia’s in a caramel macchiato mood, or a java chip frappuccino mood?” he matches her tone, the little wrinkle between his eyes the only indication he’s noticed something off. He won’t call her on it, she’s sure. He never pushes at her boundaries when there’s nothing to gain. It’s one of the things she’s always liked about Morgan.

“Java chip?” She smiles and shrugs and Morgan gives her a knowing grin. When they get to Starbucks to make the team coffee run they’ll both be ordering dark roast, no cream, no sugar. “Get the caramel one for Reid,” she suggests. “That has to be enough sugar for him.”

“Mm,” Morgan nods and steers the SUV out of traffic and into the coffee shop parking lot. “You notice anything off about him this morning?”

“Other than him showing up late, wearing his morning coffee?” She walks towards the building a little faster than she needs to, half a step ahead of Morgan. When she gets a hand on the door before him and shoves it open it’s the stupidest, silliest, best kind of victory. “Not really. What’s up?”

“He seemed a little tense, is all. Nothing major,” now it’s Morgan’s turn to shrug, before turning to the barista behind the counter to reel off their page-long list of drink requirements.

Emily cocks one hip against the counter and tries to keep herself from guessing what Holly Lidell’s Starbucks order would have been.

She’s not the only one on the team with a thing, she knows that. She’s seen how Hotch and Morgan react when their cases involve children. Accompanying Gideon to Guantánamo Bay was like being given a diagram with all his buttons and triggers labelled. Even J.J. seems to have trouble of letting go of some of the cases they work in smaller towns.

None of which makes her feel any less like she’s wallowing, wasting time. Later, she tells herself, when they’ve found the Unsub, she can go back to her apartment and order in some Thai and wonder what Holly Lidell really wanted to be when she grew up for as long as she wants. Right now, Morgan’s going to need some help carrying seven coffees back to the SUV. And then they’ve got a profile to build.

—

Hotch’s door is closed.

They’ve been back ten minutes already. By now they should be in the briefing room, throwing out ideas, trying to fit inside the Unsub’s head. Even Gideon’s out in the bullpen, hovering by the filing cabinets, as though they’ll disguise his impatience. Her coffee’s already gone from just right to lukewarm, and when she touches Hotch’s unclaimed cup there’s almost no warmth left in the cardboard.

She spins her chair just enough to get a view of the rest of the room. Morgan’s staring into space, twirling a pencil between his fingers. JJ’s sitting on the wrong side of her desk, the only place in her office with a clear line of sight to Hotch’s. Only Reid seems busy. If slamming back a venti Starbucks coffee and three more mugs from the office machine counts as ‘busy,’ that is.

When the door finally opens, Prentiss is sure Hotch is going to order them back to the SUVs. Another victim, it has to be that. The brunette woman in a Capitol Hill-regulation suit who comes out instead is unexpected, to say the least.

Prentiss remembers the name before she’s halfway to her desk. She’s an ambassador’s daughter. She can still name most of the members of the Saudi Arabian Council of Ministers, circa 1984, and speak enough German to get by at parties and state dinners. A former member of her mother’s own staff is no challenge at all.

“Congresswoman Steyer,” she’s ready for a handshake, but Steyer goes in for a hug instead.

“Emily, so good to see you.” She sounds genuine, but then she’d have to be good at that. “How is your mother?”

Behind her, Hotch clears his throat. Thank God. “Agent Prentiss, I need you in the briefing room.” His voice sounds like ice, but dealing with a pissed off Aaron Hotchner is still better than standing here, figuring out what to say about Ambassador Prentiss to make it sound as though they’ve spoken in the last month.

—

Garcia’s sitting in the corner of the briefing room when they file in. Strange, but no stranger than anything else that’s happened since she got back to Quantico today.

“What do we know so far?” Hotch asks, and Prentiss wonders if he’s staring at Reid and Gideon so he can avoid looking at her.

“He waited three months after the first kill, and when he couldn’t stop himself he asked for help,” Hotch may not like her, but she’ll be damned if he can ever say she doesn’t do her part on the team.

“Right,” Morgan jumps in, “those hesitation marks—this guy isn’t sure he wants to do this. And when DC police didn’t stop him, we get ‘failure.’”

“He’s cutting the hair, but not taking it,” Reid says, speaking more to his coffee mug than anything else. “It probably makes them seem less feminine, less dangerous. And he’s killing in the morning—”

“When he’s less likely to think they’re on the prowl,” Morgan nods. “He couldn’t do it at night, they’d seem too powerful. And if he’s stabbing them he’s probably impotent.”

“Which would make him feel even more powerless,” she adds.

“He probably works on or around Capitol Hill,” Reid says. And Prentiss is about to ask him what he thinks the Unsub’s personal life is like when he braces a hand on the table and shoves himself backwards. He only moves a couple inches, but the sound of chair legs on linoleum is enough to make everyone stop. “It fits. We should just tell them.”

Morgan’s leaning across the table before Emily’s had time to close her mouth. “Tell us what?”

Prentiss looks at Gideon, but Gideon’s looking at Hotch.

“We may have a suspect.”

She, JJ and Morgan are the only ones to react. “Okay,” Morgan says, trying and failing to choke all the anger out of his voice. “You wanna fill the rest of us in on what the hell’s going on?”

“His name is Nathan Harris,” Gideon says, sliding a creased piece of paper across the table. The photo shows a thin young man with an awkward smile and tired eyes. Probably about Reid’s age, and not that far off in build, from what she can see. “He’s a graduate student at Georgetown.”

“And he’s our suspect why?” Morgan asks, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. If he wore glasses, Prentiss thinks, he’d be glaring over the top of the frames right now.

“Nathan,” Reid starts, then seems to think about it and tries again. “Over the last eight years Harris has been in and out of three different institutions in the DC area. Each time because of sexually sadistic impulses he didn’t think he could control. Prostitutes in the K Street area say he shows up there every few weeks, but doesn’t do more than watch them work.”

“That would work with the profile, but where did we get him from?” Reid frowns and stares at the table top again, and Prentiss almost feels guilty for asking. “None of our interview subjects mentioned anyone suspicious by name, or had enough information to get us this far. Who did you talk to?”

“We didn’t talk to anyone. I—” he falters, sucks in a breath, then snaps his head up. And if he were anywhere other than a room full of profilers, no one would notice the way he’s staring at the wall instead of making eye contact. “I saw him at the metro station this morning. Those messages, I think he’s trying to contact me.”

“Because of your Georgetown lecture?” JJ asks, abandoning her spot by the laptop and LCD projector and sliding into a chair at the table. “Was he in the class you spoke to?”

“Not exactly. Nathan—Harris and I went to CalTech together, before he was hospitalised.” Another deep breath. “We used to date.”

Next to her, Prentiss feels Morgan go still. When she glances over, his face is as blank as she’s ever seen it, the poker face he uses when a suspect isn’t responding to the Bad Cop routine. Garcia keeps pushing her glasses up, even though they’re already settled on the bridge of her nose. JJ can’t stop blinking. Even Hotchner looks uncomfortable.

When no one says anything Reid sits up straighter, folds his arms across his chest and glares at Morgan. No—she realises with a jolt—not just Morgan. That look’s meant for her, too.

So much for getting her team to trust her this week. Fine. Another thing to worry about later, when the case is closed and they don’t have three victims and an Unsub whose time between kills is decreasing fast.

“Tell us what you know.”

If she’s going to be everyone’s whipping girl, she may as well use it.

—

Gideon and Hotch take Prentiss with them to bring Nathan in. Reid pours himself a new cup of coffee, takes the crime scene reports for each victim to his desk, and tells himself he doesn’t mind. It’s the right call, he knows it. If Nathan resists, he’s the last person anyone wants as backup. But it’s still an effort to keep his teeth from grinding as he sorts through photographs and files, looking for some nuance he’s missed so far.

He stares at the photo of their second Jane Doe again. Tries to imagine the moments before her death. Someone like Nathan wouldn’t even seem like a threat. He’d be awkward, sweet—sexual sadists usually have excellent manners, at least at first. Not too big, either, the sort of person you might be able to take in a fight, if it really counted, if your life was—

“Reid,” Morgan says, and he nearly jumps out of his chair. He’s hovering at the edge of Reid’s desk, a mug of his own in his hands. He must have come from the break room, just out of his line of sight.

“What?” he doesn’t mean to snap, but the look on Morgan’s face suggests this is going to be one of those conversations anyway.

“Why didn’t you tell us, kid?”

“That I dated a potential serial killer? Somehow I didn’t think spreading that around would improve your perception of me as an FBI agent.”

Morgan actually looks hurt. “Kid, you know that’s not what I’m talking about.” He sits on the edge of the desk, almost on top of one of the crime scene photos. Reid has to fight the urge to push him off. Will, if he hears that nickname one more time. “That actress whose case we worked on last year, I wouldn’t have bugged you so hard about her if you’d just told me you were,” he trails off and shrugs, like it’s up to Reid to fill in the blank.

“What?” This time the irritation in his voice is all intentional. “If I’d just told you I was what, Morgan?”

“Not,” Morgan shrugs again, fidgets, “interested in women.”

“One, there are any number of perfectly serviceable terms for ‘homosexual’ you could use instead of avoiding the issue.” He’s talking too fast now, words coming out in sharp, rapid-fire bursts. “Two, it’s really none of your business what my sexual preference is. Three—”

“Kid,” Morgan starts, holding his hands up. And that is it.

“Three,” he shoves his chair back from the desk, reaching for the stack of case files, “instead of assuming you know everything about me, based on one piece of evidence, you could try asking me about your assumptions.”

“You want me to ask if you’re gay?” And good for him, Reid thinks, he actually gets the word out this time.

“Exactly,” Reid says, and plucks his coffee mug off the desk. “Now, if you need me for something work related, I’ll be in Garcia’s office.”

He’s a little disappointed there’s no door for him to slam on his way out of the bullpen.

—

Pasadena, California
December 1998

There’s a garbage can holding Spencer’s door open. Nathan toes it out of the way, then throws himself down on the bed and groans. “I’m never moving from here, okay?”

Spencer looks up from the notepad he’s scribbling on and gives him a small, sympathetic smile. “How was the exam?”

He groans again and buries his face in Spencer’s crumpled, unmade sheets. “I don’t even know. I may have forgotten how to add.”

The mattress dips next to his head, and he feels fingers stroke through his hair. “I think that means you’ve had a relatively normal first semester.”

Had. Past tense. He’s halfway through first year now. It hadn’t hit him yet. The last two months have been so busy, he barely noticed them go by. He hasn’t done anything to the magazine under his bed in weeks. Hasn’t had time to sleep long enough for the dreams to come back.

Maybe if he can stay busy enough, maybe—but he’s not sure it’s safe to hope yet.

“So you think they’ll let me come back after the break?” he asks instead.

Spencer bops him on the temple instead of answering. “When do you go back to DC?”

“Sunday morning,” he rolls onto his back and folds his arms behind his head. “I think I have to get to the airport by seven. And you’re going to Vegas?”

“Next Friday. I’m hoping I’ll get another chapter written if I have the library to myself for a week.” He pulls his legs onto the bed, and prods Nathan in the side until he makes space for him between his body and the wall.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come back with me? I still think my mom would be so happy to have proof I have a social life, that she wouldn’t mind having someone else for Christmas.”

“I can’t,” Spencer says, curling in so his back is to the wall. “I have to figure out what to do with the house now that mom’s,” he frowns, and the end of his sentence barely comes out, “not living there.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sometimes Nathan really wants to tell Spencer not to poke his own sore spots. He’ll settle for distraction. “Is it okay if I stay the night? After that exam, even walking across campus sounds like too much work.”

Spencer nods and gives a soft, affirmative hum, still frowning. He’s doing it again, Nathan thinks: getting stuck in his head. He rolls onto his side and crowds up against him, until Spencer’s pressed flush against the wall.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

“Sorry,” he tucks his head into the crook of Nathan’s shoulder and curls an arm around his waist. It’s only four in the afternoon, but it would be so easy to fall asleep now, like this.

“I’ll call you on Christmas, okay?” he says. “And New Years. We can talk our way into 1999, or something.”

“My New Year or yours?” Spencer asks, breath warm and moist on his neck.

“Both.”

That gets him a laugh, “There’s a three hour gap, you know.”

“Then I’ll come up with something that takes three hours to talk about.” Spencer pulls back enough to give him a disbelieving look, and he grins. “You could tell me about your dissertation. It’d probably take that long for you to explain the title.”

“Probably,” Spencer says, mouth twitching into a smirk. “Or, sorry. Should I have lied and said we’d get through the first chapter, at least?”

Nathan pushes him back against the wall again and bites him on the jaw—soft, not even hard enough to bruise.

“Oh, that’s why you want to stay,” Spencer says, and Nathan bets that was supposed to come out teasing instead of breathy and murmured.

—

And it’s only December, only the end of his first semester, only 5:30 on a Thursday afternoon, two weeks away from the New Year. But as he drifts off, sticky and sweaty and still tangled up in Spencer, it’s not that hard to imagine the summer. Dragging Spencer to DC, then being dragged around the Smithsonian. Spending muggy afternoons sprawled next to the air conditioner. Maybe even telling his mom than his best friend isn’t just a friend.

Or further on than that. Graduation. Grad school. Convincing Spencer to do his eighth PhD somewhere on the east coast, at a school with a decent MFA program. Sleeping through the next hundred thousand nights and never dreaming about butterflies or Lilly Adams. Forgetting what MacPherson Square even looks like.

He’s not stupid. He’s seen enough movies, read enough books. He knows that being in—that having someone, it doesn’t fix everything.

But god, Nathan hopes it might be enough to fix him.

Act IV

Remains: part 2/5

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 09:39:32 GMT

So it looks like the posting schedule I've settled on is 'every other day, at a ludicrous hour of the morning.' Mark your calendars accordingly...?

Title: Remains, Act II

Rating: R

Pairing: Nathan Harris / Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)

Summary: An AU look at episode 2.11, “Sex, Birth. Death.” The team gets a new case, and Reid gets some unpleasant information. Meanwhile, Spencer and Nathan celebrate the former's 18th birthday in a not-entirely conventional way.

Warnings: Remember how I said this got a little bloody in later parts? Yeah, that. Spoiler warnings for all of season two apply again here.

ACT II

Pasadena, California
October 1998

Lilly Adams is sitting in the centre of the cafeteria. Her usual table, where all the jocks and popular girls eat, right in everyone’s line of sight. Impossible to miss.

She’s drinking strawberry flavoured water, lips wrapped around the small, stubby neck of the plastic bottle. She’s leaning in, towards the centre of the table, one arm wrapped around her chest, just under her breasts. Her t-shirt’s riding up her back, exposing smooth, tanned skin and at least four inches of purple, lace-topped thong.

There’s a butterfly in the lace. Its wings flutter as she shifts, leaning closer to some varsity basketball player Nathan can’t even remember the name of.

Nathan sits in the back corner, at the table closest to the door, in no one’s line of sight. No one but Lilly Adams’ lace butterfly, fluttering on her back. He puts a hand up to block it from his line of sight, then slowly crushes his fingers into a fist. Tiny wings beat against his palm and he rolls them in his fingers, mangling, tearing.

When he unclenches his hand the butterfly is gone and his palm is sticky and red and he trails his fingers back over it in wonder, feels the warmth and liquid of it. And somewhere someone is screaming—just in his line of sight, if he’d only look—

The alarm on his clock radio lets out a burst of static and half-tuned-in pop song, and Nathan sits up fast, heart beating in his ears. His fingers fumble over the dial, miss, land on the volume knob instead. Frantic bass beats pulse between the static. Nathan grips the clock hard and pulls, until the cord snaps away from the wall, until the last of the static fades into the air and all he can hear is his own ragged breathing.

To his right something groans, and his heart tumbles over beats like its falling down a set of stairs.

“The fuck?” Roommate, right. He has one of those. Right, right, right.

“Sorry,” it comes out in a rasp. There’s no light coming from the window yet, no sounds of movement in the hall. Nathan looks at the dead clock in his hand and wonders what time it is. “Go back to sleep.”

There’s another grumble from the bed, then silence. Nathan scrubs a hand over his face, then stops, looks down at his palms. Clean. No red, no blood.

The disappointment nearly chokes him.

—

Ethan calls four days before Spencer’s birthday, on a patchy satellite line that must be costing him a fortune, to play him a full two minutes worth of ‘Happy Birthday’ on the harmonica, complete with a couple pretty impressive improvisational sections.

“Where are you?” he asks, when Ethan finally comes up for air. “Still in Cambodia?” Ethan’s been working with Engineers Without Borders since he finished his doctorate. There have been occasional e-mails, but Spencer hasn’t actually spoken to him since he got on a plane headed for Southeast Asia last May.

“Yeah. Looks like we’re nearly done with the filtration system, though. A couple of the guys here are thinking about hooking up with a project in Chile when we finish up. You doing anything next semester?”

“Mathematics doctoral thesis?”

“Right,” Ethan says with a mostly put-on sigh. “How is the old ivory tower?”

“Fine,” he hesitates, then says in a rush, “I made a new friend.” It comes out sounding silly and childish and he fights the urge to blush, even though he’s alone. Sometimes he wishes Ethan were closer to his age, that the gap between 17 and 24 wasn’t quite so large.

“Friend or friend?”

“Friend,” Spencer says, burying his face in his hands and blushing in earnest. “Don’t you have water to purify?”

“Uh huh. Well, tell her to show you a good time on your actual birthday, got it? If I’m not there to keep you from working through it someone else better be doing it for me.”

“You mean since you aren’t here to break federal liquor laws by serving Jack Daniels to a minor until he throws up in the school president’s flower bed?” Spencer says with a groan. There’s something about what Ethan’s just said that’s nagging at him. That pronoun. Her. Tell her to show you a good time. He should really correct him. “I’ll tell hi—tell them they have a lot to live up to.”

—

The phone rings once, twice, again. He taps out the rhythm against the side of the receiver, fingers loud against the plastic. And his eidetic memory may not extend to sounds, but Spencer knows the tone and shape of these rings as well as he knows Proust, or his home address, or anything he’s read for his dissertation.

Hi, you’ve reached the voice mail for Diana and Spencer Reid. Neither of us are available to take your call right now, but if you’ll please leave a message—

He sets the phone back in the cradle without waiting for the tone.

—

The girl behind the cash register glances up at him and gives him a tight, fake, on-my-feet-all-day kind of smile. She’s wearing thick black eyeliner, cheap mascara. Her eyelashes stick together in clumps. She doesn’t look at his purchases as she scans and bags them. Doesn’t look at Nathan, either, which is a relief.

He watches her hands as she picks up the items one by one. Long, sharp-looking nails click against a bottle of Coca-Cola, a Mars bar, two packs of gum. When she gets to the magazine he can’t help but glance up, but she’s still staring somewhere over his shoulder, like she hasn’t even noticed what she’s holding.

He jerks his gaze back down and accidentally locks eyes with the blonde on the cover. She’s got her chin thrust up and her hands on her hips. There’s an X of electrical tape across each of her nipples that he can’t quite bring himself to look at. In the florescent convenience store lights, he’s sure he can see her eyes narrow, sure her face is shifting into a hard, predatory glare.

Nathan flinches and presses his own short, bitten nails into his palms.

And then the cash register beeps, flashes $5.99, and the blonde woman disappears into the same plastic bag as the gum.

—

Hi, you’ve reached the voice mail for Diana and Spencer Reid. Neither of us are available to take your call—

The line goes quiet for a moment, then, “Hello?”

Spencer jerks up in his desk chair, fingers clutching at the receiver. “Mom? Hi—hello. Hello?”

“Hello?” Her voice sounds the same as always. The precise, measured enunciation of an English professor, the soft rasp of a pack-a-day smoking habit abandoned over a decade ago. Just like he remembered. Relief floods through him, so fast and sudden he has to put his free hand on the edge of the desk to steady himself.

“How’ve you—” he swallows, tries to rephrase. His mother hates passive constructions. “How are you?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. Too much silence. Too long. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

All the relief in Spencer’s veins turns sharp and painful. A chemical version of please, no. “It’s me. Mom, it’s Spencer.” He doesn’t want to say it. Knows she’ll make him. “I’m your son.”

Another long pause. His stomach twists in on itself, like it’s trying to crawl away. As though even his internal organs can’t stand to witness this.

“I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, young man.” Her voice is hard now. Like the time he told her he didn’t want to skip fifth grade. Just like that, he tells himself, and clutches at the memory like he’s clutching the desk. Tries to remember the way her voice softened after. The way a lecture turned into you’re a gifted young man, Spencer. I’m very proud of you. He presses his eyes shut, trying to hear that instead of, “I know you’re watching me—I know what’s happening here.”

“Mom,” he whispers, so low he doesn’t know if she hears him. “Please.”

“I’m hanging up now,” she tells him. “And I’m unplugging the phone. So don’t try calling back.”

The last thing he hears is the rattle of her beside phone against its base, just before the line goes dead.

—

Nathan stares at the ceiling and tries to pretend he can’t feel the blonde watching him through the mattress. It’s stupid, he knows. Stupid and probably crazy, especially when he already stabbed out her eyes with a ballpoint pen earlier this afternoon. Which isn’t less crazy, he thinks, and digs the heels of his hands into his own eyes, making patterns of light pop and flash across his closed lids.

He could get out the magazine. He’s got scissors in his desk, pens in red and black and blue. A little arts and crafts time, and he could make sure she never stares at him or anyone again.

Something thumps against his door and he sits up fast, without meaning to. He stares at the small stripe of light coming from the hall as he tries to calm his breathing and move his heart out of his throat and back into his chest where it belongs.

The knock is soft, barely a brush of knuckles on wood. If he weren’t listening so intently, Nathan’s sure he wouldn’t hear it at all. His jeans are lying on the floor next to the bed and he pulls them on over his boxers before opening the door and edging his way out, so he’s standing with his back pressed against it and his chest almost touching Spencer’s.

“Oh,” Spencer takes a quick step back, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, my roommate’s just sleeping.” He scrubs a hand over his face anyway, trying to bring himself back to this. Here. Spencer and brightly lit hallways and California and—and Spencer looks... Off, somehow. Wrong. He’s doing something strange with his arms; pulled in like he wants to hug himself, but can’t quite stand the touch. “Are you okay?”

Spencer smiles at him, big and blinding and fake. “Fine. Can I—” he looks at Nathan’s closed door and shakes his head. “Do you want to come for a walk?”

And for some reason that makes him stop and look closer. At the hem of Spencer’s pants, wet like he’s been cutting across damp grass. At the circles under his eyes and the tight press of his lips. At the way his hands keep fluttering, like it’s too much effort to hold them still.

“Just let me get my shoes?” he says, and Spencer nods like Nathan is offering him winning lottery numbers.

His alarm clock reads 2:53 a.m. Nathan ties his shoes tight and swallows down a bubble of worry.

They walk across the campus in silence. This late at night CalTech is almost deserted, though all the dorms they pass have at least a handful of lit windows. The air is thick and wet, and Nathan wishes he’d thought to bring a sweater. Next to him, Spencer rubs at his arms and tucks his chin against his chest, then steers them off the path onto the grass. Nathan has a sneaking suspicion he has no idea where he’s taking them, which Spencer pretty much confirms by leading him around the auditorium three times, then heading towards California Boulevard, where the campus peters out into an underground parking lot and the athletic centre he’s never bothered to visit.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

And there are a lot of things he should probably think to ask, but he settles for, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” It comes out sighed and soft, and Nathan may be pretty bad with people, but he knows a ‘yes’ when he hears one.

“Come on.” There’s a bench just outside the Physics building, close enough that he can pull Spencer over and sit him down without it feeling weird. They sit side by side, not looking at each other, while Nathan tries to figure out how grass in California can still look so green in the dark and Spencer does whatever it is he does when he’s stuck in his head.

The silence stretches out again, and Nathan’s trying to work out just what he should say to make things better when Spencer pulls a knee up to his chest, turns and says, “My mother’s a paranoid schizophrenic.”

His voice rises on the last word, like he’s asking a question, and it takes Nathan a moment to realise he isn’t joking. He’s still scrambling for a response that’s longer than one syllable when Spencer starts talking again, low and quiet and quick, like he’s trying to get everything out before he catches what he’s saying.

“She was diagnosed before I was born, so I don’t remember her any other way. I guess she hasn’t ever really been well—if that’s the term you want to use—but normally if she stays on her medication she’s fine and I can be out here and know she’s eating and getting out of bed and even leaving the house sometimes.” He looks down at his hands, and Nathan wonders if he should be looking somewhere else too, if he’s not intruding on something private.

“It’s not perfect—I am aware it’s strange to be looking after your own mother. But it’s been working, and. I guess I thought, if I did enough... I knew she wouldn’t get better. But at least she wouldn’t get worse?

“Except. She won’t talk to me,” he swallows hard and swipes at his eyes, and this time Nathan does look away. “I called her tonight and she didn’t know who I was.”

There’s a pause, and Nathan tries to fill it with some sort of encouraging noise, which comes out sounding more uncomfortable than anything. He’s actually relieved when Spencer ignores him altogether and continues to speak to his folded hands.

“I know I shouldn’t be angry with her. It’s not as though she can tell her brain chemistry to change at will. But I,” his words come in a rush, now, and Nathan has to strain to hear him. “Sometimes I just hate this. Hate her. Hate how I can keep trying and trying and it’s not going to get better, and all I’ll have in the end is a mother who can’t tell me and her delusions apart.” He turns his head, puts his foot back on the ground. “Did you know the adult children of a mentally ill individual can petition the Nevada civil court for an involuntarily commitment? I looked it up years ago. I kept telling myself it didn’t matter. That I was just trying to find out everything I could and it wasn’t up for consideration.

“Except,”he finally looks up at Nathan and smiles in a way that hurts to look at. “I turned eighteen three hours ago, and I think I’m considering it.”

And for the first time in ages, it occurs to Nathan that—for all of his years of college and his doctorates and his inexplicable taste for wine—Spencer is his age. Younger. And the great, cosmic unfairness of everything makes his stomach clench. Because Spencer isn’t like anyone he’s ever met, and he doesn’t deserve to be sitting here, in the middle of the night, pouring out his soul to someone who can’t even think of two worthwhile words to say back.

So he does the only thing he can think of, and reaches out. Puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in, until their hips and knees bump and he can feel Spencer shivering against him. He’s half expecting Spencer to push him off, but all he does is let out a long, shaking breath before going limp against Nathan’s side.

Which is probably the worst moment ever for him to blurt out, “Happy birthday, by the way.” But he’s so eager to have something to say that the words bypass his mental filter and splat out onto the pavement before he can stop himself. And Spencer is looking up at him in surprise, which Nathan is sure will to turn to disgust, or hurt, or anger—

Or none of those things, because what Spencer actually does is lurch forward and kiss him.

His lips are shut tight and his eyes shut even tighter. If he’d ever spent much time imagining his first kiss, it wouldn’t be the one he’d pictured because. Well. Spencer. Who’s still pressed tight against Nathan’s side, but keeps his hands folded against his chest even as he lets his mouth relax and kisses at Nathan’s lower lip.

The weirdest thing about it all is how weird it isn’t.

When he cups Spencer’s face with his hands, he can feel his pulse in his fingertips, fluttering fast. He catches his teeth on soft inner lip, and long fingers clutch at his shoulder as Spencer pushes his head forward and exhales into his mouth. He presses hard against the hinge of Spencer’s jaw in response, and is rewarded with a choked whimper that stabs him straight in the gut and another push of parted lips.

Nathan pulls back for a breath of air and is shocked to discover how much he needs it. One breath is about all he gets, too, before Spencer pulls him back in so quickly his lips sting from impact and presses his bottom lip between Nathan’s. He bites down hard, hears another gut twisting moan, feels a flash of tongue against his teeth. And he’s always heard people’s mouths taste like something—toothpaste, or spice or something more particular—but Spencer doesn’t taste like anything at all.

“Wait,” this time it’s Spencer who pulls away, but he presses his forehead against Nathan’s as he speaks. He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but he’s smiling a little and his mouth is spit-slick and swollen and shiny under the lights of the Physics Building. “Do you,” he swallows, licks his lips, “We could go back to my room?”

For the first time tonight Nathan’s hoarse, one-syllable response feels like enough. “Yeah.”

—

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

Hotch gives them ten minutes to collect their things and meet in the car park. Reid grabs his bag one-handed as he passes his desk, ducks questioning looks from Morgan and Prentiss, and all but runs to Garcia’s office.

“I need you to look up a name for me.” He shuts the door too hard behind him, sucks his lips in over his teeth and bites down, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Nathan Harris?”

“That’s got to be an all-time FBI record for fastest background request,” Garcia says, fingers already flying, royal blue nails glinting in the half-light of her windowless, LCD-lit office. “Is he a police suspect, or are you developing superpowers?”

“Neither.” He braces a hand on her desk chair and leans in, trying to ignore the look she gives him over the edge of her red cat’s-eye glasses. “He wouldn’t—I don’t think there would be a police record. Try university enrollment lists? Something local.”

“Okay, my withholding boy wonder,” her fingers tap fast and hard, and Reid feels a small throb of pain stir in his temples. “Nathan Harris is a grad student at Georgetown, currently getting his master’s degree in abnormal psychology—” she breaks off as he chokes on nothing, and hands him an unopened bottle of water. “I’ll see what else I can find out and call you in the field?” There’s a slight hesitation before she says ‘you’ and Reid knows that’s not the only question she’s asking.

“I’ll call you, okay? I need to check something first. Before I tell the team.” He twists the cap off the water bottle, forces his throat to swallow. “Can you find me a picture?”

“Do you think he has Facebook?” she smiles at him, but her eyes are full of worry and, Reid thinks, just enough pity to make the water in his mouth turn sour. He looks away, studying a purple feather-topped pen standing at angle in an unused coffee mug. “Aha, jackpot.”

Next to his hip, the fan starts turning in Garcia’s printer, and he can hear its feeding mechanism suck up a sheet of white paper. It spits it back out, face down, edge pressing into Reid’s expectant, trembling fingers. He folds it in half and jams it into his bag without looking.

“Reid?” He turns to look at her, and it’s a mistake, because Nathan’s face is right there on the screen behind her, half smiling at him. Awkward, posed and grainy in the way only a DMV photograph can manage to be. His hair is a little longer here. Reid can see the dimple in his left cheek, the soft hint of shadows under his eyes, and it feels like someone’s just kicked him in the stomach.

“I have to go,” his elbow bangs one of her monitors as he turns, sending a flare of pain up his arm. He doesn’t register the three steps it takes him to get to the door. “Just keep looking for anything strange. I’ll explain later. Thanks.”

As he closes the door, Reid can see her lips move. But if she calls after him, he doesn’t hear it.

—

Washington DC
November 2006

In the daylight, the crime scene doesn’t look particularly threatening. The alley is wide, well lit, even relatively clean. From the sidewalk you can see almost all the way to the back, with only a few dumpsters blocking the view. If you had to walk down a dark alley at night, Reid thinks, this would be the one you’d choose. Even now, if he looks away from the crime scene tape and handful of DC police, it’s hard to tell anything is out of the ordinary. Of course, that’s only because he hasn’t looked behind the trash bins yet.

“She was trying to be so careful,” Prentiss says, voice quiet and hollow. She and Morgan head off fastest after the introductions, disappearing into the alley’s blind spot like they were never there.

Reid turns back to K Street, scanning the crowd of passers by and loiterers, until he notices a thin blonde girl in a yellow miniskirt standing just inside the police tape, hugging her coat closed over her chest. He heads for her instead, trying to ignore a questioning stare from Gideon.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Spencer Reid from the FBI?” she looks up at him and it’s clear she’s been crying. DC police said the victim, Holly Lidell, was sixteen years old. He wonders if her friend can be much older. “Did you, ah, work with Holly?”

She nods and he fumbles the photo out of his bag, keeping the blank side turned towards him. “I was hoping you could tell me, have you ever seen this man around?”

She wipes her nose against the back of her hand, sniffs again anyway, and leans in. Reid swallows and tries to force air into his lungs. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Gideon walking towards them, so quiet and unobtrusive he’d never notice if he hadn’t trained himself to watch for these things. “A few times,” the girl says, and Reid’s heart sinks. “He doesn’t try to buy. Just hangs around and pretends like he isn’t watching. We thought he was just trying to working up the nerve.”

“Has he spoken to you or anyone else?” And he knew he was coming, but the sound of Gideon’s voice makes Reid flinch anyway.

“I don’t think so. Always thought he was just going home after. Taking matters into his own hands.” She pulls her coat tighter, tries to smirk. Can’t. “Is he the one who did this?”

“We don’t know yet,” Gideon says, gives Reid a look, then extends one hand. Reid folds the photo in half again, passes it over, and beats a hasty retreat to the back of the alley.

—

Pasadena, California
October 1998

They stand just inside Spencer’s doorway and don’t look directly at each other. They haven’t touched at all since getting up off the bench, unless Nathan counts an accidental bump of hands on the way up the stairs that had both of them hugging their respective walls and staring at the floor.

“Is it okay if I leave the lights on?” Spencer says, voice a little strained. “I get—I’m not very good with the dark.”

He nods, licks at suddenly dry lips. “Yeah, cool. Do you want me to sit somewhere?”

“Um,” Spencer says, and Nathan can see him sucking at his lower lip, brow furrowed. And then he’s looking up, catching Nathan’s eye and grabbing his hand and pulling him down, so they’re side by side on the edge of the bed. “Yes. Here.”

His fingers are tight around Nathan’s, and when he leans in he’s got his eyes screwed shut again, as though they haven’t just kissed in the middle of the campus, where anyone could see.

The kiss is slower this time, and for all that Spencer’s gripping his hand hard enough to hurt, his mouth is open and relaxed against Nathan’s, and he feels another soft swipe of tongue against his lips. He moves his mouth in return, trying to follow Spencer’s motions.

They might only stay like that for a few minutes, or it might be more like half an hour. He loses track of time, until he feels a hand clutch at the back of his t-shirt and Spencer pulls at him, tugging him down onto his side, half-lying with his feet still spilling onto the floor. He moves in closer, until they’re pressed chest to chest, and when Spencer pulls his mouth away to run a hand over his face and push his hair out of his eyes Nathan hears his breath stutter in his throat.

“Could I,” Spencer’s hand is on his stomach, fingers flexing. His thumb brushes the hem of Nathan’s shirt, and he’s nodding without knowing exactly what he’s agreeing to. Then there’s a hand sliding under fabric and over bare skin, and he inhales hard and pulls Spencer’s mouth back to his so fast their teeth click.

Everything is speeding up. His t-shirt is shoved up under his armpits and Nathan sits up just enough so Spencer can help pull it over his head and leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his shoulder. He’s got his fingers hooked in Spencer’s waistband, keeping their hips pressed tight together, his other hand curled around a fistful of dark blond hair. He pushes a thigh between Spencer’s knees, and Spencer drops his forehead to Nathan’s shoulder, breath coming in short, hard gasps.

He tilts his head so he can kiss the side of Spencer’s neck, over his pulse point, and Spencer shudders, fingers scrabbling at Nathan’s spine, looking for a handhold. He’s making these small, choked sounds now, Adam’s apple bobbing under Nathan’s lips. And when he bites at the skin stretched over Spencer’s collarbone, the noise turns into an actual moan, and Nathan feels dizzy with accomplishment.

He doesn’t notice Spencer’s still wearing a shirt until it’s dangling off one wrist as he tries to undo the buttons at his cuff with his teeth, while his free hand works at Nathan’s zipper. They’re all the way on the bed now, legs tangled, pressing and pushing and making the blood roar in Nathan’s ears. Fingers slip on his fly, press down hard against his jeans and he bucks up, feels Spencer clutch at his hip and catch his mouth with his own.

This is—God, Nathan can’t put the words together. Not what he’s imagined. Not this scuffed but tidy little dorm room. Not with his fly open but his pants still on. Not Spencer, still trailing his shirt, with his sweat-damp hair and blown pupils and a patchy red blush spreading down his chest as he pants into Nathan’s mouth. He scrapes his nails over Spencer’s stomach, feels muscle jump under his fingertips. Tries to stay in the moment. Here.

“Oh,” Spencer whispers, tripping him up, pulling him back in. “Oh god.” He gets a leg around, behind Nathan’s, drops his head and chokes off what sounds like a sob. “Can’t,” he manages, voice cracked, and then he’s shuddering and gulping for air and Nathan has a brief, crystallised moment of panic before he feels Spencer’s hips jerk against his and—oh. Oh.

“Good birthday present,” Spencer mumbles, after his eyes re-focus, as he pushes a hand down the front of Nathan’s jeans. He lets out a soft half-laugh, says it again. “Really good.”

—

Washington DC
November 2006

Gideon motions him towards the SUV he and Hotch are taking to the morgue. It’s only a lift of his shoulder and a slight point with his chin, but Reid hears the command loud and clear. Mom and Dad want a family discussion, Elle would say. But Elle’s not here, and Reid has to do his own projecting as he slides into the back seat and folds his hands in his lap, trying not to fidget.

Hotch pulls out of the alley, heads north. They drive the first six blocks in silence, and when Gideon finally pulls out the photo, the sound of rustling paper echos off the windows.

“Why do you have a photograph of Nathan Harris in your bag?” Gideon says, almost absently, voice soft. Not so much the Good Cop as the friendly professor, settling in for a chat about an essay that’s not going well.

In the rearview mirror, Reid can see Hotch’s eyebrow twitch up ever so slightly. As much of an expression of curiosity as they’ll get.

“I saw him at the train station this morning,” he clears his throat, keeps his eyes fixed on a spot in the centre of the windshield. “He ran into me on the stairs. I don’t think I was supposed to see him, but I think he was looking for me.”

Gideon doesn’t say anything, and Reid fights with the need to fill the silence.

“I had Garcia do some checking before we left. He’s going to school in Georgetown. The commute from Quantico would be over an hour. Actually, most graduate students do live fairly far from the campus, but they tend to favour neighbourhoods north of DC, or in the city itself...” he trails off, clears his throat again.

“Remember about two weeks ago I gave a lecture at Georgetown? On,” he can’t quite stop the laugh that bubbles out. “On sexual sadism and the Mill Creek killer. I didn’t see him there, but it was open to multiple faculties. There would have been posters—he would have seen my name. What I do now.”

“The second victim wasn’t killed for another week,” Gideon says, voice giving away nothing. But if he’s even speaking, Reid knows he must see where this is going.

“And this time the Unsub leaves a message—he wants us to help him stop. He wants to be caught. Maybe,” his voice catches and he grimaces at the windshield. “Maybe he’s asking because he’s found someone he knows he can reach out to.”

“Do you genuinely think he could be our Unsub?” Gideon has the picture open in his lap, smoothing out the crease. Reid steals another glance at it. This time his stomach mostly stays where it belongs. If he keeps looking, maybe the image will stop meaning anything at all.

“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair, lets his gaze drift to the side window. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Reid,” Hotch says, eyes still on the road, hands never leaving two and ten o’clock on the steering wheel. “Who is Nathan Harris?”

—

Pasadena, California
October 1998

They lie on the bed afterwards, facing each other, knees touching. Spencer’s eyes are closed, the press of his fingers as they circle Nathan’s elbow the only sign he’s still awake. There’s a bruise blooming on his neck, just above his shoulder, more marks a few inches below that. Nathan watches the imprints of his teeth appear, like the image in a Polaroid, and wonders if it’s normal to find that sort of thing hot.

“Nathan?” Spencer’s brows knit together, eyes still resolutely shut. “Are you still going to want to talk to me tomorrow?”

And it’s such a stupid, stupid question that Nathan finds himself at a loss for words again. He settles for pressing his thumb into the bruise on Spencer’s collarbone instead, for leaning in and sliding his lips over purpling skin. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Right,” it comes out shaky, and he can feel Spencer’s fingers spasm against his arm. He presses harder, feels a knee jerk against his, lets his own eyes drift shut as he moves his fingers in small, hard circles, massaging the mark into skin, making it stick. The mattress dips as Spencer slides closer, head tipping forward until Nathan can feel the brush of his hair against his chin.

“I, um,” Nathan feels a hand press against his side, hears the breath stick in Spencer’s throat. “I didn’t think you would. Would want. Ow.” The last word is hissed, but Spencer presses his head forward anyway, stretching out his neck.

“Still being an idiot,” Nathan says, and his voice sounds sleepy and heavy to his ear, but he pushes forward into Spencer anyway, rolling their faces together, touching foreheads, then noses, then lips. Warm fingers clutch at his back in a way that already feels oddly familiar. And he should really go back to his own room, his own bed, but he shifts forward again instead, until they’re chest to chest.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when Spencer starts speaking again he falls back into himself with a jolt and his brain garbles the first few sentences completely.

“Need to go home,” is the first thing he actually catches.

“Right now?”

Spencer starts against him, like he didn’t think he had an audience. “Hey—no. Just, maybe soon. If she doesn’t,” he swallows and Nathan feels him curl closer. “If my mom doesn’t start. Just... soon.”

“It’ll be okay,” Nathan tells him, as though the threads of this conversation aren’t scattered and tangled in his brain, to the point where he can barely remember what set this whole thing off. As though he’s not drifting out again even as his hand slides from Spencer’s neck to his shoulder, rubbing circles.

“Are you staying?” Spencer blurts, and Nathan likes his way of diffusing awkward moments. “I know you have class, but you might have time to finish at least one REM cycle before then if you do.”

“Hm,” he nods, lets his arm turn to dead weight against Spencer’s side. Feels an open mouthed kiss pressed against his jaw and hopes to hell that tonight he won’t dream about anything at all.

Act III

Remains: part 1/5

Mon, 21 Sep 2009 09:32:46 GMT

Title: Remains

Rating: R

Pairing: Nathan Harris / Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)

Summary: An AU look at episode 2.11, “Sex, Birth. Death.” When Nathan Harris shows up at Reid’s usual subway station, the team gets an uncomfortably close look at their fellow agent’s dating history. (And totally not referred to by its author ‘the big gay college AU’ or anything. Nuh uh.)

Warnings: In later parts this gets graphic, disturbing and mildly gory. Also, if you still haven’t seen season two this will spoil several things for you and possibly make less sense.

I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison

T.S. Eliot

ACT I
[In over the cold open —The Garden, by The Creepshow]

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

Spencer Reid sneaks a glance at his watch, winces, and nearly drops the cardboard sleeve he’s trying to slip onto his hazelnut latte. 7:50, he’s definitely going to be late. His usual coffee shop is training new staff, using the morning commuter rush as some kind of trial by fire. It doesn’t look like it’s working. The average wait, including queuing time, for an espresso-based drink is usually around five minutes. Today he’s already been here for ten and when he looks at his watch again the minute hand shifts a little close to the hour. If he sprints he might be able to make it to the office in time. Assuming he doesn’t run into anything, trip over anyone, or have to stop to retie his left shoelace, which is already ominously droopy.

The lid pops off the top of the cup and he wastes another 30 seconds trying to cram it back on without spilling any on his shirt. It slops over his hand instead and he hisses and jams his index finger into his mouth, tasting artificial flavouring and the sticky sweetness of high fructose corn syrup. At least it’s going to be a great cup of coffee.

There’s enough room on the stairs to run past the other commuters, and Reid takes them two at a time, clutching his messenger bag to his side to keep it from hitting anyone and keeping up a litany of ‘sorry, sorry, sorry’ as his elbow does the job instead.

He’s just launched himself over the last two stairs, one foot on flat ground, the other still arcing up, his eyes already focussed on the sliding doors at the front of the station, when someone steps directly into his path. Reid yelps, skids backward to avoid a full-body crash and ends up back on the stairs.

“Hey,” he starts, without meaning to. He’s not going to argue, arguing makes people late (and other people stare). Instead, he settles for another wince and glances up to see if he can make himself small enough squeeze by. Glances up and sees panicked blue eyes staring directly at him, whites too bright in the dark circles of his eye sockets.

In the station, the 7:55 a.m. train screeches to a standstill. Reid doesn’t even hear it. “Nuh,” the word sticks in his throat and he swallows and tries again. “Nathan?”

This close, Reid can see his pupils dilate, see pale skin turn almost grey. Still skinny, Reid thinks, without wanting to. Taller than he would’ve expected, though, curly hair shorter than he remembers. And now the other commuters are staring anyway, brushing by too close as they climb the stairs. He feels something heavy and metallic settle in the bottom of his stomach, grabs for the railing.

“Sorry.” It comes out soft and scratchy, barely audible. “I should go.”

He knocks against Reid’s shoulder as he goes past, pushing him into the rail, giving himself those extra few seconds to work into the crowd, to duck down and vanish. By the time Reid makes it to the bottom of the stairs there’s no sign of him at all. Somewhere nearby a digital watch beeps, signalling the hour.

It’s not until his fingers starts to throb from the heat that Reid realises he’s still clutching a crushed, mostly empty coffee cup in one hand.

—

Pasadena, California
August 1998

Spencer takes the taxi to the airport by himself. Over the last few years Diana Reid’s fear of flying has turned into a general mistrust of airports and, this year, people who drive to them on a semi-regular basis, as evidenced by her refusal to come downstairs while Spencer helps the driver load his bag into the trunk of the car. She does come to the window, but doesn’t respond when he waves. Spencer isn’t sure she even notices he’s still there.

If he’s being honest with himself—and he tries not to be, these days—he’s never been so relieved to head back to school. But when the Las Vegas desert starts fall away and a few wisps of white cloud appear outside the windows of the plane he feels something unbuckle in his chest for the first time in four months, and tries to ignore the hot rush of self loathing that accompanies it.

He calls home from the first payphone he finds at the Pasadena airport. Leaves a message when his mother doesn’t pick up (it’s only a fifty-fifty chance she will, these days). Reminds her he’s left supper in the refrigerator, and that she has a doctor’s appointment scheduled for next week, and that he’ll call her again as soon as he can. He tries not to choke on the ‘I love you, mom.’

The baggage pickup area is jammed, as usual, and Spencer lets himself smile when he sees his first CalTech sweater.

He wonders, as he does every year, just what the rest of the airport thinks of him: skinny and gangly and nearly eighteen but, he admits with an internal wince, looking more like an unusually tall fifteen year-old. Glasses big enough to weaponize, because the plane always dries his eyes out too much for contacts and hair he cut himself back in July, just to see if he could (he can’t). None of them, he’s fairly certain, would ever guess he has a driver’s licence, much less a PhD and a handful of first-draft pages for a second dissertation saved on his laptop. For the next five minutes, he’s just another teenager, bored and waiting for his bag.

It’s one of the things he likes about coming back.

He scans the crowd to see if there’s anyone he recognises, but the other doctoral candidates he knows don’t have to go home to live with their mothers every summer. Most of his acquaintances (the age difference is too wide for many of them to be friends) will have spent their summers in the library or the lab, not trying to get a middle aged woman to come downstairs for at least one meal a day.

There’s a metal-on-metal grinding as the conveyer belt starts spitting out bags and Spencer pinches himself hard on the inside of the arm and swallows, trying to choke down the stale-tasting lump of guilt that’s threatening to build up in his throat again. He’ll write her at least a three page letter tonight, he promises as he scoops up his bag and heads for the cab stand. Maybe four. He can call again when he gets to campus, too. And that has to be enough, doesn’t it? Enough for him to not hate himself for being happy.

He steps out of the airport, turns his face up to meet the warm California sun, and tries to smile again.

—

It’s been almost a week now, and Nathan Harris still can’t stop staring. At everything really, from the mountains towering crazy-close behind the CalTech campus, to the Mission-style red roofs of the southern dorms, to the robot his RA is building in the South Fishbowl for reasons yet to be determined by anyone on his floor. More specifically, though, he can’t seem to stop himself from watching the boy currently sitting three seats away from him in the dining hall, flipping through a Terry Pratchett novel.

He’s dressed like one of the old men who play chess in the park by Nathan’s apartment building every Sunday, but he’s obviously about his age. And Nathan keeps seeing him everywhere—reading under a tree, walking in what he thinks is the direction of the library. They even passed on the stairs once when he was trying to figure out where, exactly, the open kitchen was. The only place he hasn’t seen him, is at any of the Rotation Week events.

Then again, he supposes an 18 year-old upperclassman wouldn’t be so weird at a school where 15 year-old freshmen are pretty common.

What is weird, is that for all the boy is everywhere all the time, Nathan’s never seen him speak to anyone or do anything, really, other than flip through books like he’s lost his place and can’t remember if it was near the middle or the end.

Then again, Nathan thinks, it’s not like he’s done much talking either. Not unless he counts a few conversations with Kevin, his roommate, who had seemed like a pretty cool guy until he came home on their second night in residence and threw up on a really large portion of their floor.

Maybe this boy is shy. Maybe he’s like Nathan: secretly dying to talk to someone, but too awkward to do much more than give a half-hearted sort of laugh whenever anyone tries to. Maybe he could use a friend.

It’s the same pep talk he’s been giving himself all week. And he’s 18 now, in college now, on the other side of the country. No one here knows he’s spent the last four years pretty much inside his own head. He doesn’t have to be who he was—freak, fag, loser, creep, nerd —in DC. He can walk up to someone and talk without them knowing all the things the guys on the wrestling team wrote on his locker, or remembering the time he flipped out at Lilly Adams in the cafeteria, or any of the other things that pretty much destroyed his chances for normal human interaction back home.

Fuck, Nathan , he thinks, letting the curse roll around in his head, savouring it, that’s why you’re here.

And even if this boy doesn’t like him, it’s still a first step. These things get easier the more you do them. At least, that’s what his mom always said.

“Have you read Good Omens ?” he blurts down the table.

The boy looks up, then looks around, like he’s trying to see if there’s someone behind him. “Sorry?”

“Good Omens ,” he tries to smile and ignore the way his stomach is lurching. “Sorry, just, your book. I was wondering if you liked Neil Gaiman too.”

The boy blinks at him. He’s got the kind of eyes, Nathan thinks, that would be really nice on a girl. Really full lips, too, and hair that’s almost down to his shoulders. He feels a pang of sympathy in his chest. High school must have sucked for this boy, too.

“I liked Sandman, I guess, and Good Omens .” The boy’s words come out slow, like he’s not used to conversation, and his hands are still fidgeting with the book, flipping a single page back and forth. “I’m not that into his other work.”

“I know, right?” Under the table, Nathan wraps an arm around his pitching stomach, and rushes on before the boy can look back down. “He’s definitely a lot, I guess, flatter? Without pictures. Or Pratchett. His other work always seems kinda hollow. My name’s Nathan Harris, by the way.”

“Spencer Reid. Um, Dr. Spencer Reid, actually.”

“Seriously?” it comes out a little sharp, and Nathan and Spencer both flinch. “I guess that’s why I haven’t seen you at any of the frosh week events.”

“Yeah.” Spencer ducks down into himself, shoulders coming up and hair obscuring his face. He’s picked up his fork now, but mostly seems to be using it to poke at a congealing scoop of mashed potatoes. “I was a freshman five years ago. I, um, have a PhD in engineering and I’m working on my second one now,” under his hair, Nathan can see him turning red. “If you subscribe to those terms, I guess you could say I’m kind of a genius?”

“What kind of genius?” Nathan says, trying for a joke. Which doesn’t work, of course, because being funny is not something Nathan Harris has ever managed to pull off. Instead, Spencer just looks more uncomfortable and he wishes, just once, that he could figure out what it is other people talk about. “Sorry. I’m bothering you, aren’t I? I can let you finish reading.”

For a moment, he’s sure Spencer’s going to tell him to leave him alone. That, or make a break for the door. Instead he shakes his head, puts down the fork and shifts a little in his chair, so they’re actually looking at each other.

“I’ve read it before, actually,” Spencer says. Then, with a small, tentative smile that’s still half-obscured by his hair, “So what did you think of Good Omens ?”

—

For all that Nathan has a lot of interesting things to say about redemption in Good Omens and fantasy literature more generally—and doesn’t seem to mind when Spencer accidentally turns the discussion into a lecture on the history of the Antichrist versus the term’s appearance in scripture—Spencer doesn’t expect to ever see him again after the dining hall closes that night. Avery House doesn’t allow freshmen into its dining hall after Frosh Week, for one thing. And once classes start most undergrads have trouble finding time get to the dining halls in their own houses, never mind the far edge of the campus where the grad students live.

Which is why he doesn’t pay much attention to the person who falls into step with him as he’s leaving the library a few days later. That, and the copy of Communications in Contemporary Mathematics he’s trying to read while simultaneously juggling three other books and his laptop, and trying to pry open the building’s remarkably heavy front door.

Which is why it shouldn’t be as embarrassing as it is when he flinches, yelps, and drops half the books as a voice right by his ear asks, “Do you really read that fast?”

When he regains his composure enough to look over, Nathan’s giving him a sheepish smile, thin fingers twisting the sleeves of his sweater tight around his wrists. “Sorry. Do you need me to carry something?”

Spencer looks down at his foot, where one of the books has come to rest, perfectly balanced, on the toe of his high top, and feels himself flush. “Maybe some help with the door?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Nathan says, as they’re walking back towards the dorm. Spencer wonders if he’s always this blunt in conversation, and if it works any better for him than his own bad habit of talking so far around things, or worse, lecturing about them, that he sometimes wonders if anyone knows what it is he’s talking about at all.

“I’m not reading that quickly,” he starts, then backtracks when Nathan looks like he’s about to say something. “For me. I read a little faster when the typeface is larger. And I think I’m going to use some of it in my dissertation, so I’m trying to read everything twice.”

“So that’s, what, a thousand words a minute?” Nathan’s eyes have gotten wide and Spencer feels like a specimen being prepared for study; stuck to a slide with another about to press down and seal him in.

“More like 20,000,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Nathan pauses. “So does that mean I don’t have to feel bad about distracting you for the next hour, or that I have to feel ten thousand times worse?”

“Actually, the average US citizen reads and comprehends between two hundred and fifty and three hundred words per minute, so it’s more like—” he pinches himself hard on the arm, just under the elbow, and hopes Nathan doesn’t notice. “Why do you need to distract me?”

In response Nathan holds up a coil-bound notebook that looks like it’s seen better days, and is already leaking photocopied syllabi. “What do you know about physics?”

Which is why, thirty minutes later, most of Spencer’s dorm-room floor is covered in pages of notes, a series of half-started calculations taking up most of a stack of post-it notes, and Nathan himself—who seems more interested in examining the contents of Spencer’s bookshelves than working. In fact, Nathan still hasn’t shown him the assignment he’s supposed to be helping with, and so far attempts to pick it out of the mess on his floor have proved unsuccessful.

“You like Lovecraft, too?” Nathan sits up, holding a paperback. “The Rats in the Walls gave me nightmares when I was fourteen.”

“My gym teacher couldn’t get me to go swimming for three weeks after I read The Shadow Over Innsmouth ,” Spencer says absently, sliding onto the floor and stretching out his legs as he leans back against his bed. “I’m not really fond of the idea of spontaneously growing-gills .”

Nathan makes a soft noise that sounds like it might be a laugh, and Spencer feels a tight, warm stab of pride in his chest. “I’d rather have gills than deal with rats, though. Or tentacle monsters from beyond the stars, or crippling insanity, or—actually, gills seem pretty safe, for Lovecraft.”

“I know,” Spencer nods. “It’s just, I was eleven years old the last time I took gym class. And I would rather be eaten last when the stars align and dread Cthulhu stirs in R’lyeh than ever have to go swimming with a bunch of high school students again.”

And this time Nathan really does laugh, loud and sincere, and Spencer’s chest tightens to the point where it’s almost impossible to breathe.

He never does find out what Nathan’s problem with his homework assignment was supposed to be.

—

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

It’s nearly 8:30 a.m. when Morgan looks up from his paperwork and morning coffee to see Reid slinking into the office, messenger back clutched tight to his chest, shoelaces flapping, shirt untucked, and hair sticking up even more than usual. When he sinks into his chair without even stopping at the coffee pot, Morgan can’t resist the urge to go over and seat himself on the edge of Reid’s desk.

“So, what’s her name?”

“What?” Reid asks, too busy turning on his computer and rummaging through his bag simultaneously to look up. He sounds half asleep, and maybe a little embarrassed, and Morgan doesn’t even try to fight down a grin.

“Whoever’s keeping you so busy you didn’t even have a chance to tie your shoes.” He nudges Reid’s chair with one knee, trying for a rise. “What’s her name, man? Garcia’s going to need details.”

There are a lot of reactions Morgan’s prepared for. A sarcastic comment, or a blush, or one of those awkward, utterly confused smiles that are Reid’s trademark in any non-profiling conversation. Maybe even an actual name, which would suit Morgan just fine—he’s willing to bet Reid could use the outlet. What he’s not expecting is a complete and utter lack of response he gets. Reid doesn’t even look up, just runs a hand over his face, takes a breath that’s deep enough to be audible, and keeps looking for god knows what in his bag.

“Reid? You in there?” Still nothing, and Morgan can’t stop himself from learning in a little, looking a bit harder. There’s a brown, coffee-smelling stain bleeding up one of Reid’s sleeves, and the hand holding his bag up is turning white at the knuckles. “Come on, kid. Talk to me.”

“Found it,” Reid says, as though he hasn’t heard Morgan at all, pulling a foil-wrapped chocolate and caramel Rice Krispies treat out of his bag. Type two diabetes waiting to happen, Morgan thinks, which is all the time it takes for half the thing to disappear into Reid’s mouth. “I’m fine, by the way” he adds, around a mouthful of marshmallow. “Is there any coffee left?”

“Prentiss just made a fresh pot.” Reid crams the rest of the bar into his mouth, and Morgan leans in as close as he can without it getting too weird and lowers his voice. “If it’s about the nightmares... you know I’ll listen if you want to talk.”

Reid swallows with what’s clearly monumental effort and fixes him with the all-too-familiar glare than means Morgan’s pushed too hard and backed him into a corner again. “It’s really not. And I’m going to get a coffee now.” Reid would never actually end a sentence with ‘so fuck off,’ but Morgan hears him loud and clear.

“Better make it a quick one,” he calls after him, and when Reid spins back Morgan has to work to keep his eyebrows from rising all the way to his hairline. His cheeks are flushed and his shoulders are tense, and he looks like he might actually be trembling with rage.

And Morgan has to fight the part of him that wants to let Reid lose it, wants to see him put down his shields and let the whole BAU take a hard look at the dark parts of his big, genius brain. The rest of Morgan reminds him that Reid is a co-worker, and interrogating co-workers violates the undiscussed but very real ban on intra-team profiling and probably isn’t that useful in the long- or short-term. Damage control, then. “J.J. wants us in the boardroom in five minutes. We’ve got a new case.”

It’s like popping a balloon. Reid seems to shrink in on himself instantly, and only manages a small, tense nod before heading—running—for the coffee pot.

All things considered, Morgan would definitely have preferred a chat about his sex life.

—

Pasadena, California
September 1998

“What made you decide to come to CalTech?” Nathan asks as they’re lying in the grass one afternoon, in the small green space that separates the Industrial Relations Centre from Hill Avenue. Nathan’s never really seen himself as a lie-in-the-grass kind of guy before, but Pasadena is having a stupidly gorgeous fall, where going indoors seems like a sin. Besides, half of CalTech’s student population is out doing the same thing. It took he and Spencer almost twenty minutes of walking to find a semi-private place to sit and Nathan is going to enjoy his victory, dammit.

Spencers shrugs—well, as much as he can with his arms behind his head—and looks at Nathan over one pointy elbow. “It’s too cold in New England.”

“Why am I not surprised you got into Harvard?” Nathan sighs and stenches his arms over his head, feeling grass prickle the back of his hands. After two weeks of being friends (at least, he hopes that’s what they are) it’s hard to be surprised by just how many ridiculous and impressive things Spencer can do, or has already done.

“I was talking about Yale, actually—but that was the same reason I didn’t want to go to MIT.” For once, Spencer doesn’t do the blush and shrink thing, and Nathan wonders if it’s because of the grass, their comfort levels with each other, or because Spencer is unaware that most people don’t get to turn down that many top-level universities in their lifetimes. “And CalTech had better housing services for 13 year-old geniuses who were technically too young to move to another state alone. And my mom thought the school crest was a nice colour.”

“I don’t think mine ever mentioned it,” Nathan says, and Spencer snorts and rolls onto his side, leaning his cheek against one folded arm. “I was thinking about getting an English degree, originally. NYU said yes, and their creative writing thing is pretty good, so I guess that was my plan. Then Cal let me in off the waiting list and we stopped talking about me going anywhere else.”

“You did want to come here, though, didn’t you?” Spencer says, sounding genuinely worried, which makes something in Nathan’s chest expand.

“I guess,” now it’s his turn to shrug. “It’s a pretty good school, right?”

“I guess,” Spencer agrees in that dry, serious way of his that Nathan is starting to realise is actually code for ‘I’m making a joke.’ There’s a lock of hair hanging in his eyes, and he exhales in a huff, trying to blow it away and succeeding in doing nothing at all. “And in a few years you can become the most overqualified Master of Fine Arts candidate in human history.”

Nathan gives him a mock-glare of dubious success and reaches over, flicking Spencer’s hair out of the way for him. For all that Spencer never appears to have heard of hairbrushes, it’s surprisingly soft against his fingers.

Then Spencer is looking at him in surprise, and it occurs to Nathan that he’s doing that thing again, where he ignores all of the things he’s learned to do to make himself seem normal and it blows up in his face. He lets his hand drop, darts his eyes to one side, stares out at the handful of cars in the IRC parking lot and almost completely misses the wide, delighted grin Spencer flashes him.

“Thanks,” he says, and flicks Nathan on the centre of his forehead before rolling onto his back. “So, ah, does that cloud look like an ornithorhynchus anatinus to you, too?”

—

Spencer wraps the telephone cord around his fingers and tries not to get his hopes up as he counts off the rings. One, two, three—still another two, maybe two and a half, to go. Time enough for her to stretch out her hand, pick up the extension sitting next to her bed—

There’s a metallic click on the line, and the hope he’s not supposed to let himself have sticks in his throat and chokes him. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his index and middle knuckles and listens to his own voice tell him

Hi, you’ve reached the voice mail for Diana and Spencer Reid. Neither of us are available to take your call right now, but if you’ll please leave a message and your phone number after the tone, we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

It’s been five weeks since he left Las Vegas, and his mother still hasn’t taken any of his phone calls.

“Hi, mom,” he tries to keep his voice upbeat. As if he thinks she’s just gone out to the store, or to a friend’s. As if she’ll call back. “Just calling to see how you are.”

He knows she’s not ignoring him, exactly. He gets a letter from her at least three times a week—her latest turned up in his mailbox today. And he knows she’s listening to his messages because she sent him his copy of the Mabinogion, which he only asked for over the phone. He hopes she’s been deleting the messages too, because even in her most lucid moments, Diana Reid has never been one for changing the tape in their ancient, pre-digital-age answering machine.

But, just in case, “You should probably change the tape in this, okay? I left more in the drawer just under the machine. And there are a couple in the kitchen, in the basket by the refrigerator. Just in case I need to leave you another message, okay?”

He pauses, and he doesn’t know what he’s expecting. It’s not like the answering machine is going to talk to him, even though its name somewhat suggests it should.

“Um, things here are good.” He twists the cord tighter in his fingers. “My friend Nathan—I wrote to you about him, remember? He found out about this interesting-sounding book store downtown, so I think we’re going to go there this weekend.

“You—you can call me back, if you want, when you get this. My number’s in the letter I sent you. In all of them, so, if you have any of them with you... But it’s 555-2021 if you don’t have one of them around,” his voice cracks on the second syllable, and he has to clench his back teeth to keep it steady. “I miss you, mom. I’ll. I’ll talk to you later, okay? I love you.”

The phone hits the cradle with a plastic-on-plastic crack, and Spencer puts his head down on his desk and tries to ignore the prickling he can feel just behind his eyes.

—

Nathan doesn’t know where Spencer got the wine from. But, based on a recent ingredient-by-ingredient dissection of their crust and a not inconsiderable rant about preservatives, Nathan’s fairly certain the pizza he’s holding didn’t come from Dominos.

“I got them to put mushrooms on you half,” Spencer says, not quite hiding a grimace. “Happy, um, first major assignment... day.”

And best friend or not, that pizza is the only reason Nathan lets him into his dorm room. Sleep isn’t something he’s well-acquainted with, but it turns out an essay-driven all nighter is a great cure for insomnia. He’s had at least twelve cups of coffee today, and even though his hands won’t stop shaking he barely made it through his evening class without falling asleep.

“Did you get onions too?”

“Yes,” Spencer says, with a faintly martyred air, setting the box on Nathan’s desk and pulling a corkscrew out of his bag. “Also on your half.”

He cracks open the box, inhaling warm, tomato-scented steam. “I don’t understand how you can put jalapenos and broccoli on a pizza and object to onions.”

“Broccoli has the structural integrity necessary to withstand cooking temperatures over seven hundred and fifty degrees Fahrenheit,” Spencer mutters, not looking up from the foil he’s peeling off the wine bottle. “And onions are slimy.”

Nathan just snorts and snags a slice from his side. Pepperoni, bacon, mushrooms and onion—not a bad reward for 24 hours of work. “Do you need mugs? I think I have a couple from the dining hall I could wash.”

“Actually,” Spencer reaches into his bag and produces a pair of glasses with a sheepish smile and a very slight blush. “According to most studies, the flavour of wine improves if it’s served in the correct stemware. Though, technically speaking, a Bordeaux glass would be more appropriate for a Merlot.”

“Why do you even know this stuff?” Nathan asks, accepting a glass. He rolls the wine on his tongue and wonders, not for the first time, how something that tastes like grapes and hair spray got to be so popular.

Spencer shrugs. “Graduate students go to a lot of cocktail parties. Cheers?”

He doesn’t know when, exactly, he falls asleep. Some time after the second glass of wine, when the pizza is long gone, and Spencer is trying to explain the difference between a full house and a royal flush for the second time, while shuffling his deck of cards so quickly Nathan is having trouble following the movement of his hands. When he opens his eyes, it’s dark outside and it takes him a few minutes to figure out why he’s on the floor with the Jack of diamonds stuck to one cheek.

There’s a blanket tucked around his shoulders, and Nathan’s tempted to curl up and continue his nap. But when he turns his head he sees Spencer’s bag lying on the floor next to him, and Spencer himself sitting a few feet away, leaning against his roommate’s bed. There’s a book Nathan can’t see the cover of spread out over his knees, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses are threatening to slide off his nose. A half empty wineglass dangles from his fingers, and when he takes another drink Nathan can see the purple stains on his teeth and lips.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he mumbles, and Spencer nearly spills the rest of his wine on himself in surprise.

“Hi, sorry. I didn’t know you were awake.” His cheeks are red, and Nathan wonders if it’s from the alcohol, and if they’d feel hot if he touched him.

“What time is it?”

“A little after midnight,” Spencer downs the rest of his glass in one long swallow. “Sorry, I meant to leave earlier. You should probably go to bed.”

“Mm,” he doesn’t so much climb onto the bed as slither, and it’s probably not the most graceful thing he’s done, but right now he’s too tired to care. “You can stay if you want. If my roommate’s not home yet he’s probably not going to be here tonight.”

“No, I should get back.” He’s got his face pressed into the pillow, so he can’t see what Spencer’s doing. He feels something warm and heavy drop onto his shoulders a moment later—the blanket he left on the floor, he realises—then a different sort of warmth as Spencer’s fingers brush the back of his neck, pull away, come back, comb through his hair, then pull away for good. “Um, goodnight?”

Nathan nods, mumbles something even he can’t decipher in response, and is dead to the world before Spencer makes it out the door.

—

Quantico, Virginia
November 2006

Reid clicks the feeding mechanism of his mechanical pencil twice and tries to force himself to look up when J.J. opens the first slide of her presentation.

A crime scene photo of a young blonde woman—maybe the same age as J.J. herself, maybe younger. Hard to tell from the angle. There’s a row of garbage cans behind her, trash on the ground blown around her like an audience, like rubberneckers at an accident. Her red dress is almost too bright against the washed-out grey of the concrete.

The pencil sounds impossibly loud when he touches it to the page. He wonders how the team can hear anything over the scraping, tells himself to set it down, to pay attention. Sketches a jaw line instead—still thin and sharp, bones no broader or softer with age. A few new lines around the eyes and across the forehead. Cheekbones a bit less prominent than he’d remembered. That new close-cropped haircut. All those little signs of time, hard enough to catalogue in his head and harder still to get down on paper.

“Prostitutes,” J.J. says, in the middle of some important phrase he’s utterly failed to hear. The pencil lead snaps, leaving a deep gray pockmark on the page. Reid looks up.

“All three victims were found in the area near MacPherson Square,” another crime scene photo flickers across the screen, bringing more alleyways and trash cans and another female form lying spreadeagle on the ground. “All stabbed, all with their hair cut. DC police didn’t connect the murders until they found most recent victim this morning.”

She clicks her handheld remote and the slide changes to an autopsy photo set side-by-side with a shot taken maybe three hours earlier. One woman he recognises from the earlier slides—a blonde Jane Doe, somehow looking more alone on a medical examiner’s table, with her ragged hair carefully pushed back off her face. The other victim’s hair is long, too, but black with a fringe of orange along the bottom that probably extended to her shoulders a few days ago. She’s younger, maybe a few years out of high school. Maybe not out of it at all.

He catalogues the details, burning them into the part of his memory that holds all their case files and victims and nightmare fuel. Memorises the bruises on the blonde’s face, the squareness of the younger woman’s jaw. But even as he’s taking it all in, all he can see are the words.

Filtered through the LCD projector, the messages on the victims’ stomachs look like they could be written in lipstick. Reid doesn’t have to squint to know they’re not, to know there’s no way to wipe those words off.

On the blonde, in letters that look almost too neat to have been carved: HELP. The marks on the younger woman are harder to make out, until the slide changes again, giving him a closer view. FAILURE.

The rest of J.J.’s explanation gets lost under the roaring in his ears.

Act II

Hey, I write!

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 03:26:25 GMT

This was originally going to be a few parts longer, but I've realized I quite like the story arc as it is now. So there.

"If you can write short, you can write anything," an editor once told me. Thus, each part is exactly 150 words. I swear that restriction made sense when I started this.

Title: Big Drag— A Love Story in 21 Parts

Pairing: Nate Ruess / Brandon Flowers

Summary: The Vegas night life leaves something to be desired. Thank god for cigarettes and fake IDs.

1.

It’s hot as hell in the club, and Brandon can feel his last clean white shirt getting damper and smellier and, eventually, sticking uncomfortably to the small of his back. The dance floor is packed, bodies pressing in around him on all sides. Someone’s elbow presses into his shoulder blade. Two guys in too-tight jeans are grinding, faces smashed together just to the left of his head, one man’s hip bumping his thigh to the beat of the music.

To his right, someone trips over someone else’s feet, knocks a hand against his shoulder and spills half a rum and coke down his sleeve. He turns to glare and the couple behind him move into the gap left by his body. Someone’s ass rubs against his hip.

Brandon grimaces, shakes as much of the cola out of his shirt as he can, and threads his way off the dance floor.

2.

It’s 4am, and Vegas is glowing. The sky is faintly yellow, smog and florescent lights combining to make everything look radioactive. There’s no moon. No stars, either. The air is stiff and heavy, the smell of sweat and alcohol spilling onto the pavement. Brandon sighs, shoves sweaty hair off his forehead, and digs in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes.

It’s not there.

“Oh, come on,” he groans, leaning back against the building, rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm. “This is just unfair.”

To his right the door of the club bangs open. Another couple stumble past, hands in each other’s pockets, laughing. Brandon tries his hardest to stare through them. And it must work, because that’s when he sees it: ALL NITE QWICK WAY, in foot-high florescent letters.

He sprints across the street. If he can’t get laid, at least he can chain smoke.

3.

He’s been here seven months now. Not in the club, yeah, but here. Vegas. For seven months. Long enough for one apartment, two jobs, his first fake ID, three eyeliner pencils, too many shots of tequila, and God knows how many cigarettes.

Long enough for all that but, apparently, not long enough to get so much as a grope in a badly-lit bathroom.

Eight months ago—seventeen, high school senior, stuck in Utah—Vegas was everything. The prize after years of waiting and pretending and church every Sunday. Eight months ago he’d slip his hand under the blankets and turn his face into the pillow and picture the Vegas skyline and half-faceless boys with swollen lips as he pushed slick fingers inside himself and tried not to whimper and wake up his mother sleeping down the hall.

And, fuck, he’s wanted this life for so long. He thought it’d be different, somehow.

4.

The ALL NITE QWICK WAY is brightly lit and badly laid out. Brandon has to weave through shelves of soda and cereal to get to the back of the store, where there’s a bored looking guy behind the counter, in front of the cigarette rack.

“Could I get a pack of Camel lights?” He doesn’t offer an ID and the guy doesn’t ask, just slides the pack across the counter and takes Brandon’s last five dollar bill. He nearly trips over a packing box full of Kool-Aid packets when he turns around, then he’s back outside, knocking the box against the wall before tearing off the cellophane.

He gets one lit and leans against the wall, listening to the QUICK WAY sign buzz above his head. Brandon exhales smoke and watches it waft up towards the nuclear-yellow sky.

“Hey,” says a voice to his left. “Have you got a light?”

5.

The guy—he could say ‘boy’, probably, without it being weird—is short, shaggy haired and wearing the ugliest polo shirt Brandon’s ever seen. Salmon pink isn’t a good colour for him. He’s got a cigarette between his fingers, held halfway to his mouth.

He looks familiar, and it takes Brandon a couple seconds and a downward glance to realise why. His name tag is pinned to his jeans, the store logo hovering just below his belt loops. Red vinyl letters spell out ‘NATHAN.’

NATHAN raises an eyebrow at him and Brandon pulls out his lighter and holds it up to his cigarette.

“So, is there a special way to pronounce your name to make it obvious it’s all capitalised?”

The end of the cigarette glows orange. The guy smirks at him and exhales noisily, shoving his hair out of his eyes with his free hand. “Were you staring at my crotch?”

6.

It’s hot as hell in the club. Again. Another Saturday night, another three shots of vodka and cranberry drunk hastily while he looks over his shoulder and tries to remember the birth date on his fake ID. Another Madonna song playing on a loop in his head. Another pack of cigarettes nearly empty, with six hours to go before the bar closes.

God, he’s so bored.

He can’t even convince himself to dance tonight, just stays at the bar drinking the last of his paycheque and waiting for someone to take notice. No one does.

He rests his head on his hand, elbow propped against the bar. Pulls out that second-to-last cigarette and lets it dangle from his lips as he fishes in his pockets for his lighter. Finally notices it lying on the bar next to his pile of empty glasses.

So, at least he’s getting drunk. That’s something.

7.

Nathan waves at him when he comes in, and when he goes to wave back his foot catches on the box of Kool-Aid still sitting there, sending him stumbling headfirst into the counter.

“Have much to drink?” Nathan’s smirking and Brandon can feel himself going red like the shy teenager he’s not supposed to be on this side of the Utah state line.

“Fucking move your boxes sometime.”

All he gets for his bravado are a sigh and an eye roll, and Nathan turns away long enough to pull a pack of Camels off the shelf.

“You’d better let me help you smoke these,” he says, taking Brandon’s wallet and counting out the money himself. “The rate you’re going, you’re going to put one out in your eye.”

He frowns and grumbles and peels the cellophane off the package with slow, careful motions. “You’re a jerk, Nathan.”

“Call me Nate.”

8.

Nate lights his cigarette as they stand in the parking lot, watching the doors of the club. It’s hours until last call, and Brandon knows no one’s leaving, but he still half-expects everyone inside to couple up and come parading out. Hell, the way his life is going, he half-expects everyone else to drop everything and start doing it in the street whenever he walks by, just to remind him what he’s missing.

“Hey, you going to smoke that?”

He looks down and there’s a long tube of ash hanging off the end of his cigarette. He inhales hard, trying to make up for lost nicotine, still imagining some great cosmic orgy going on just behind him, maybe over his shoulder. “Getting to it.”

And Brandon’s ears are still straining for the sounds of skin on skin and someone else’s moaning when Nate says, "So, hey. You come here often?"

9.

He's halfway sober by the time his cigarettes are finished. They camp out on the front step of the QWICK WAY, and Brandon would worry Nate's going to get himself fired, if there were less alcohol in his bloodstream.

Nate who’s supposed to be in his second year of university right now, it turns out. Creative writing, he explains, around cigarette number four. That was a year ago, when he dropped out to play professional poker and work the QWICK WAY’s graveyard shift.

Brandon doesn't even try to wrap his head around that one.

“Never answered my question,” Nate's saying. lighting smoke number ten.

He raises an eyebrow, reaches for the Camels and misses.

“Come here often?”

He snorts, then tries for the pack again. Bingo. “Saturdays, mostly. You ever go?”

He’s not sure what he’s expecting. Or why he his stomach twists so sharply when Nate shakes his head.

10.

Brandon’s not imagining it. He’s really the only person in Vegas who’s not having sex.

He’s a bell hop, works the evening shift at MGM. An errand monkey in a good jacket, getting ice or toothpaste or whatever will make or break a guest’s night in. Rolling papers. Yogurt. Condoms.

The rooms he’s headed to is on the thirteenth floor. Brandon takes the stairs, clutching the box of Trojans and grinding his teeth. The jackass who called the front desk asked for flavours. It took him two drugstores to find what he was looking for. He should’ve got the extra small size.

He thinks he can hear music coming from the room. Barry White, maybe. Proof this jerk doesn’t deserve the ass he’s getting. Brandon takes a deep breath, raps on the door.

“Room service.”

The jerk from the phone answers the door naked. God, Brandon hates his life.

11.

Saturday night. Same old shit. Brandon doesn’t knows why he bothers.

The DJ’s spinning old Madonna singles and he heads for the dance floor, trying to pretend he’s into it. Trying to forget he’s come here every week for almost eight months and still doesn’t even know the name of the coat-check boy. Not that it matters. He’s here for the music. Or the beer.

He closes his eyes, lets himself get swept up in the beat (the one this guy uses for every pop song), the feel of bodies jostling him, the press of fingers at his wrist, pulling him backwards.

Brandon jumps, heart moving up into his throat, mouth going dry. He starts to turn, catches one foot on someone’s shoe and nearly headbutts Nate in the chest.

“He—oh, hey. You.”

“Hey, you,” Nate smiles, pulling him closer, fingers curling around his. “Let me buy you a drink?”

12.

“I thought this wasn’t your thing,” Brandon says between nervous slurps of gin and tonic.

Nate shrugs, running a finger around the rim of his beer bottle and pushing his hair out of his eyes. He smiles and Brandon’s stomach lurches and a mouthful of gin ends up dribbling down his chin.

“It’s not,” Nate pauses, and Brandon looks away and wipes his mouth on his forearm. “The music sucks. And don’t try to tell me an evening with Madonna is your idea of a good time either.”

“Picky,” he smiles, blushes, and tries not to let himself hope. “So, what are you doing here? See something you like?”

“It’s my night off.” Nate’s expression is impossible to read again. “Didn’t want you to miss me.”

“You came to the gay bar to hang out with me?” Yeah, he’s disappointed. But he’d kiss Nate right now if he thought he’d let him.

13.

They get French toast at an all night diner about six blocks from the club. Eight gay anthems are all it takes for Nate to get restless.

“I don’t get it,” he’s saying, dragging a fork through his hash browns. “You go there all the time. How can you not know anyone?”

Brandon blushes, toys with a syrup packet. “It’s not like I’m not trying. No one seems interested.”

“In hot underage ass?” Nate winks, and Brandon accidentally stabs a finger into the packet. “Are you sure you aren’t sneaking into a morgue?”

“They don’t play ‘Like a Virgin’ in morgues,” he mumbles, sucking on his fingertips. “It’s disrespectful.”

“The dead hate Madonna too?” Nate grins. Brandon blushes harder and accidentally knocks his empty coffee cup off the table.

“What about you,” he asks, reaching down, hiding his face with the tabletop. “Got a girlfriend?”

Nate chokes on his toast.

14.

Tuesday night. The bar smells like stale smoke and sweat and chalk dust and the ventilation here might be worse than the club’s. Brandon pulls at the bottom of his t-shirt and tries not to stare when Nate leans across the pool table to sink the four ball.

“Fuck.” The ball bounces off the side rail and wobbles to the middle of the table. Nate sighs, huffs his hair out of his eyes and tosses the cue to him. “Your turn. Want another beer?”

He really shouldn’t. He had to agree to come in early tomorrow to get tonight off. Getting up before 2 p.m. is hard enough, never mind before noon. But Nate’s smiling and— “Yeah, sure.”

Nate squeezes his shoulder as he walks past. Brandon misses the cue ball completely on his first try. And, god, he’s an idiot.

“Friendly gesture, Brandon,” he mutters. “It’s a friendly gesture.”

15.

The sidewalk is quivering under the streetlights, and he doesn’t know where to put his feet. Next to him there’s a crash, a curse, and then Nate’s arm warm around his waist as he pulls himself away from the garbage can he’s fallen over.

“Wow, okay, drunker than I thought,” he mumbles against Brandon’s cheek, breath warm and sour on his skin. “Got a cigarette?”

He swallows, can’t get any words out, and ends up hading one over in silence. It must be nearly 4 a.m. and he’d be kicking himself if Nate’s hand wasn’t on his thigh, patting his pocket.

“Light?”

He tries not to let the disappointment show as he hands the mini-Bic over. Nate’s fingers tighten on his hip as he flicks it, and Brandon’s stomach lurches from more than the beer.

“You’re amazing,” Nate says, drunkenly sincere. Brandon’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up.

16.

A couple of the other bellhops take some vacation days, and Brandon gets called in for extra shifts. Saturday night is spent running buckets of ice to a party on the tenth floor, then standing around uncomfortably for ten minutes while seven stoned twentysomthings look for tip change.

He gets off shift around 2 a.m., and it’s not even worth heading home. Not if he wants to get well and truly smashed before last call. So he stuffs his uniform top in his backpack and catches a bus off the strip.

The heat and sound are leaking into the street by the time he gets there. Beyond the doorman he can see the usual crush of bodies moving under pink and yellow light.

The door guy’s giving him a look, waiting for his ID. Brandon stops with his hand halfway to his wallet.

“Need smokes. I’ll, uh, be right back.”

17.

Nate tosses him a pack over his shoulder, and Brandon barely catches it.

“Hey. Didn’t think you were coming tonight.”

“Just got off work,” his mouth feels dry, maybe he should’ve had a drink first. “Wanted to say hey before I went over. You know. So you wouldn’t think I forgot you.”

“Mm,” Nate turns back to the tobacco wall, doing some sort of cigarette inventory. It might be the first time Brandon’s seen him do anything resembling work. “Don’t go back there tonight.”

“And miss Madonna?” The joke comes out flat and strained, and he fumbles with his wallet to cover. “How much for the smokes?”

“Brandon.” Nate’s got that expression on again, the one he can’t read, that makes the hair on his arms stand on end. “Seriously, do I have to spell it out? Seriously? I’m hitting on you. Stay.”

“Oh,” he says. A pause, then, “What?”

18.

“What?” Nate’s got his arms crossed and it’s not fair how much taller the platform behind the counter makes him. “That’s really all you’ve got?”

“You’re actually—” he swallows again. Lightheaded. Maybe he’s going to pass out. “Okay.”

“Good ‘okay’ or bad ‘okay’?” Nate leans across the counter and Brandon’s knees are shaking. “Blink once if it’s the good one.”

He must blink, because then he’s being pulled up against the counter by his t-shirt and Nate’s mouth is on his and their teeth click together which, yeah, kind of hurts. But holy Jesus that is not his main concern right now because. Kissing.

He gets his fingers twisted in Nate’s hair, and then he’s lost in the press and slide of lips against his and the way Nate’s fingers stroke down his bare arm. He doesn’t even realise he’s dropped his cigarettes until the pack crunches under his foot.

19.

“So, you’re actually serious?” Brandon asks, toying with a pile of snapped cigarettes. About a quarter of the pack is still intact, but the rest of them are leaking tobacco everywhere.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been trying to,” Nate waves one hand and leans forward over the counter, “You know. For weeks.”

“Then why not just ask me out?”

“I tried. But you kept saying all that stuff, like how we were just hanging out—or asking me if I had a girlfriend.” Nate holds up a garbage can. Brandon flicks half a Camel at it and misses. “I thought you were trying to let me down easy. It took me forever to realise you just hadn’t noticed.”

He tries to suppress a blush. “Sorry about that. But, hey, if it’s any consolation,” he pauses, tosses another cigarette. Bingo.

“If what’s a consolation?”

“If I’d noticed, I would’ve gone for it.”

20.

Nate’s shift ends at 6 a.m. By 6:02 he’s got Brandon pressed up against the QWICK WAY’s back wall, between the dumpster and the back door. The last four hours were all hurried kisses behind the soda cooler, where the store’s security cam doesn’t reach. This, Brandon thinks, is something else entirely.

Nate pushes a knee between his legs and then he’s up on tip-toe, head pushing back against the cinder blocks as he gasps. He feels his shirt being tugged out of his pants, feels Nate’s fingers slide over the small of his back, feels the scrape of teeth against his jaw. And—oh, God—he wonders if he should be embarrassed, because he’s hard already.

Then Nate shifts and shudders and he feels the answer to his question pressed against his thigh.

“Holy shit, really?”

He hears Nate laughing at him before he realises he’s spoken. “Yeah, really.”

21.

He wakes up Sunday morning—or maybe Sunday afternoon—naked and sweaty, his legs tangled in unfamiliar sheets. There’s a Fleetwood Mac poster hanging on the sloped ceiling above the bed and Brandon stares up at it blankly, waiting for his brain to reboot.

“Hey, you up?” The mattress dips, and Nate’s looking down at him, holding a cup of coffee and a crushed pack of Camels. “I brought you breakfast.”

Oh, that’s where he is.

“Thanks,” he takes a cigarette from the pack and sits up, keeping the sheet pulled up past his waist. He should probably follow up with some other statement, but all that’s coming to mind is ‘last night was great’ or, worse, ‘we should do this again some time.’ No and no.

Nate plucks the cigarette out of his mouth, steals a drag and gives him a soft, quick kiss.

“Can I have your number?” Brandon says.

Thu, 31 May 2007 03:25:54 GMT

Title: Bye Bye, Baby

Pairing: Nate Ruess / Brandon Flowers

More of the Nazi Germany AU. It never goes away!

He can't pinpoint the exact moment he knows he's being followed. Some time after he and Rudi part ways. Long after he's left the package he was carrying in the warehouse east of the river. Minutes after he turns onto the street that will take him towards his apartment building.

It doesn't come in a sudden flash. He doesn't look back and see a mysterious shadow ducking behind a street lamp, doesn't hear footsteps on the wind. It's subtler than that. A creeping feeling along his spine, a small voice in his head that tells him somewhere in the darkness something is going terribly wrong.

He breaks into a run without thinking. It's then that he hears the footsteps, hears the shouts. Then that he knows that little voice is right, and that he has to keep running, has to do. Something. Distract the darkness long enough for Rudi to slip away, long enough for the package to get where it needs to.

The footsteps are gaining and he ducks into an alley, curling his body into the shadows and trying to think. He has a plan. He's always had a plan, but right now it's slipping away and all he can see are soft, big eyes and shaggy brown hair.

Nate.

Don't feel like you have to wait.

You’re making it sound like you think you’ll never come back.

He pushes a hand into his jacket, feeling for an envelope tucked into the lining. His eyes a prickling, and he lets them water. More convincing that way.

I love you. I want you to be happy.

Then don't talk like this.

There's a hand on his arm, jerking him back to his feet. He stumbles, staring up into the eyes of an SS guard. Swallows hard and lets the panic seep into his voice.

"Please, I didn't mean. I'm sorry to break the curfew. Just let me go home."

The guard looks past him, at something over his shoulder and that's when Brandon lets the envelope drop, contents spilling out across the pavement.

Postcards. Black and white photos of boys entwined with other boys. Kissing. Hands slipping lower. English words scrolling along the bottom edge, offering names for all the positions and poses.

He closes his eyes.

In his mind he sees Nate's face lit by the soft glow of sunlight spilling through blackout curtains. Sees soft brown hair hanging down into his eyes. He reaches out to push it back and his hand dangles in midair.

When he opens his eyes, the guard's face is curled in a snarl. He sees his lips move, but can't hear the words.

I'm sorry. But-

I love you too.

In his mind, Nate reaches out a hand to pull him in, smiling.

The guard backhands him across the face.

40 000 words, 84 pages and a year and a half later...

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 05:54:56 GMT

I feel like there ought to be more to say about finishing this. I'll probably have to make a shmoopy post on the other LJ later, but for now, let's just stick with this:

Here it is.

Title: Drunk on Love? No—Drunk on Gin! 12

Pairing: John Nolan/Vinnie Accardi

Rating: Tame and tamer. PG.

Disclaimer: Nothing but untruths, dupery and lies.

Longest Dedication Ever: Thanks to x_kchan_x for reading rough drafts in AIM, echoelf for listening to me whine, krammy for the enthusiasm, and inpurity for the everything. And also, thanks to everyone who ever took the time to tell me they were reading. It really means a lot.

Summary: fanfic100 prompt 003— ends
And now, A Very Final Installment of Drunk on Gin. Plot lines are resolved! Ridiculous plans are ridiculous. John and Vinnie are John and Vinnie. And, uh. Someone wears boxer shorts.

It’s been fun, guys. Here’s how it all turns out.

I’m half asleep when I hear someone knocking on Jesse’s door. No, not knocking, more like pounding. Unless that’s my head. I pull the pillow out from under me, and press it over my head. It feels soggy, and smells like—oh, God. I throw the pillow on the floor, and opt for pulling up the blankets instead. They’re safer, gentler, not as rancid. What the hell did I drink yesterday? I’m going to have to write Jesse another letter about this. Once my head stops exploding, and Jesus, why the hell isn’t anyone answering the door?

“John?” The connecting door cracks open, and every single bit of light in the goddamned universe is shining in my eyes.

“Jesse, fuck. Never letting you let me let you get me drunk ever, ever, ever—”

“John, there’s someone at the door.”

“Yeah.” And whoever it is, it sounds like they’ve moved from pounding to kicking. I wonder if it counts as justifiable homicide if you shoot someone because you’re hung over.

“Dude,” he prods me in the shoulder, “I think it’s your boy. Ex-boy.”

I can’t figure out what he means, so I just stare at my mattress and hope for the best. “Okay.”

“Do you want me to tell him to fuck off?” He prods me again, and I seriously consider biting off his fingers. “John?”

“I don’t care,” I moan. “Just make him shut up. And turn off the lights. And try not to like, make sound.”

He pats me on the back, and I finally manage to look up just as he’s closing the door. “One day, we’re going to work on your alcohol tolerance, Nol.”

I’m not sure if that’s a threat or not.

On the other side of the door, the pounding’s finally stopped, replaced by the muffled buzz of conversation. I readjust the covers, curl up with my face pressed against the wall, and try to will myself into unconsciousness. I’m half asleep, in the middle of a half-dream about a family of cockroaches that run a CVS in one of the lecture halls, when the door opens again.

“John?” The voice is different this time. Not Jesse. But familiar. “It’s me. Um. Are you in there?”

“Vi—” My voice cracks. I have to swallow a couple times before I can manage words. Seriously, I’m worried about what was in that alcohol. “ Vin?”

“Yeah.” I hear the door click shut, but I can still hear him in here, breathing hard. “Is this. Are you. I can. If you don’t. If it’s a bad time, I’ll leave.”

“What do you want?” Any other time I’d have snarled it at him. Today, I’m lucky it comes out at all, even if it sounds whispered and weak.

I can hear him fidgeting by the door, taking a step forward, a step back. “I. The thing is. The other day, with the, you know.” He sighs, and there’s a soft thump from the other side of the room. “I was kind of an idiot.”

I wait for him to say something else, then sit up when he doesn’t. This might actually be interesting. The room’s dark, and my glasses are on the floor somewhere, so I can’t see him at first. Eventually, I see a Vin-coloured blob curled up against the door, knees pressed to his chest. “Yeah. You were. And?”

He looks up for a second, then lets his head drop again. “I, yeah, I was. I just wanted to, you know. I’m sorry.”

I grab the pillow off the floor, trying not to touch any of the damps spots, and stick it behind my back, so I have something to lean against. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He does that look up, look down thing again, and I almost feel bad for him. “I’m not. What I said, I, I didn’t mean a lot of it. Most of it. I was just. That was really stupid. And,” his voice catches and he goes quiet. I lean back over the side of the bed, peering at the carpet until I find my glasses, half shoved under the bed. He’s staring at me, and when I catch his eye I feel awful. His face looks tight and he’s holding his mouth funny, like he’s gritting his teeth.

“Vin?” It comes out quiet, and God, I’m such a sucker. He’s the one in the wrong and I’m the one who feels like a jerk.

He shakes his head. “Forget it. I—I probably shouldn’t even. Just. Did you mean it with the. That thing, where you said you really liked me. That wasn’t just you being nice, was it?”

“No.” All of a sudden I don’t know what to do with my hands. I take off my glasses to clean them on my shirt, just for something to do. “That was. Yeah, I meant that.”

“Cause,” he stops short again, jaw clenching. “Cause the thing was. I wasn’t just saying it back to be nice, either.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I stop moving, instead, stay quiet, wait. Vin’s lower lip trembles a little, and I feel this strange, stabbing pain in my chest. I cast around desperately, trying to think of a response, but he beats me to it.

“Forget it. I didn’t, I mean, I guess I kind of blew my chance anyway.” He grabs the doorknob, uses it to pull himself up, puts his free hand over his eyes for a second. “John, I’m sorry. Just. I don’t. I might. I—I kind of think I was falling in love with you. I shouldn’t have fucked that up.”

I don’t know how he gets the door open so quickly, but I blink and he’s gone, the rattle of the door in its frame the only sign he was here at all.

—

I catch up with him at the front door to the building, one hand clenched around the handle, trying to push open a pull door. His shoulders are shaking, and he doesn’t notice me until I put a hand on his elbow. He flinches, but doesn’t turn or look at me.

“What—” is as far as he gets before I grab him and haul him around, so he’s trapped against the door. He’s not crying, but his eyes are red and he’s still holding his mouth weird. “John?”

“You,” it must be catching, this ridiculous dramatic pause thing. Because I’ve got so much to say and I can’t get a thing out. “You. You idiot. You fucking, God, you idiot.”

Vin stays frozen, staring at me wide eyed and looking ready to bolt. I squeeze his arms tighter, to keep my hands from shaking. Take a deep breath, and try again.

“I—God—do you even know how much I. If you honestly think.” It’s just not working. I can’t say anything, and Vin’s eyes are getting wider and.

Fuck it.

I press him back against the door and kiss him. In the lobby of my residence building, barefoot, in my boxers and t-shirt, with sour breath and a killer headache, as a crowd of people gather behind us, trying to get outside. I kiss him, and it’s one of the worst kisses I’ve ever given, with too much teeth and too much intensity and my hands tight enough on his arms to bruise. I kiss him and, in a weird way, it’s the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done.

When I pull back Vin just blinks at me for a second. Then, he gives me a small, watery smile and pushes away from the door. “John. We’re blocking people.”

I look over my shoulder at the seven people glaring at me, then pull both of us out of the way. “Oh, yeah. That.”

We just stand there until the lobby’s empty again, then he looks over at me, nervous. “So. Does that mean. Can I have a second chance?”

“Third chance,” I remind him, and grab his hand.

—

Three Months Later...

Nol:

So, it turns out Europe is actually huge. Seriously, dude, it’s insane. I spent 11 hours on a train today. And the Germans get really pissed if you try to have sex in train bathrooms. You’d think a country with this much beer would be a cooler about hooking up. I should’ve stayed in Switzerland. Swiss girls are insane, man. I’m still sore in the weirdest places.

Anyway, I’m gonna be in Hamburg for the rest of the week. Some guy from Australia said something about a pub crawl. You should’ve come, Nolan. Hope you and wife are enjoying the honeymoon or whatever. Speaking of which, next semester can we get a place with thicker walls? The two of you can get fuckin’ loud.

Gotta go soon—some German chick wants me to help her with her English, if you know what I mean. But I wanted to tell you that I’m thinking about getting back into the dating game. I met this dude at the hostel who’s pretty cool. Weird thing, apparently he goes to our university! How insane is that?

His name’s Conor. Maybe you know him?

Okay, really going now. Inga really needs my help. Apparently she’s got oral exams or some shit.

Tell your boy to scream my name a couple times or something, so I know you’re thinking of me.

Kisses,
Jesse

Vin looks up from the letter, face white with horror. “It’s not. It can’t be.”

I nod back, smile wide and stuff all the ‘artistic nude’ photos Jesse mailed me under the mattress.

———

Return'd!

Sun, 08 Apr 2007 18:15:30 GMT

Yes, it’s back. And... still not quite finished. Sigh.

Title: Drunk on Love? No—Drunk on Gin! 11

Pairing: John Nolan/Vinnie Accardi

Rating: We’ll just stick with an R for the rest of this. That’s got to cover everything that could happen, right?

Disclaimer: A filthy liberal myth since 2005.

Dedication: For inpurity, for reasons varied and various.

Summary: fanfic100 prompt 071— Broken
In a Very Histrionic Installment of Drunk On Gin, a group of high school students get more than they bargained for on a college viewing, a chair gets knocked over, and—of course—someone gets drunk and talks about sex.

My suitcase hits the wall over my bed with a thump, bounces off the bed and hits the floor with another thud that rattles the pens on my desk. I don’t exactly remember throwing it, but the small rush of satisfaction I get from the noise is enough to make me slam the door behind me and topple my chair as I cross the room. Conor’s not in his room right now, so I don’t feel bad about flinging the bag again—at the door this time—and listening to the wood rattle in its frame.

To say I’m pissed off would be kind of an understatement.

God, who the hell does John Nolan think he is? Why does he have to be so. So. Fucking patronising—no, it’s not even that. He’s just, I don’t even know. I just hate how suddenly everything’s my fault because I feel a little awkward about sex. Because, you know, that’s just so unthinkable, since no one’s ever felt weird about that ever in the history of the universe.

I kick my desk chair again, in case it hasn’t got the point yet. This is stupid. This fight, this weekend, this relationship—everything is just so fucking stupid I want to scream. Or hit something again. Or both. And hey, Conor’s not back yet, so it’s not like there’s anything stopping me.

...except my RA, who shows up after the coffee mug I throw out the window nearly hits a group of high school students on a college tour. I end up with a warning and a fifty dollar fine.

I hate everyone in the universe.

Thankfully, the RA doesn’t search my room, though he does make some pointed comments about the campus drug policy. There’s a six pack from Garrett’s visit still sitting in one of my desk drawers, and I can’t think of a better time to use it up than right now. I can unpack later.

A couple beers and the urge to scream finally starts to float away. A couple more and I don’t even feel like throwing things. So what if my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—is a jackass? I mean, fuck, it’s not like I’m the campus prude any more. If I wanted, I could probably out-slut Conor. I’d probably have to sleep with the entire faculty to manage it, but still. I can probably do okay. At least, I could hook up a couple more times before finals.

I mean, what’s college for? It’s not like people come here to find their soul mates and get married. It’s not the 1950's. I’m not even twenty yet, I’m supposed to be screwing around. College is for stupid, random hookups, it’s practically in the brochure. This is the prime of my life and I shouldn’t be wasting it on relationships or meaning or real emotions or trust or... or whatever. I’m here to have fun. I should be living Conor’s life.

I crack open another beer, light up a cigarette and lean out the window so no one will smell the smoke. And this is the life, right? Alone and free to do what I like on a Monday evening, just me and my beer and my nicotine. No boyfriend to have to hang out with. No one breathing down my neck. No one trying to slip a hand into my jeans. No one kissing the back of my neck when I take a drag off my cigarette. No one trying to get me into bed. No one spooning up behind me when I fall asleep and jabbing their too-pointy knees into the backs of my calves.

And that’s good. That’s fucking good, you know? Because when I go to bed tonight I’m not going to have to worry about waking up next to someone who wants to see me, wants to be where he is. I won’t have to deal with morning breath, or stubble burn on my lips. Won’t have to reset my alarm so I can spend ten more minutes curled up against a warm body. I can get to the cafeteria before they run out of tater tots.

Yeah, this is the life.

My beer slips out of my hand. I don’t even notice it’s gone until I hear a crash and a splatter on the sidewalk, five stories down. I let my cigarette drop after it, duck back inside and slam the window down behind me. The room is quiet and dark. Conor must not be back yet.

There’s one beer left in the drawer, but suddenly I’m not really thirsty. I slide down the wall under my window, so my knees are tucked up against my chest. I can hear someone talking in the next room, though the walls are thick enough that I don’t know what’s being said. A door slams somewhere.

And it’s stupid, so utterly stupid, but my eyes feel all wet and prickly. Stupid, because who does John Nolan think he is, really? Just some skinny guy, with a nice voice and nice eyes. Just some guy who I fucked this one time. Just some guy who. Who was this guy who didn’t mind all my shit, my flaws, my stupid hangups. Just some guy who I liked. God, who I really liked.

The room is too quiet. Way too quiet, because I can hear myself sniffling, and it sounds so loud I’m sure half the dorm can hear it. And I shouldn’t be sniffling because this is the life. This is what I’m supposed to be doing and I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t be—

“Oh God.” The sob comes out louder than I’d like, too. So does the next one. “Oh God. Oh God, what did I do?”

I don’t really know what’s worse: knowing that when I’m done crying John’s not going to be there, or knowing that’s exactly what I thought I wanted.

—

“Accardi.” Someone’s knocking on my door. Not the outside one, the connecter between Conor’s room and mine. “Accardi, you fucker, open up.”

It’s Mr. Oberst himself, and he looks royally pissed. At least, I think he does. The light coming from his room is making it hard to focus on anything. He pushes past me and stands in the centre of the room, hands on his hips, looking like offended royalty (assuming royals normally goes around with three hickeys apiece on their necks).

“Hi Conor, come in,” I say. He doesn’t find it as funny as I do.

“Look, asshole, I don’t know what you did yesterday, but can you stop doing whatever it was? Security’s coming by to do a room check in half an hour, and I really don’t like missing class for this shit.”

“What?” My head isn’t that sore, but I can’t figure out what he’s talking about. “I didn’t do—”

“Sure, right. That’s exactly when the RA dropped by to warn me to hide all our drugs.” He paces forward a few steps, then turns and paces back. “Since when do you even have drugs? I always figured you were too busy being morally outraged to get high.”

“Oh. Um.” I wonder if this is about last night’s accidental beer can grenade, then decide it’s probably better not to ask, in case Conor kills me.

“Whatever.” He sighs, as though he’s the one the entire dorm thinks is a junkie (is being a junkie worse than being a whore? I’m not sure). “I don’t know if you’re actually interested in staying in residence, but I am, so if you could do something about your beer can collection, that’d be nice.”

I look around. Most of the furniture is still knocked over, and the floor is covered in empties. I am about to be in so much trouble. “Fuck.”

Conor sighs again, and runs a hand over his face. Then something I’m not expecting happens. His expression softens a little, and some of the anger goes out of his voice. “I’ve got friends on the fourth floor. I called and they said they’ll hold anything we can’t get out of the dorm until this is finished. If you start now, you can probably get everything down there before anyone shows up.”

This is too surreal, but I’ll worry about that after I’ve got everything that can get me expelled or arrested off my floor. “Yeah, sure, thanks.”

“Whatever.” And, miracle of miracles, Conor Oberst is smiling at me. “Just buy me a drink when we’re done, okay?”

I’d answer him, but he’s already halfway out the door, and I’ve got a lot of alcohol to smuggle out and very little time. This settles it. Next time I get drunk, I’m doing it in John’s ro—

Oh. Right.

—

The room check doesn’t go as badly as I expected. Conor forgets to hide his electric kettle, but the security officers barely notice it. I guess illegally boiled water isn’t all that interesting when you’re expecting a meth lab. In the end, we get glared at, growled at and instructed to throw out the kettle, but at least no one brings out any handcuffs. The RA winks at Conor on the way out the door, and I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding for a good five minutes.

“Okay, what just happened?”

“The usual,” Conor flops down on his bed, crosses his arms under his head and closes his eyes. “You did something stupid, I had to deal with it. I’m still waiting on that drink, by the way. If you’ve got any whiskey—”

“No, I mean the other thing, where our RA just sabotaged his own room search. What was that?”

He shrugs, the rolls onto his side so he’s got his back to me. Gotta love that roommate bond. “Not much. He just owed me a favour, s’all.”

“Oh Jesus, you slept with our RA?”

Conor nearly falls off the bed, which is impressive, since he was curled up against the wall a second ago. "With Hepler? Accardi, are you mental? He’s, like, almost thirty.” He shudders. “God, no. James went to high school with my older brother. Fuck, you’ve got a filthy mind for an uptight jackass.”

I have a feeling this might be a good time to back away slowly. Conor’s scary when he’s angry. If I don’t apologize he might put lube in my shoes when I’m asleep, or give me some sort of venereal disease. “I’ll maybe go see about that drink, yeah?”

I’m not sure, but I think he actually hisses at me on my way out.

—

“Accardi, pour me another shot, wouldya?” Conor slurs, draping himself over the side of the bed so we’re at eye level and shaking a finger at me. His glass is lying on its side in a pool of melted ice, and I snag it and pour him half a glass of whiskey.

“We’re out of mixer. Hell, we’re even out of ice.” I’m trying to ignore the fact that it’s two in the afternoon. If I start thinking things like that, I might have to admit that I’m on my way to becoming junior alcoholic of the year.

“Ice? Real men drink it straight.” Conor grabs the glass and downs most of it in one go, then spills the rest down the front of his shirt. My potential drinking problem pales in comparison.

I sprawl back on the carpet and kick at the corner of Conor’s bedspread. “Hey, weren’t you going to class like, two hours ago?”

“Nah,” he sounds muffled and when I look up, it looks like he’s trying to suck the alcohol out of his t-shirt. “I was skipping anyway. I just don’t like people cutting in on my down time.”

Oh, right. That’s why I hate my roommate. “Aw man, am I interrupting some booty call of yours? I’d hate to think you were talking to me when you could be experiencing the wonders of anal penetration.”

“You know, this is why I normally won’t fucking speak to you.” He drops his glass over the side of the bed and it nearly hits me in the head. “Have you ever even had sex? Because talking to you is like talking to a twelve year old who still thinks boobs are hilarious.”

I push his glass away from me, knocking it against the leg of his bed. I can feel myself blushing, and I hate it. “Shut up, Oberst.”

“Oh God, you’re kidding me.” He slides off the bed, dropping cross-legged into the space where his glass used to be. “Don’t tell me I’ve been living with an honest-to-God virgin all year and no one told me. Are you in a cult? Or—no, wait—this is some sort of freaky monastic thing, right? You’re secretly a priest, aren’t you? Do you hear confessions?”

My fingernails dig into my palms and my teeth grit. My face feels hotter, and I either need to take a drink or punch Conor in the face. I go with the first one. I’m pretty sure putting my roommate in the hospital is the sort of thing that’ll get me evicted, even if there aren’t any drugs in my sock drawer. “I’m not a virgin, alright? I’ve had sex.”

He applauds. I start to rethink my policy on roommate related violence.

“What’s you problem, Oberst? Just because I don’t whore myself out like you—”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been about two months since my last confession—”

“Two months? I don’t know if I’ve got time to listen to you try to remember the names of sixty one-night stands.”

He stops talking, raises an eyebrow at me, then plucks the bottle of whiskey out of my lap and takes a long drink. “You’re shit at this priest stuff. Maybe you should try getting laid instead.”

“I told you,” I think I might be shouting. It’s hard to tell, what with the roaring in my ears. “I have sex.”

“Vinnie, Vinnie,” he looks at me over the top of the bottle, “Taking your bra off doesn’t count.”

I mean to say something witty and cutting. What comes out instead is somewhere between a grunt and a battle cry. Conor jerks back, which is the only thing that keeps his face from having a pleasant chat with my fist. I lunge at him and he springs to his feet, backing towards the door. Amazingly enough, he hasn’t spilt a drop of the whiskey.

“Come back here,” I growl. I’m trying to stand up, but it isn’t working. “Come back and say that to my face, Oberst.”

“No.” He takes another pull from the bottle, looking at the door over his shoulder. “You need to calm down. And learn how to hold your liquor. Jesus.”

“I’ll calm down,” I try to stand again, nearly manage it this time. “As soon as I kill you.”

“Accardi, you have some serious hangups.” He takes another step towards the door, still clutching the bottle to his chest. “Forget sex. You need therapy. Mental help.”

I decide standing up is for the weak, and snarl at him from the floor instead. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re insane. And humourless. I’d hate to see what would happen if someone made fun of your mother.” He backs up a few more steps, leans against the door. “You sure you’re not a virgin? Because I’ve met, like, Catholic school girls who’re less uptight about sex than you.”

I freeze. The blood’s draining back out of my face and I feel winded, like someone’s hit me in the stomach with a baseball bat. This shouldn’t be enough to do me in. It shouldn’t. Except now my hands feel like they’re shaking, even though they aren’t moving at all. And. Jesus Christ.

“Accardi?” Conor sounds suspicious, but he comes back over anyway. “If you’re going to puke—”

“I’m fine,” I manage to get it out in a whisper. This is so stupid. So goddamned stupid. Conor drops back into the spot in front of me and holds out the bottle. I shake my head, bark out a laugh without meaning to.

“Do you need a hug or something? Because I’m really not equipped for that level of manly bonding right now.”

“No. God, no.” I shake my head again and he breathes a sigh of relief. Asshole.

“So what was...” he trails off, takes another drink. This boy must have the saddest liver in existence.

“Nothing. Look, can I ask you something?” He starts to say something that I’m not really interested in hearing, so I keep going. “The first time you had sex. Was it, I don’t know, any good?”

Conor blinks, then grins at me for a second like he’s going to say something nasty. I brace for it, but then his expression shifts. And wonder of wonders, my roommate can actually look thoughtful. “I guess. I mean, it wasn’t mind blowing or anything. But nobody died and we remembered the lube. So. I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” I shake my head, as much to clear it as anything. “I was just. Nothing. Never mind. Can you give me a hand up? I think—I think there’s somewhere I need to be right now.”

He gives me a weird look, then shrugs, gets up and offers me a hand. “Seriously, Accardi. I think they have therapists on campus.”

“Get fucked, Oberst,” I tell him, patting him on the shoulder before I stumble out the door. I have to right some wrongs. Or pass out in front of the dining hall. Whatever comes first.

Fic: "FAQ"

Fri, 23 Feb 2007 08:57:01 GMT

So, I've been telling Katelynn a story on AIM. This is that story. I am sorry.

Frequently Asked Questions

Does anyone remember the early days of takebackfiction? When we were all lucky if we could spell Adam's last name right? When every second post was someone wanting to know just what was up with that whole Jesse Lacey / John Nolan feud?

This, friends. This is what was up. The truth must be told.

I started something I couldn't finish
(And if we go down, we go down together)
best friends means,
(well best friends means)...

The whole thing was Jesse's fault.

Okay, so it was John's idea to smoke up in Jesse's mom's sedan after school. But Jesse was the one who stumbled home with bloodshot eyes, and the one who left half of John's dime bag on the front table while he stumbled off to eat his body weight in pizza pops.

So if Jesse really wanted to blame someone for getting him grounded for two months, it should've been his mom, for raising the dumbest son in the history of the universe. A son who owed John twenty bucks- because that had been some really good pot.

But instead, who did his best friend blame? Who did he sneak out of his house five hours later to scream at?

"Nolan, you fucker, you're ruining my life!"

Which was a lie. Because if anyone's life was ruined, it was John's. He'd had big plans for that weed. Watching Morrissey DVDs wasn't nearly as much fun sober.

"I'm serious, Nol. Do you see how totally serious I am? My mom wants to take away my door again, so I won't hotbox my room."

"You hotboxed your room without me?" Which maybe wasn't the right thing to say, because Jesse screamed something about fascists and best friends and car accidents. Which woke up Michelle, who woke up his parents, who called the police.

To this day, John's not sure what's worse: that his dad tried to kick down his door to assault his best friend with a baseball bat, or that Jesse managed to break his Han Solo action figure before he did. But either way, the end of John Nolan and Jesse Lacey's friendship? All Jesse's fault.

-

Officially, Jesse stopped speaking to John the next morning, which was fine. It wasn't like it was the first time it had happened. Jesse liked to fly off the handle about stupid shit (like the first time John beat him at basketball, or the time he'd said 'There's a Light that Never Goes Out' wasn't as good a song as 'Vicar in a Tutu'). Usually, he'd spend a few days looking self righteous, then apologise when he was sick of eating lunch alone. John wasn't worried.

But then... It happened. "It" was sinister. "It" was evil. "It" wore pants two sizes too small.

"It" was Pete Wentz. And "It" had transferred to John's school two weeks ago.

One day, Jesse was sitting alone in the cafeteria and John was counting down the hours until they were best friends again. The next, Jesse was sitting with Pete and telling anyone within hearing distance that only sick and evil morons drank alcohol, and how Lou Reed would've been a better songwriter if it weren't for all the heroin.

John waited exactly three hours, then dragged Jesse into a bathroom after fifth period and pinned him against a sink. "This is a joke, right?"

"No, it's not a joke," Jesse folded his arms and glared. "This is serious, Nolan. A pothead like you wouldn't understand."

John blinked.

"Look at you. You're, like, skinny and pasty and... skinny. The drugs are ruining your life, man. Why can't you see that?"

"You mean the drugs I don't have because someone let his mom flush them down the toilet and won't pay me back?"

"That's the addiction talking, Nolan. I know. I used to be you."

John let go of Jesse's shirt and threw himself backwards, ricocheting off a stall door. "You know, never mind. Keep not talking to me. Please"

"You need to turn you life around, bro." Jesse pounded his fist on the edge of the sink, warming to the subject. His eyes glittered, and John fought down the urge to shudder. "You don't need this shit. There's another way to live, dude. A better way. A straight-"

"Don't say it," John groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

"A straight edge way."

In retrospect, what followed was maybe not the best course of action. But in John's defence, punching his best friend in the face and then running for it seemed like a good idea at the time.

-

"I'm telling you, Cooper. That's not him. That's not my best friend."

"...you're pointing at a potted palm. That's never been your best friend." Shaun sighed, and pulled at John's shoulder, until he was staring in the right direction. "Are you drunk?"

"Not you, too. Why is it that suddenly everyone's all obsessed with how I'm ruining my life with drugs and alcohol?"

"You smell like vodka, it's not even twelve-thirty and you have an English test at two."

"Fuck off." John sighed and put his head down on the cafeteria table, trying to ignore Jesse, who was on the other side of the room, wearing one of Pete's hoodies and looking smug about something. "All I'm saying is, I don't think that dude he's with is human. I think he's got powers. Spooky mind control powers. Spooky evil mind control powers."

"You're drooling on your sandwich again."

"I've got to save him, before he gives up, like, breathing unfiltered air or something. I need my best friend back. I don't have anyone to talk to."

"Thanks." Shaun punched him in the arm, then picked a bit of egg salad out of his hair and flicked it across the table. On the other side of the room Jesse laughed obnoxiously at something Pete had said, and then informed everyone in a three table radius that jokes were funnier once you dedicated your life to being straight edge.

"You know," Shaun said finally, snapping John out of his daze. "I hate to say this, but I think you're right."

"What?" It came out muffled.

"This is almost worse than the time in middle school when he thought he was Jesus. You need to fix him, John. Before someone kills him. Someone like me."

It was then that John came up with his plan. His grand, master plan. "I'm gonna have to break his edge."

Shaun nodded. "You've got mayo on your face."

-

The problem was, breaking Jesse's edge was harder than it sounded. At school Pete was always hovering around like an edge body guard, sniffing Jesse's sodas and glaring at anyone who wasn't 100% committed to being 100% drug free 100% of the time. And it wasn't like he could just show up at the Lacey's house with a six pack in his backpack any more. For one thing, Jesse still owed him twenty dollars, and there was no way he was laying out any money for booze until he got it back. Also, Mrs. Lacey had taken to snarling at anyone who looked like they might be so much as thinking about coming over to talk to Jesse, including the paper boy and the mailman.

This was going to require drastic action. John was going to need the cunning of a Cold War spy, the courage of a warrior and the stealth of a ninja assassin.

Or, alternatively, a two-dollar t-shirt with the words 'Drug Free' spray painted on it.

-

This time it was Jesse who pulled John into the bathroom, eyes still shining and jeans much tighter than John remembered them being. "Nolan, are you serious?"

"What?" He opened his eyes as wide as he could and tried to look as innocent as he could.

"Your shirt," Jesse was visibly squirming now, "Is it true, Nol? Have you learned the truth?"

"Huh? My- oh," he looked down, and frowned at the way the letters leaned to the right. "You mean this thing. Yeah. I realised the error of my drug-addled ways."

Jesse squealed something to high-pitched for him to understand and tackle-hugged him. "Dude, this is great. You life is going to be so much better than everyone else's, trust me."

"Yeah, yeah." John sighed, rolling his eyes at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. "C'mon, Jess. I'll buy you an non-alcoholic soda in the cafeteria. I'll even make sure it's caffeine free."

Five minutes later, John was tipping Southern Comfort into Jesse's Diet Pepsi ("Do you know what natural sugars can do to you mind, Nolan?") as he and Pete tried to explain the perks of the straight edge lifestyle to some short kid in glasses.

Fifteen minutes after that Jesse ran into, and tried to get into a fistfight with, a potted palm, and Pete was looking at John like he wanted to stuff a hoodie down his throat until he suffocated.

"By the way," John said conversationally, as Jesse lurched away from the palm and into a wall, "Minor Threat sucks. You know that, right? And I hate your shoes."

Pete snarled, Jesse toppled back into the palm tree, and John smiled. All was right with the world.

A Sunny Day in the Land of Obscure Fandoms

Tue, 23 Jan 2007 05:50:44 GMT

So, I started this story in May of 2004 and I’ve been tinkering with it off and on ever since. Any strange unevenness is to be blamed on 20-year old me’s poor editing or 17-year-old me’s terrible characterizations.

...oh God, I feel old.

Also, if you take the book’s publication dates as approximate event times, it’s entirely plausible (in my mind) that Alex was an Arma Angelus fan while he was in Chicago. Pete Wentz makes everyone gay.

Title: Frango

Fandom: California Diaries

Disclaimer: California Diaries and the darling Ducky McCrae are the intellectual property of Ann M. Martin. Any strange references to the Chicago hardcore scene, including allusions to people living or dead and various bits of merchandising... well. Draw your own conclusions.

Summary: Alex comes back from Chicago. Ducky’s life remains complicated.

Sunday Evening

So you go to the airport with Mrs. Snyder and stand at the departure gate, because Alex is coming back and Alex is your best friend and Alex will be happy to see you. At least, that’s what Mrs. S tells you when she picks you up.

Mrs. S: “Alex brought you up every time I talked to him. He’s so excited to see you.”

D: “Yeah... sure.”

You toy with the button on your armrest that tilts your seat backwards all the way to the airport parking lot. You try to pick out shapes in the colored linoleum tiles scattered on the floor in front of the departure gate. You play with the hem of your shirt, then clean your sunglasses, even though you don’t need them because you’re indoors. You watch an elderly Japanese man read Popular Mechanics.

Mrs. Snyder goes to get a cup of coffee, leaving you alone in the beige lobby, with the purple cushioned chairs and the barely audible muzak meant to give you feelings of peace and serenity. But you, Ducky, cannot be comforted by ugly chairs because you are neurotic, pessimistic and generally all-around pathetic. You rock back and forth on your heels and hum nervously. Clean your sunglasses again and wish that you could have invited Sunny or Dawn or even Amalia to come with you.

Sure, your friends are still all girls, and still all three years younger than you, but you’re comfortable with them. To them you are Ducky the Magnificent, funny, smart and legally old enough to drive. You can do no wrong. Alex, on the other hand...

You have nightmares every so often, where you’re in your car and instead of driving to his place you turn around and drive yourself home while your brain screams at you for driving away from your best friend, who’s holed up in garage with a lethal dose of carbon monoxide for company. You had one last night, in fact, and that dream was the closest thing you’ve had to contact with Alex in about a month. He e-mails you every so often and talks about a lot of people you’ve never met and a lot of places you’ve never been to. And every letter makes your stomach ache with jealousy towards all the other people who are spending time with this happier, healthier version of your best friend.

The plane lands at 9:45 and your stomach starts heaving even before the voice on the intercom announces that Flight Number Whatever is unloading. You think you’re going to throw up, but instead you clean you sunglasses for the millionth time and drop them on the floor because your hands are shaking. When you look up, he’s coming out of the little tunnel that leads to the plane. You drop your sunglasses again.

He looks... you can’t figure out how to describe it at first, so you substitute the word ‘different’ into the blank. Of course, the last time you actually saw him face to face, he was packing to go to Chicago. And when you haven’t seen someone in a while—say, fifteen months—they’re supposed to change.

You have not changed, and you note that in the back of your mind. You are the same old Ducky with the same nondescript hair and green, secondhand bowling shirt and vintage sunglasses that are now covered in airport dust. But Alex is different.

His hair is shaggy, similar to how he was wearing it when he left. It’s also black. On some level this upsets you because his hair was always dark enough that you could barely tell the difference between its brown and actual black. Of course, you’re more upset because he didn’t tell you about it because you are JEALOUS AND SMALL AND PETTY. But what else is new?

He’s wearing a t-shirt that’s a little tight for him with the name of some band on it, and jeans that hug his hips in a way that would probably get you beat up by the Cro-Mags back at school, if you were the one wearing them. And you are staring and your mouth is wide open and you suddenly feel very, very young. Forget being sixteen, you feel like you’re eight years old again and watching the skateboarders at Las Palmas park and wishing that you could be that cool when you grew up.

He hasn’t seen you yet. You can still run for it, get through the double doors leading into the rest of the airport. You can walk home. Hitchhike. Hijack a car. But your feet stay where they are and a moment later his eyes fall on you and you want to cringe, but you can’t do that either because you’re completely frozen.

“Ducky!”

He’s wearing this saddle bag thing and it flaps out behind him as he runs. There’s a pin on the strap and it catches the florescent light of the airport and bounces it back in your eyes. The Japanese man has put down Popular Mechanics and is watching you. You notice all this as he runs towards you and yet don’t think to brace yourself for an assault until his body hits yours and he throws his arms around your neck. You stumble backwards and nearly trip over a chair, but manage to keep both of you upright, somehow. If he were a girl, you’d look like a couple in a movie. Sunny likes to pull this stunt with you in mall food courts for kicks.

“I didn’t think you’d show up.” He tells you, unwinding one arm from around your neck, but leaving the other one firmly in place, which should make you uncomfortable, but instead makes you feel sort of warm inside, because maybe he missed you too.

And you stammer and hem because you’re still scared that he’s going to realise how boring you are, and how little you’ve changed and roll his eyes and step back. Because let’s face it, you aren’t the most valuable commodity, friendship-wise. Maybe if Alex were a fourteen year-old girl you’d feel better.

“I brought you something.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a little, dark green box. Hands it to you, smiling, but with a funny look in his eyes. You take the box and look down. The word ‘Frango’ is printed on the top in white, surrounded by pictures of mint leaves and chocolates that melt on your tongue. Frango mints. You’d forgotten you asked.

“I know, lame right?” he’s talking again, pulling back and playing with the strap of his bag. “I wasn’t really sure what else you’d want and—” He stops talking for a moment and looks you straight in the eyes. “Sorry for not calling more, Ducky. I wasn’t... I wasn’t really sure what to say.” Your stomach twists a little at that and he must catch some of the hurt in your face because he hugs you again, a full out bearhug this time, and whispers into you ear, “I do want to talk to you, I just—I have something to tell you later, but I didn’t want to say it on the phone. Ok?”

You nod into his shoulder, hug him back and mutter an ‘I’m glad you’re home.’

“Yeah,” he says, “Me too.”

2:17 a.m.

What’s so important that you can’t talk about it on the phone?

Did he find religion? Join a cult? Commit some sort of horrible crime?

Maybe he’s doing drugs. Maybe he’s—you’re overthinking this, Ducky.

GO TO BED!

Tuesday

You refuse to believe that school starts in a week. It’s sickening, you’ve spent your whole summer in a coma. You checked your calendar, looking for signs of the exciting summer vacation you must have had. Apparently you’ve been to the mall with Sunny seventeen times, to Venice Beach ten and to Winslow Books to work every other day. You hadn’t realised your life was that sad and pathetic. Of course, the fact that you were even keeping a calendar-diary should have been the first warning sign. Face it, Ducky, you’re boring.

There is one bright spot in your final week, though. For the first time in over a year Alex is coming over to hang out tonight.

You need to make your bed.

4 a.m.— Streetlight, Bedside Lamp, what’s the Difference?

You should be asleep. You should be in bed, doing the REM thing, dreaming—you should be asleep. But you’re sitting here, hunched up by the window writing in your journal. You’d been hoping your insomniac tendencies were gone because you’ve been sleeping well all summer. Figures that this would start up a week before school. No, less than a week now because it’s been Wednesday for four hours and you’ve been up for nearly all of them.

Alex came over five hours ago. Ted had some of his college buddies over, so the two of you holed up in your bedroom with the one bag of oatmeal cookies that somehow survived your older brother’s obsessive snacking. He sat on your pillows with his back against the wall, and you sat at the foot of the bed, the same positions you’ve taken for every conversation you’ve ever had in either of your rooms.

And then... nothing. You just sat and stared at each other. Well, actually, Alex watched you and you played with the stitching on your bed sheets.

A: “Ducky?”

D: “Hm?”

A: “Is something wrong?”

D: “Hm.”

A: “Did I do something wrong?”

D: “Hm...”

A: “If this is about what happened before I left, we should talk—”

D: “Alex, no!”

You don’t mean it to come out the way it does, like you’re ashamed of him. Because you’re not. But you see him flinch and you drop your gaze back to the bed and mutter out an apology. You take a cookie out of the bag and toy with it instead of eating it. It starts to crumble in your hands and you curse yourself for getting crumbs all over your sheets. You move to brush them away, but Alex puts a hand on top of yours, stopping you. You try to pull yours away, but his fingers curl around yours, holding it in place.

“Talk to me.” he says, and your hand makes a fist, crushing the cookie in it into oatmeal dust. You jerk your arm backwards and this time you break his grip, though his nails scratch across your palm, digging into your skin.

“February fifteenth.” You blurt without even meaning to, cradling your hand against your chest and moving backwards on your bed, until you’re almost hanging over the end.

He stares at you blankly for a moment, mouth twisting into a confused squiggle. “Your birthday? What’s that got to—” and then he stops, closes his mouth, realises. “Oh. Ducky.”

You didn’t tell any of your friends that you were turning sixteen, because you knew they were going to want to do something with you and all you wanted was to stay in. Because in all your years of friendship, Alex has never once forgotten your birthday. Check that—had never once forgotten. You waited through three US time zones, sure that at any minute he’d call.

When you feel asleep on your living room couch around three in the morning, you were a little less sure. Six months later, you still haven’t actually gotten that phone call, unless you count the calls his mother made to you. You try not to let little things like that spoil your friendships, try not to let anything get to Good Old Ducky—but things do. And no matter how hard you try to ignore little betrayals, it won’t change the fact that you woke up the day after you birthday clutching a pillow that smelled like your tears.

You wonder if that’s selfish of you. He was still in heavy therapy then, at least, that’s what you’ve gathered from Mrs. Snyder. You shouldn’t have expected him to call you, not when he was still depressed. He tried to kill himself, and you’re mad because he missed your birthday.

You make a great three year-old, Ducky.

A hand touches your arm and you jump and nearly fall all the way off the bed, because you hadn’t realised Alex was moving closer to you. His eyes are big and wet, and you remember the last time you sat on a bed this way, after he’d cried his heart out to you, and you feel like a complete jerk.

“I’m sorry.” he tells you, and you hang your head because you can’t look at him with that much hurt and guilt swirling around in your head.

“You don’t have to be sorry.” You mumble, and then his nails are digging into your arm the same way they did to your hand. You bite your lip, but don’t protest because it doesn’t hurt all that much. You notice some black flecks around his cuticles and wonder if Alex paints his nails.

“Yes, I do. I could have thought of something to say, at least, on your birthday. Made something up.”

Ducky McCrae, the conversation killer. Since when did you become so hard to talk to?

D: “It’s ok. I understand. You don’t have to worry about it.”

A [suddenly turning angry]: “Jesus, don’t you ever stand up for yourself any more?”

D: “I...”

A: “Were you this much of a doormat when I left, too?”

He glares at you, and that’s when you lose it. Because you try so hard. You try your best to be the friend that you think everyone needs and it always gets thrown back in your face. And you are sick of it.

D: “Get out.”

A: “...Ducky?”

D: “If you don’t want to be here, then leave. Go. If I’m so hard to talk to, maybe you should go call your Chicago friends or something. I don’t care.”

You’re standing by the door by the time you’re done. And while part of you feels horrible, there’s a little piece of you that feels so good because you never get to speak your mind like that. Alex doesn’t move. Instead he looks down at the bed, plays with the sheets the way you do.

A: “I’m not leaving.”

D [exasperated]: “Then what do you want?”

A [exasperated right back]: “To talk to you!”

D: “About what?”

And he opens and closes his mouth again, not saying anything, just moving his lips. And then he gets up. “Forget it.” He pushes past you and goes out, leaving you standing next to your door in shock. A minute later you hear the front door slam.

Which leaves you here, the numbers on your digital clock moving closer to 5 as you wonder what you did wrong this time.

6:30

You are a horrible friend. It’s no wonder Alex left, you’d be sick of your whining too. That’s all you seem to be good for. Sulking and pouting.

He probably wishes he’d stayed in Chicago.

6:32

But it’s not like he’s been any nicer to you. You aren’t a doormat.

I’m not.

6:40

Am I?

Sunday Again, in which you ask ‘Where did the Time Go?’

In twelve hours you’ll be walking the hallowed halls of Vista Highschool again. Joy. You just got home from your Day at the Beach With Sunny, the one she’s been planning all summer, a day just for ‘Ducky and the Girls’. The girls being your usual posse of four. Dawn, who carts around a container of some vegan dip that looks like guacamole, but smells like something left in the back of your fridge. Amalia, who spends most of the day sketching rollerbladers on the boardwalk. And Maggie, who asks you how Alex is, then slips you a copy of Vanish’s demo, which you promised to listen to until you memorized all the lyrics, even though you know you’ve committed them all to heart already.

Sunny is everywhere at once, flirting with the surfers by the water, buying ice cream, tanning on the beach while avoiding Dawn’s dip. And you? You leave your journal at home for once, and opt for sitting moodily on your towel and staring out at the water. Sometimes one of the girls will come up to you and you nod and smile and crack lame jokes using as few words as possible. Eventually each of them wander off again, to talk to each other or—in Sunny’s case—some blonde guy just getting out of the ocean.

Eventually you all agree to go for dinner, and you drive the girls back into the city, then bail out on them, telling them you’re tired and you need to get some sleep. Which was obviously a lie, since you’re still up now.

Still no word from Alex.

Monday, second period. In Theory.

You should be worried about the way you’re starting off your year. For instance, right now you should be in math class, learning about trigonometry or algebra or something. And the fact that you can’t even remember the difference between those two things ought to make you nervous but you’re a little too busy panicking to be nervous about school right now. School pales in comparison to everything else that’s been thrown in your face in the last hour, and you can’t really be expected to deal with trig. Or algebra.

BREATHE, DUCKY.

Ok. You’re sitting in your car. In the backseat of your car, to be exact, with your notebook in your lap and the windows rolled up, even though it’s still early enough in the fall for it to be hot outside and humid in here. There’s a streak of black ink down your forearm and another splatter across your palm, because you first pen snapped in half when you were digging it out of your backpack. You suspect there is also a smear on your face, what with the way you’ve been rubbing your eyes and pulling at your hair, but you haven’t checked since that, much like algebra, is the least of your worries.

Back up.

You get an e-mail from Alex a couple hours after you get back from the beach. It doesn’t say much of anything, except that he’s sorry for acting like a jerk and that he’ll see you tomorrow (tomorrow being today). You pack your books into your backpack. You pick out your clothes—weird, but not too weird. You go to bed and stare at your ceiling until the clock by your bed reads 4:30 a.m, when you must fall asleep, because the next thing you know, your alarm is ringing and you’re dragging yourself out of bed so you can start your junior year at Vista.

An hour later you’re standing at your old locker, trying to remember your combination and you hear something hit the metal door next to you. You looked over, half expecting to see one of the Cro-Mags, ready to begin tormenting you anew. Instead, you see the heavy lidded eyes and droopy hair of you best friend, who flashes you a sheepish smile. “Hey, Ducky.”

Your lock clicks in your hand and your locker swings open. “Hi, Alex.” You try to return his smile, fail and end up chewing on your bottom lip and studying the floor. You can see his hands in your peripheral vision and his nails are black, the polish chipped near the top. He’s wearing one of those black zip-up sweaters, but it’s open, and under it you can see a bright pink t-shirt.

Pink’s a good colour for him. It’s a nice change from all the washed-out flannel he used to wear, but Vista’s never been a very diverse school, fashion-wise. Your forays into vintage clothing and ugly, retro-cool sunglasses are one of the oddest looks in any given hallway. All the rock star kids go to public school. You nearly say something to him, tell him to close his sweater or something, but someone behind you interrupts before you even make a sound.

“When did they start letting fags in here?” You cringe at the sound of the rough, half-mumbled words behind you. You were sure Mad Moose graduated last year, but apparently you were wrong, because he’s standing in the hallway less that three feet away from your locker, looking straight at Alex and curling his lips back in disgust.

There’s a long silence in which no one says anything and you shrink back against your locker, clutching your English binder to your chest. You’ve been on the receiving end of Mad Moose’s looks a few times, and they’ve always ended in either a black eye, a bloody nose or both, depending on his mood, or the cycles of the moon, or something. But Alex has either forgotten what he’s up against or just doesn’t care, because he folds his arms and stares him down, his own eyes narrowing. When he speaks it’s in this calm, level voice that’s so different from the one he uses when he’s angry with you.

“What did you say?”

The Cro-Mag seems startled for a moment, because when you’ve got a nickname like Mad Moose no one talks back to you. But then he laughs this big, macho, action-hero laugh. “I called you a fag, fag.”

“And?”

“What?” He’s in the dark and so are you. But Alex just nods and crosses his arms.

“So what if I was? What is I was some sort of fag?” He steps forward, further into Moose’s personal space than most football players will willingly get and actually runs a finger down his chest. “And what if I don’t care if you or anyone else in this school knows it?” Suddenly, he’s turning, and his hand latches onto your shirt collar and drags you forward as his other hand curls in you hair.

His lips hit yours hard and your binder hits the floor. And you know that since this is only your second kiss ever, you should be trying to get into the moment, but you’re in shock, staring back over his shoulder, watching Mad Moose’s little, neanderthal eyes widen as Alex Snyder shoves his tongue down your throat. Then he’s gone, turned around again.

“And what if I didn’t care that you saw me kiss a dude in the middle of a school hallway because I am some sort of faggot, you ignorant, small dicked, homophobic asshole?” There’s a crowd forming around them, but you barely notice, because you’re trying to pick up your books, only your hands are shaking too much. “What would you do then?”

There’s another long pause as Mad Moose gapes and you gape at him, and half the population of Vista highschool waits for someone to swing the first punch. Only the punch doesn’t come, and all Alex gets for his troubles is a string of muttered words as the most feared man in your highschool beats a hasty retreat down the hallway. At this point in the proceedings your legs give out and you slump back against your locker, still trying to catch your breath.

Alex turns, starts to grin, then stops short when he sees your face. “Oh, shit. I—Ducky, I didn’t mean for this to, oh.”

This is what you can’t tell a person on the phone. What can keep you from having a conversation, even on your best friend’s birthday. What makes you walk out of someone’s house in the middle of the night. “Are you...” You can’t finish the sentence, can’t say the word that makes this all real.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this. I should have told you last week.” He stares at the floor next to your feet, “Ducky, I’m—”

That’s when you run. Blindly, without thought or direction or purpose, just knowing you can’t hear this right now, not when you can still feel Alex’s lips on yours and see Mad Moose’s eyes start to widen. Not now. Maybe not ever.

You make it to your car after running down hallways that seem endless. And you drive the same frantic way you ran. Eventually you end up at Las Palmas. Take out your good old journal and spill your guts.

What are you supposed to do now?

What?

Just... later.

You have abandoned the safety of your car in favour of the reeds near the duck pond, where you and Alex used to sit when you were kids. It’s a little exposed, but you aren’t too worried that anyone will see you. The park’s nearly empty, what with the untimely death of summer vacation. Besides, you need to write this somewhere else. Somewhere outside of your stuffy car cave. Somewhere in the real world.

Alex is... Alex is... you can’t seem to put it down. But you can. You can make yourself write it out. They’re just words. They can’t hurt you. Much.

Your best friend kissed you. Because he’s

He’s gay.

Alex is gay. He kissed you and he’s gay and he kissed you. At school.

Oh god, all the Cro-Mags who’ve been harassing you forever are going to have a field day. It’s not enough that they call you Bambi and laugh at the way you walk and dress and act, now they’ll be able to hold this over your head. You’ll be Ducky the fag. You can’t deal with this. Not now, not on top of everything else you have to deal with at Vista.

You should’ve known that this was coming. What else could Alex have wanted to tell you? You’re his best friend, you should’ve guessed. He’s never been really into girls, but then again, neither have you. You were too busy being Ducky-and-Alex. All the girls you’ve ever liked have been your friends and they don’t count, and Alex? Well, you’ve never seen him with anyone female. It should’ve been so obvious.

Your best friend is gay and you never noticed. When did he figure this out? In Chicago? Or did he know before, when you were trying to introduce him to Sunny and Jay was always insisting that all he needed was a girlfriend. Did he know then?

And why did he have to kiss you? You’re his best friend, yes, but he didn’t have to pick you. He could have picked Jay, although Jay wasn’t actually there. But you, you don’t like—

At least, you don’t think you like—you’ve never thought about it, that is. Sure, you haven’t met the right girl yet. Or any girl, really. You and Sunny were perfect for each other, according to all your friends, but you never wanted to be with Sunny that way. But that was because she was one of your best friends. Not because you don’t like girls. Because you do.

Don’t you?

Tuesday (allegedly), 4 a.m. again

This is ridiculous, McCrae. You’re paranoid. Paranoid and maybe delusional, since you’re actually creating problems for yourself out of thin air. As though you need them. You already have enough to worry about without worrying about

Whatever. The point is, you’re fine. And normal. Completely.

But maybe you should stay home from school today.

Just in case. Yeah.

More Tuesday, Possibly English Class

You wake up with the kind of stomach ache you used to get in grade school when you knew someone wanted to fight you on the playground after class. One hundred percent pure dread, making your stomach gurgle in protest.

You pull the blankets over your head and try to ignore the guilt that goes with skipping your second day of school. That works until about 10 a.m., when the phone starts ringing. And ringing. You let the answering machine pick up.

Amalia, then Dawn, then Maggie. You wonder if they decided to call in alphabetical order. They’re all very polite. No one mentions Alex. For about half a second you feel relieved. Then it’s Sunny’s turn.

S: “Ducky, hey, are you... We heard about. Look, just call one of us, okay? If you need to tell us anything—anything, seriously Ducky, we’re here for you. Okay?”

You unplug the answering machine.

2:32 p.m.

You’re pretty sure it’s still illegal for your older brother to drink, yet you aren’t surprised when you find half a twelve pack stashed in his closet. You find that hilarious.

Well, it makes you laugh, anyway. Same thing.

3:15 p.m.

Beer is the vilest, most awful-tasting thing ever created by mankind. How does anyone ever become an alcoholic?

You flash back to the bottles under Alex’s bed while you’re cracking open your third can. You should probably worry about the person you’re becoming, McCrae, once you finish worrying about the person you already are.

Ugh.

Ignore drunken rambling.

I need more beer.

...some time, some day

Ted comes home and somehow fails to notice that a) you’re too drunk to walk properly and b) all the alcohol in his closet is missing. You offer a prayer of thanks to the booze gods and spend the rest of the day sitting in the bathroom, trying to decide whether you’re going to throw up or not.

Alex shows up around six.

You’re not sure how he gets in—Ted probably— but you open your eyes and he’s sitting on the bathtub ledge, staring at you like... God, you don’t know. Like he wants to do something to you, and maybe it’s punch you and maybe it’s. Not.

A: “You’re a dick, you know that?”

D [groggy, possibly hungover]: “Huh?”

A: “A dick. I’m really sorry about what happened, but could you at least let me apologize before you treat me like a leper.”

You’d argue this, but your brain feels like it’s full of jackhammers, so you gape and maybe drool on yourself instead. Alex glares and taps his fingers against the tub, and as you’re watching his nail polish reflect the light you realise you don’t know a goddamn thing about the person whose mind you used to be able to read.

D [slurring]: “Yeah, you lecturing me about ignoring my friends, that’s really not hypocritical at all.”

It’s either the right or the wrong thing to say, depending on what you were going for, because Alex just wilts. “Ducky,” is about all he manages, and it comes out harsh and hurt. But—you hate yourself for writing this—as bad as he sounds you just don’t care. You blame the alcohol, hope it was the alcohol, because otherwise you are probably the lousiest human being on earth.

“Just leave me alone.”

“Ducky,” he tries it again, leans forward and puts a hand on your knee, trying to look you in the eyes.

You push him off and suddenly you’re fighting the urge to be sick again. “Don’t touch me,” you growl. “Find someone else’s life to ruin, okay?”

Alex leaves about half a minute later. You throw up the last of the beer in your stomach and fall asleep with your face pillowed on the bath mat. Eventually you wake up, crawl to your trusty journal, etcetera.

Today’s forecast calls for an intense headache, partially cloudy skies and an 88% chance of guilt.

Friday

Sunny’s in your living room. Apparently Ted let her in. You’re thinking you need a new big brother.

Maybe you can pretend to have tuberculosis. Or rabies.

More Friday

Sunny doesn’t believe you when you tell her about all the contagious diseases that are keeping you out of school. Which means the unwashed hobo look you’ve been affecting wasn’t worth the effort after all, and you could’ve changed your clothes at some point in the last couple of days. Sunny asks you what’s wrong and where you’ve been and why you won’t tell her what’s really going on and you do your best to talk around her until she drops the bomb.

“Are you gay, Ducky?”

There are about two seconds of terrifying, deafening silence. “No,” you say. “No, totally no. No.”

She doesn’t look convinced, and makes you promise to come to the mall tomorrow. You wonder if you can manage to find a rabid dog to pick a fight with before then.

Even More Friday, about 2 a.m.

Jesus... I... Just...

Shit.

After 2 a.m.

Breathe, Ducky, breathe. This is not the end of the world. Probably.

Okay, so let’s look at the facts:

1. Your best friend just got back from a long stay in therapy and rehab and... rock music or something. He’s in an emotionally fragile place.

2. Last night you yelled at said best friend and threw him out of your house.

3. ...after you ran away from him in terror when he tried to come out to you.

4. You are the worst friend in the universe, and possibly a homophobic jerk.

You haven’t heard from Alex since then, and now. God, what if—you don’t even want to say it but. The last thing he needs right now is to have someone do this to him. Not when he’s just gotten home and isn’t mentally stable and something like this might

What if

No, shut up. Stop it. Don’t think like that, Ducky.

Maybe you should call him. Yeah, that’s it, you’ll call him at two in the morning after throwing him out of your house. Genius.

But you could always drive by his place. Just to check. Just in case.

Saturday, You Think

You shouldn’t even be writing right now. You’re smelly and exhausted and it’s late and you must have a ton of homework to do already. But it’s not like you’re going to be able to sleep until you get this all down. You can sleep when you’re dead, right?

Anyway. You get to Alex’s house and it’s dark, which makes sense because it’s two in the morning and normal people are already asleep by then. And you know you should turn around and go home, but something stops you. A sound, maybe, or a memory of a sound. A car engine starting, or maybe your own frantic panting. You can’t tell.

So you do what any completely insane person would do, and throw a handful of gravel at Alex’s window. Just in case, right?

Only you can’t throw at all, apparently, and the rocks bounce off the siding a few feet below the window and fall into the front flowerbed. You’re rooting around the Snyder’s driveway, trying to find more gravel to throw, when Alex opens the front door.

“Ducky?” he asks. Then, “What the hell are you doing?”

You don’t explain because you’re still kind of half-asleep and when you think about it, your actions don’t even make sense to you. “Hey,” you say instead, lamely. “T’sup?”

He stares at you for a bit, rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand, then shrugs. “Do you want something?”

You shrug back, because you’re not sure how to explain that you drove to his house in the middle of the night in case you’d driven him to commit suicide. The longer you think about it, the stupider you feel, and the more you want to slink back to your car and drive home and never leave your room again.

“What are you still doing up?” you ask. Maybe if you change the subject he won’t realise he’s friends with a raving psychopath.

“Can’t sleep,” he looks sheepish. “I’m still kind of on Chicago time.”

“Oh,” you say, “Yeah. Makes sense. I should—I should probably go.” You turn, ready to break into a mad dash for your car, but Alex dives after you and wraps a hand around your wrist.

He isn’t a big guy, but neither are you, and the touch is all it takes to make you freeze in place. “Ducky, just. Wait, please.”

Your heart is in your throat and you can hear your blood pounding in your ears. You couldn’t move if you wanted to. “Y-yeah?”

A [still holding your wrist]: “I’m sorry about the other day. So sorry. I didn’t. I shouldn’t have done that to you. And I should have told you sooner... about. You know.”

D: “Y-yeah.”

A: “If. If you don’t want to. Like. Speak to me any more or something, I’ll. I’d get that. I just wanted to apologize anyway.”

The next bit is kind of blurry.

“Alex, no, it’s not—” you’re talking too quickly, can barely understand yourself. You start to turn around, but you do it wrong, so your wrist twists behind you. You see his eyes go wide, and then you’re stumbling, grabbing at his shoulder to stay upright. You sway, then catch yourself and stand as still as you can, fingers still tight on Alex’s shoulder.

“Ducky,” he swallows, lets out a slow breath, “Are you—”

“No.” Your whole body feels so tense you’re afraid you’re going to fly apart at the seams. You might be shaking. It’s hard to tell. “Probably not.”

He puts a hand on your back, to steady you. It doesn’t work. “Hey,” Alex whispers, keeping his voice soft. Nonthreatening. “Hey, calm down, man.”

You’re not sure why you do what you do next. God, you’re not even sure you can write this down. Deep breaths, McCrae, you can do this. Alex is rubbing your back a little, probably trying to keep you from freaking out and doing something else insane. And you. You don’t know why...

Except maybe you do know. Maybe it’s just curiosity, maybe you just need to know. To check and make sure. Or not.

You grab a fistful of Alex’s shirt and you lean in and ~~you~~

I kiss him.

I kiss my best friend.

He doesn’t kiss back.

Later

Oh God, you still have to go to the mall today. You’d rather swallow rusty nails.

But you are good, reliable Ducky. So you’re off to shower and find clean pants so you can go out and pretend to care about sunglasses while your whole life falls apart.

9 p.m.

You will never stop being amazed by your friends. You’d think with the number of times you’ve written that it would stick, but is doesn’t so you’ll write it again. You are lucky to have the friends you do, Ducky. Luckier than you deserve.

You get to Sunny’s house and she takes one look at you before dragging you inside, pouring you a glass of iced tea and calling Maggie to cancel the mall plans. “What’s wrong?” is the first thing she says to you once she’s off the phone.

It’s more command than question, but you sputter into your drink anyway, as though that’ll prove you’re perfectly fine. Of course, Sunny doesn’t buy it. You know she doesn’t, because she crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows and fixes you with a look you’ve seen her dad use when you’re late for work.

And you don’t want to dump on her, you know? It’s not her problem but, let’s face it Ducky, you really don’t have anyone else to tell.

“I think,” you manage, gulping ice tea to keep your throat from closing up. “I think I might be gay.”

You hate that you can tell Sunny’s only pretending to be surprised. But hell, it’s not like it even matters any more. So you keep going. You tell her everything.

When you’re finished she gives you a small, sad smile and leans across the table to hug you. “I’m so happy for you,” she says.

You’re still not really sure what she meant.

9:02 p.m.

Doorbell. Maybe if you pretend you’re not home no one will answer it.

...Dammit, Ted, since when do you act like you live here?

Sunday

You’ve been sitting here for a long time now, trying to figure out what to say, what to write. Nearly an hour, you think, and you still don’t know how to put this down.

It’s Alex. Who’s at the door, you mean. Alex, who appears in your doorway looking tired and rumpled and awkward. And that’s pretty much how you feel, so you ought to be more at ease. But you’re not, so you throw your journal under the bed and pull your knees to your chest, like if you stay still for long enough he’ll go away. He doesn’t, of course, but he doesn’t come in either.

The two of you stay like that for what feels like hours, but probably isn’t. Alex is twisting the bottom of his t-shirt in his fingers, and you can’t seem to move at all. It’s Ted who finally snaps you both out of it, by turning the volume up on the movie he’s watching right as something explodes. You both flinch, and then Alex runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

A: “About last night—”

D [desperately, too loud]: “Hey. How’s it going?”

A [frowning now]: “Can we talk about it? I want to talk about it.”

D: “Nice weather we’re having, yeah?”

He presses his lips together and glares at you. “Are you done yet? Because if you start talking about local sports teams, that’s it. This friendship is over.”

You shut up. It’s stupid, but your heart is beating faster. Because if you can still end your friendship, that means Alex probably didn’t come over here just to tell you he hates you and never wants to see you again. Which is something, maybe, hopefully.

“Good,” he sighs again, squirms a little. “You, last night. You kissed me.”

You nod as your stomach sinks out of your body.

“You were drunk again, right? Or—or curious or something. You don’t. It’s not like.” He stops, squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “I mean, when that... happened. You’re not interested, right?”

You don’t know how to answer that. Alex is staring at you with this intense look in his eyes, and you don’t know what he wants, hell, what you want, for that matter. “It wasn’t alcohol. I wasn’t drunk.” Which isn’t an explanation at all, but one of the only things you know for sure. “I’m really sorry,” you add, which is also true.

Alex finally moves out of the doorway, a couple steps into the room. “Don’t be sorry. I get that enough from my mother.”

You think you might hate him right now. His face is blank, not giving a thing away, and you’re strung so tight you want to scream. “Then what,” you snap without meaning to, and try to ignore the rush of satisfaction you feel. “What do you want? I’m really—” A burst of laughter cuts you off, and you’re shocked to realise it’s coming from you, too. “Really freaking out here, Alex.”

He frowns. You press your mouth to your knees to shut yourself up. He sits on the end of your bed. You consider the pros and cons of dying from a heart attack.

“Just tell me what’s up.”

Except you don’t know what’s up. Your heart is in your throat again, and part of you wants to kiss him again, and part of you wants to run away as fast as you can, and part of you just wants to deny everything so things can go back to normal.

You settle for gaping and stammering and watching Alex crawl up the bed to sit next to you, to put an arm around you and squeeze you shoulder and say something you can’t hear over the roar of fear in your brain. “What?”

“Relax.” You wonder if he can feel you shaking, and figure that yeah, he probably can. He tugs on your arm, pulling you closer, until your head is on his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“About what?” And God, you thought you missed being able to read him before, but it’s nothing compared to how you feel now. You wonder if it’d hurt his feelings if you went and stood on the other side of the room. “I’m fine,” you say, just in case it isn’t obvious that you are anything but. Alex sort of nods but doesn’t say anything, and all this quiet understanding is starting to get on your nerves. “But if you think there’s some sort of problem then go ahead and say something.”

He frowns at you, but doesn’t take his hand off your shoulder. “Okay, how about: You haven’t been to school in almost a week. You’re drinking. You ignore me. It’s like dealing with myself again.” He laughs, but it sounds strained and he stops as soon as he realizes you aren’t going to respond. “And then you show up at my house and—and kiss me for no reason. I just want to know what’s going on.”

You almost have to laugh at that, because you’d be willing to pick a fight with Mad Moose just to figure out what’s going on in your own head. So you shrug to stall for time and take deep breaths, trying to stay calm.

“I just,” Alex sounds strained, and for a second you wonder if he’s about to cry. “I was so worried about coming back, and I figured you’d be the one person who’d just be cool with everything—and okay, that was stupid. But, I just. I don’t want to lose you just because I’m a retard.”

You still don’t know what to say. But now Alex’s fingers are digging into your shoulder and you know you need to do something before one of you goes insane.

“You won’t,” it tumbles out of your mouth before you even know you’re speaking. But now he’s staring at you and you try to pick the rest of your words carefully. “It’s... I don’t even really know you any more, you know? You’re my best friend. But you’re not.”

Okay, forget ‘careful.’ Next time you’re just going to try for ‘not so incoherent.’ Alex doesn’t seem to get it either, and you start talking again so he can’t use the silence to get mad at you.

D: “No, wait. I mean, it’s been over a year. I just need to get to know you again, that’s all. I still like you.”

A [weird pause]: “Like me like...?”

D [deer-in-headlights stare]: “Um.”

Alex’s hand drops to your lower back and your heart jumps into your throat, as usual. And... oh God, you’re going to have to go back to transcription.

A: “I—this is probably a bad idea—can I. I’d like to kiss you.”

D: “Oh.”

A: “Jesus, Ducky. This is a bad... I mean... I’ll just”

Which is as far as he gets before you start cracking up. Laughing so hard your stomach hurts and you’re nearly in tears. And Alex, well, he just looks like he’d like to punch you.

A: “What’s so funny?”

D: “The other night. You—”

A: “I thought you were, I don’t know, high or something.”

For some reason that strikes you as hilarious and you laugh even harder as Alex stares at you blankly. And you don’t know where the flash of courage comes from, but you reach up and pull him down and...

In the sixteen years you’ve been alive you’ve been kissed a grand total of three times—all of which were completely horrible.

This time...

This time it’s pretty okay.

Even if Alex does hit you on the shoulder when you can’t stop laughing.

Almost-Maybe-Possibly Monday Morning

Wait. Does this mean you’re going to have to carry Alex’s books to class now?

Le fin.

Prequel'd!

Tue, 31 Oct 2006 00:37:41 GMT

Happy Halloween, kids.

Title: Hungry Like the Wolf

Rating: PG-13, for frightening scenes.

Disclaimer: As far as I know, the parks of New York State are and have always been 100% monster-free.

Summary: fanfic100 prompt 089— work
A Vamps!verse side story, in which one of Brian’s old summer jobs leaves something to be desired.

A dark, dense storm cloud rolled over the moon and Brian finally let himself collapse back against a tree, gasping for air and uncapping his flask with his teeth. It was filled with water—the Parks and Recreation board wasn’t as fond of on the job drinking as he was—but the sour tang of whiskey was still recognizable. The forest around him had gone quiet. The mosquitos had stopped whining and even the leaves seemed to be holding themselves still, in spite the wind blowing through Brian’s t-shirt, chilling the sweat pooled at the small of his back. He took another pull from the flask, sucked in a breath and held it, searching for any sign of movement in the gloom.

This, this had to be why so many of his classmates had taken up cross country running and given up cigarettes in their final year of college. He was willing to bet the rest of his class would’ve been jogging happily through the Catskills, stopping occasionally to do one-handed pushups and stretching exercises. None of them would’ve ripped out the knees of their jeans on the second night of their summer internship after taking a wrong turn and throwing themselves off the side of a hill. Then again, most of them would’ve remembered to check the batteries in their flashlights, too.

A twig snapped somewhere behind him, and the air he’d been holding came out in a sharp, high-pitched rush before he could stop it. He froze, flask still dangling from his fingers, teeth digging into his cheek. There was a soft rustle in the underbrush, and then a low growl that came from somewhere so close Brian could smell rancid breath and wet fur.

A dog, he prayed, groping at his belt with his free hand, let it be a dog some tourist lost. His fingers closed around handle of his crossbow and he let out a sigh of relief—silently, this time—as he slipped a bolt into place, trying to keep his hands steady.

When he’d agreed to intern for the parks department he’d been expecting a cushy desk job. Something that involved monitoring tree spirits, or performing seasonal exorcisms on campsites, or getting coffee. Two days in, and what he’d got instead were sixteen mosquito bites, a skinned knee and four kills. And even that last number would’ve been more impressive if he hadn’t accidentally shot a poor, innocent muskrat on his first evening out.

Brian slipped the flask back into his pocket and pressed his back to the tree, until he could feel the ridges of the bark through his shirt. There was another growl, even closer, and he slipped his finger onto the crossbow’s trigger, gingerly shifting his weight until he was balanced on the balls of his feet. God, but he wanted a cigarette. No, two cigarettes, and a stiff drink, and a benefits package that included something other than a great life insurance plan.

He smiled to himself, and that was when the thing hiding in the bushes finally decided to make its move, throwing itself at him, jaws snapping and claws extended. It was the same moment that any plan Brian might have had dissolved into nothingness, and he threw himself to the side, getting out of its way on instinct alone. He hit the ground in a heap, shoes slipping on moss and fallen leaves as he scrambled back to his feet, grabbing at low-hanging tree branches to steady himself, bark flaking off under his fingernails.

The creature watched him from a few feet away, crouched low to the ground. In the dim light all Brian could see was a heaving, shaggy lump of something. Too big to be a dog, too small for a bear. Its yellow eyes were fixed on him, and if he strained he was sure he could see its open, panting mouth and spit-slick fangs. It moved towards him slowly, like a cat stalking a mouse, another growl rumbling in its throat. Brian didn’t even realise he’d been backing up until his heel caught on an exposed root and he was on his back, toppling down another goddamned hill. He threw a hand out to catch himself, slammed the side of his wrist into a rock, and screamed a curse they could probably hear at the park gates.

Three cigarettes. He was definitely going to need three cigarettes.

He landed at the bottom of the hill just as the moon slipped out from behind the clouds. His hand had gone numb, and if the side of his crossbow hadn’t been digging into his thigh he wouldn’t have known it was still there. The creature followed slowly, baring its teeth and snarling, and still only making half the noise he had. Its face was flat, with no muzzle, and its ears were low on either side of its head, almost completely hidden by fur. In the moonlight he could see its fingers digging into the dirt as it picked its way around a bush, eyes still fixed on him.

“Oh, great,” Brian grumbled, and shot it in the throat. The werewolf let out one high, outraged yelp and dropped.

He let himself lie in the dirt until his heart stopped hammering, then pulled a spiral-bound notebook and a golf pencil out of his back pocket and made a tally mark on the first page. Five werewolves down. Which left, according to the park rangers’ estimates, about one hundred and three more to deal with before his contract expired in September.

Brian sighed and flopped back onto the ground. His wrist was starting to ache, there was a stone in his sneaker, and his first cigarette break of the night was still three hours away. This settled it. He was never turning down an internship at Microsoft again.

Another scrap from the writing folder.

Sun, 29 Oct 2006 20:23:46 GMT

Title: Keep Counting

Summary: A story-cum-writing exercise that’s pretty much about nothing. Brandon hates the weather, Jesse moves the plot along. Take it either as me getting too caught up in words again or a slice of life examination of friendship.

Anyway, it’s short.

It’s one of those days where it’s impossible to remember that it’s October. School’s been in for almost two months, but today the sun’s beating down like its got some sort of personal vendetta. Even in suburbland, where everything is carefully watered and greened, I can taste dust in the air. A reminder that a fifteen minute car ride would put me deep in the heart of cactus country, if only I was old enough to drive.

I can feel my t-shirt clinging to the small of my back, a pool of sweat gluing it in place. I pry at it, only to feel it stick to my sides again, which is arguably worse. Nothing like having half-transparent cotton outlining every bulge of your stomach to cap off an already shitty day.

My house is half a block from the bus stop, and I break into a jog as I pass it, half expecting someone to burst out the front door waving a grappling hook, ready to pull me in. Stupid, since no one’s supposed to be home until four, and the extra movement propels the sweat collecting in my hair into my eyes. By the time I make it around the corner I’m dripping, panting, and my t-shirt’s gone see-through. I haven’t felt this disgusting since July. Fucking heatwave.

The place I’m headed for is another three blocks over, in the older part of the neighbourhood where all the houses look alike, except for paint colour. The one I’m looking for has a basketball hoop tacked up over the garage and, if I’m lucky, my best friend inside, puking his stupid guts up. Trust Jesse to pick today of all days to come down with a stomach flu.

The front door’s unlocked and I let myself in, praying that his parents are out, and that his sisters haven’t made it home yet. I can hear music coming from upstairs and, when I get closer to his room, the occasional theatrical moan. Jesse’s the kind of guy who makes a 24-hour virus sound like tuberculosis. He’s lying on his back, one arm tossed over his eyes, looking wan and drawn and pitiable.

“Stop posing, I’m not your mom.”

He pulls his arm away from his eyes and grins. “Hey, what’s—” Then his smile disappears and he pulls himself into a sitting position. “Jesus, you look worse than me.”

“It’s hot.” I wipe a hand across my face and the sweat makes my eyes sting. “Thanks.”

He gives me this flat look and quirks his eyebrows. “Actually, I was talking about the blood on your shirt, but yeah, you’re sweaty too.”

“Oh, yeah. That.” Stupid Jesse, I’d just about managed to turn the red splash into a ketchup spill in my memory. I drop my backpack, kicking it into a corner, and sit on the edge of his bed I pull my shirt away from my skin again, and trying not to shudder when my fingers come away wet. “You picked a fun day to miss.”

Jesse quirks his eyebrows at me again, “What’d you do this time? Make eye contact with one of the football players?”

“Better,” I say, and don’t elaborate. The air in here is just above frigid, and if I were by myself I’d be tempted to take this stupid shirt off altogether. Jesse’s still staring at me, and I do my best to be interested in his ceiling so I won’t have to notice. “So, how’s daytime television?”

He reaches out with one foot, kicking me in the hip. “Stop being you for a second and tell me what’s up. Who’d you piss off, and am I going to get killed tomorrow just for knowing you?”

I squeeze my eyes shut to keep out the sweat and try to think of something soothing. Ice cream, tennis shoes, clouds. “My locker decided I’m gay.” It comes out steadier than I was expecting. “Or, I don’t know, someone with a marker, who’s really into graffiti. I guess the locker’s opinion wouldn’t count.”

“Yeah, well, your locker’s also seen that picture of Cary Grant you’ve got tacked up. It’s probably been suspicious for a while.” He pushes at my hip with his foot again. “What’s it say?”

“Faggot,” I shrug, and hate that it doesn’t come out as level as I’d like. “Nothing that creative. The guys in gym class were real impressed, though. And they’re starting to figure out that punching without leaving marks thing, too. I guess that was impressive.”

Jesse nods, opens his mouth to say something, then doesn’t. He leans back, folding his arms under his head. “I guess at least,” he says slowly, after a pause, “At least it’s accurate.”

By the time I realise I’m laughing I’ve already swallowed another mouthful of my own sweat. Then another. Then three. By the time Jesse sits back up and grabs at my shoulder I’ve lost count; can’t tell the difference between mouthfuls of sweat and tears.

Bits and Pieces

Sun, 27 Aug 2006 07:12:07 GMT

Title: Ich Liebe Dich

Pairing: Nate Ruess / Brandon Flowers

Another bit of the Nazi Germany AU for x_kchan_x. Yes, really.

They decide to celebrate their anniversary in midwinter. Not on any specific day, because scheduling something like that seems dangerous somehow—as if picking a time in advance would jinx things. Nate knows it’s not actually possible to read minds, but if anyone could manage the Gestapo would, and it would be just their style to burst in on a romantic evening planned out three months in advance.

So they play things by ear. They’re lying on Brandon’s bed one afternoon, after they’re finished at the university for the day, and he leans in close and whispers into his ear. “Are you busy Sunday?”

Nate shakes his head.

“Anniversary dinner? I’ll cook.”

Nate nods. And that’s that. Brandon disappears the next afternoon to see someone about a cheap bottle of wine, and he spends a few afternoons running from record shop to record shop, looking for something new that’s managed to worm its way past the censors.

He doesn’t dress up to go to Brandon’s on Sunday. Doesn’t change his routine, tries to look even less excited than usual. He hides the new record—a small, mislabeled Ella single—in his school bag, between a few of his textbooks. He walks as slowly as he can, wanders, does his best to make his path to the apartment look accidental. Just in case. No one can ever be too careful, especially not on an important day.

Brandon doesn’t answer the door when he knocks, and his heart inches up into the top of his chest. He lets himself in with his key, which he pretends to retrieve from the ledge above the front door. The apartment is dark, empty, and now Nate can feel something pushing up into his throat, choking him.

“Brandon?” He keeps his voice soft, almost inaudible. “Are you home?”

No response. On the other side of the room the phonograph is whirring, the empty turntable spinning slowly. He can imagine Brandon standing next to it, looking for a new record to put on only to be interrupted by—

He closes his eyes, takes a few wheezing breaths, tries to think. Can’t think. His bag hits the floor and he barely makes it the seven steps to the bed before his knees give out. He can smell soap, and the sheets look freshly washed. And that couldn’t be enough to give them away, could it? An extra load of laundry before it’s due. A little extra effort for something special. Would that be enough?

It’s so quiet in the room, like it’s been deserted for years. As though Brandon’s never been there at all. Nate wraps his fists around strands of his hair and tugs. He needs to stay grounded, to keep calm, to act like nothing’s happened, because that’s how they’ll get him. Grief is the worst admission of guilt. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to remember all the lyrics to Take the ‘A’ Train, to count backwards from one hundred, to breathe normally, to keep from biting through his lip and screaming.

Then the front door clicks open and Brandon’s smiling at him, a brown, bottle-shaped bag clutched in one hand. “Sorry I’m—” is as far as he gets before Nate’s up off the bed, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing him back against the door.

“I love you,” it’s coming out so loudly and he can’t help himself; couldn’t stop, even if all the Gestapo in Berlin were just outside. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Brandon doesn’t say anything, just clicks the lock into place behind him, wraps his arms around Nate and holds on.

12 Pages of Crack or: What I Did in Montreal

Sat, 26 Aug 2006 04:00:28 GMT

Title: Baby, I'd Leave You For the Person You Used to Be

Pairing: John Nolan / Jesse Lacey. Um, sort of.

Rating: PG-13, for strong language, drinking and some sexuality. Does anyone even read this bit?

Disclaimer: Parts of this probably happened. But not the important bits. You know.

Summary: fanfic100 prompt 05— outsides
For kosher_pareve (you owe me that fic now, wmn!). Jesse Lacey is a woman. More than usual, I mean.

Jesse's on tour when it happens. Or rather, he's on Straylight Run's tour bus, which is chugging its way through southern California. To be more specific, he's on the tour bus couch, still half asleep, listening to Michelle sing scales (slightly out of tune, he notices with a wince) in the shower.

He isn't supposed to be on a tour bus—Straylight's or otherwise. Jesse is, in fact, supposed to be in some podunk recording studio in Maine, working on his third album while he finishes recovering from an appendectomy. But John had mentioned his touring schedule during a hospital visit and Jesse's poor, Demerol-addled brain had immediately decided that tagging along would be much better for his health than bedrest, chicken soup and writing lyrics. So, here he is.

Sort of.

The day starts innocently enough. Michelle hits a particulairly nonexistant note, like the worst rooster ever, and he stretches, rubs at his eyes and claws his way out of his blanket cocoon. There's a moment of silence, a rumble from the bus and then a crash, as John drops a pitcher of orange juice on the floor and starts screaming. Which is a little strange, sure, but John's always been kind of high strung. Jesse assumes a bee's gotten in or something equally stupid and busies himself scratching an itchy spot on his chest.

Then his fingers connect with a breast, and he starts to think that there's more to his best friend's freak-out than a simple insect problem. That, and he really should've slept with a shirt on.

—

"So," says John. "You're a chick."

If he listens closely, Jesse can hear Shaun muttering as he mops up the orange juice. The noise is muffled by the locked bathroom door between him and the rest of the bus. But not so muffled that he can't hear John snickering. And of course Victory's too cheap to spring for a bus with a bathroom fan he can turn on to drown it out.

"Shut up," he whines at his best friend/the door. "This can't be happening."

"You've got breasts, man." Which he does, true, but it's not the most helpful thing for John to throw out there right now, when Jesse hasn't even managed to look in his boxers yet. "Not, like, great breasts. But they're there."

He blinks, then looks down at his chest. He's a little on the small side, yeah, but they're not grossly misshapen or anything. He's never been much of a breast man, but they seem like they'd be nice enough on someone else. Someone who's spent more than ten minutes of his life as a girl, maybe.

"Fuck off, Nolan. There's nothing wrong with my rack." Aside from the bit where it's on his chest, that is.

"Does it go all the way down? Or did your doctor slip you a lot of crazy hormone supplements and forget to mention it?" Oh, that's it. Girl or not, Jesse is kicking John's ass the second he gets out of the bathroom. Just as soon as he works up the nerve to pull the elastic of his boxers away from his body and look down and—

"Oh my god." The noise she lets out is somewhere between a sob and a howl, and she's frozen, staring down into her own underwear. "Come back, damn you, come back."

"...uh, Jesse?" This time John at least has the decency to sound nervous. "Please tell me you're not actually talking to your penis."

"I'm not," she snaps back. And it's true. She can't talk to what's not there.

—

"So," Michelle says, staring down at a shaking, blanket-swaddled Jesse Lacey with her hands on her hips. "You're a girl."

This time Jesse nods miserably, and doesn't even say anything nasty about the freaky linguistic mind-meld the Nolans seem to have going on. "It's. My. Chelle, I've got a- a-"

"Vagina?" Shaun calls from the front of the bus, sending John into a fit of hysterical laughter
that he can't quite smother with a dishtowel.

"Yeah. One of those." She grits her teeth and adds Shaun to her list of fucking insensitive jackasses she'll be killing the second she stops wanting to curl up into a ball and cry. "Thanks for being so understanding, Cooper."

Michelle rolls her eyes and sighs in annoyance. Which doesn't seem fair to Jesse, since she didn't wake up this morning with a flat chest and a dick. "This is new, then? You weren't a woman last night, right?"

"No, I'm pretty sure I'd remember shit like that." She shoots a glare at the front of the bus, daring the two smirking assholes hiding there to say anything. They don't, but that probably has more to do with the towel John still has pressed over his mouth than any sense of compassion or human decency.

"Right," Michelle furrows her eyebrows and bites on her lower lip. "You're going to need a bra."

"What?"

"A bra," she’s over-enunciating each word, and Jesse has to fight down the sudden urge to slap her and scream something. "Girls wear them. Over their breasts." She pauses again, glancing down at the blanket. "We'll get you one with padding."

There's another choked giggle from the front of the bus and, goddammit, Jesse is going to strangle John with that tea towel.

—

Two and a half hours later, Straylight Run's tour bus pulls into the parking lot of a Wal-Mart on
the outskirts of San Diego. Will's up by this point, and Jesse is ready to kill all of Straylight's snide, giggling male members. And Michelle, too, who just won't let this padded bra joke go.

"Shaun, Will, you're in charge of makeup and hair removal products. John, women's shoes, size nine. Jesse, lingerie department." Apparently he's not the only one going through a transformation today. Michelle's gone from slightly-out-of-tune-but-easy-on-the-eyes sidekick to petty tyrant.

God help them all if she ever gets hold of a whip, or a small South American country.

—

Jesse's never really thought about what she'd look like if she rolled out of bed one day with a full set of ovaries and tits, but if anyone had ever asked, she'd probably have said something about a nice ass and three miles of leg. Because, dammit, if she was a girl she'd definitely be a hot one, right?

"Chelle, I'm fat."

As it turns out, Jesse Lacey the girl doesn't look all that different from Jesse Lacey the boy. Her legs have not magically grown, her hair is still short and curly, her jaw is still pretty angular. If it weren't for the sudden, jarring curve of hips and the lack of familiar equipment in her boxers she'd be inclined to assume the whole thing was some sort of weird mass hallucination brought on by toxic tour bus fumes and bad orange juice.

Michelle rolls her eyes for the eleven-millionth time, twirling one of her curls between her
fingers. She looks pretty and skinny and perfect, even in the streaky, spotty change room mirror. Which isn't fair, because Jesse suspects she looks like a drag queen who's trying way too hard to pass. A drag queen in a red, Wal-Mart bra and pantie set, even.

"You're not fat, stupid, you've just got huge hips. If this isn't reversible you're going to be great at giving birth."

"How can you make jokes about this?" Oh, that's interesting. She's never heard her voice get that
high before. Apparently screeching is a natural part of womanhood, too. "I'm an ugly girl. And these bra straps are fucking chafing."

She's about three seconds away from a full-on temper tantrum when John decides to walk into the change room without knocking. Which is perfect timing, she thinks, because now she's all splotchy and red, which goes great with the huge ass and the—

"Jesus." John's mouth is hanging open, and the tips of his ears are turning red. Whatever reaction Jesse was expecting, it wasn't this one. "Um. Wow, guys. You. He—she. That's a nice. Yeah, I'll be outside."

"So. I'll get this one, I guess," Jesse manages after the longest pause in the history of the universe, trying to ignore both Michelle's sceptical look and warm feeling creeping into the pit of her stomach.

—

"John. John, wake up."

It's 3am and Jesse's been a girl for about fifteen hours. Which, she figures, is long enough to blame hormones and crazy, irrational, emotional girl-impulses for anything she does. Like, say, sliding into her best friend's bunk in the middle of the night and shaking him awake with a wild look in her eyes.

"Jess, what the hell?" John groans, swatting her away, too out of it to notice or care when he nearly punches her in the breast. "It's the middle of the night. I've got a show tomorrow."

"Ow, asshole, that hurt." Jesse glances back over her shoulder, then slides the bunk's curtain
closed and shuffles in closer, so they're nearly pressed chest to chest. "I need some advice."

"Great, talk to me tomorrow. Or better, talk to Chelle. She actually gets all that girly shit." He sounds pissed, and Jesse considers punching him. Except John probably doesn't have any problem hitting a girl. Especially when the girl in question was a guy for twenty-six years.

"I can't ask your sister. It's... personal."

"Jess, if this has anything to do with menstruation—"

This time Jesse does punch him, though in the small space of the bunk it's hard to work up any kind of force. "Fuck you, Nolan. I need your help."

Maybe it's the desperation in her voice that makes John soften, though it could be his insanely low pain tolerance. Whatever it is, it's a nice change. "Okay, okay. What do you need?"

"I," she has to pause for a second and run through years and years of stupid shit that John's done to steel herself for the mocking that's sure to follow. "I need you to tell me how to get off a chick."

Jesse's prepared for hysterical laughter and teasing and general torments. What she's not prepared for is the shocked silence she actually gets. "Um. You're kidding, right?"

"No," There are two things she could do right now. One: knee John in the balls, catapult out of the bed, pretend this never happened and get very, very drunk. Two: stick it out. And while number one is very tempting, Jesse knows the only booze on the bus is Shaun's Miller Light, and really, who drinks that shit? "C'mon, Nol. This is serious."

"You. You really are the gayest person on the planet, aren't you?"

She glares at John, which would be more effective if there were any light on the bus at all. "You
know, some people prefer not to stick it into every single orifice they run into, asshole. Now are you going to give me a play-by-play, or do I have to go seduce Shaun with my feminine charms— "

"And small rack?"

John, as it turns out, squeals like a little girl when his nipples are pinched. Jesse's gratified to know she's still manlier than her best friend, even while rocking a vagina and hips meant for
birthing Viking sons. "Now, c'mon. I know you've slept with girls. There was that. Whassername. The one who was like, twelve."

"Eighteen, Jesus! I'm not a child molester."

"Much." Jesse yelps and nearly rolls out of the tiny bunk when John decides that pinching her nipples back is the easiest way to shut her up. "No, ow! You're not allowed to do that shit when I'm a chick. I'll call the cops."

"No you won't." And yeah, okay, he's probably right, but she's not going to admit it.

"Please, John? It'll be just like that time in high school." Well, not just like, as there were two dicks involved and a lot more alcohol and a lot of John running away every time he saw Jesse for the next three months. But other than that, yeah, totally the same thing. Really. "I won't even laugh if you squeak when you come this time, promise."

"I can't believe you're even bringing that up, asshole," but the sheets are already rustling, and Jesse can't help but grin to herself. "Now, you're going to need to, um, put your hand between your legs..."

—

As far as awkward sexual encounters with friends go, Jesse would rank this one below drunkenly making out with Vinnie at a New Year's party, the incident which had occupied the lowest spot on his list before tonight. It’s not even because of the whole vagina thing, or the really-too-small-for-this-shit bunk bed thing, but because John's bandmates don't seem to sleep. Horrified yelps from Will when he's finally this close to coming are a serious buzz kill.

For the record, John grabs Jesse's breasts on three separate occasions. Later, he will claim he was aiming for her shoulder and got confused in the dark. Which would be a better excuse if he
hadn't gotten his hand up under her shirt that second time.

—

"We're calling Adam," John says over breakfast the next morning. "He'll know what to do."

This time it's Jesse's turn to drop the orange juice pitcher, which shatters on impact. "We're not calling Adam. Adam's an idiot."

Shaun mutters something that sounds suspiciously nasty and goes to get the mop.

"No, seriously. He hangs out with My Chemical Romance. And I mean, if anyone's ever been turned into a girl before it's that dude. You know, with the hair. And the vampire look. Gerald?"

Two hours and three phone calls later, John's proven wrong and Mikey Way is handing his sidekick to Ray Toro. Jesse, for one, does not appreciate the bursts of high pitched laughter that accompany the transfer.

"So you're a girl?" The voice on the other end of the phone is equal parts smug and amused. If this Toro guy weren't on the other side of the country, Jesse would be halfway through castrating him by now. "How's that going for you?"

"Great," asshole, "I'm really loving every second of it. Now tell me how to get this to go away." There's silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment she's sure she's been hung up on. Until she hears muffled snickering and realises Ray's got his hand over the mouthpiece to block the sound.

"Yeah, sure. Just tell me one thing first. How do you look in a skirt?"

John steals the phone back before Jesse can finish describing just what kind of dull, rusty knife she'll be using to cut off Toro's balls, but she's sure he can still hear her shrieking from the other end of the bus, so the effect isn't totally lost.

—

Luckily for the rest of the band, Michelle drags Jesse into the bathroom a few minutes later, brandishing the bag of makeup painstakingly picked out by Shaun and Will. By the time Jesse reappears she's stabbed herself in the eye with a mascara wand four times and learned more than she ever wanted to know about blending eyeshadow colours. Being a girl is way too much work.

John's huddled at the front of the bus, staring intently at a patch of wall. She plops down next to him, batting her eyelashes (which feel sticky and heavy now) and trying not to shake with anticipation, "So, what kind of voodoo do we need to do, Nolan? Ritual sacrifice? Pagan chanting? Throwing your sister in a volcano or two?"

"I'll be in the back," Shaun interjects, stalking off to the bunks with Straylight's new orange juice pitcher clutched tightly to his chest. Jesse makes a mental note to Google 'juice fetishists' the next time she gets a wireless connection.

"You need to get laid," John says, out of nowhere. Though, given the way he's staring he might be talking to the kitchen table. Or the carpet.

"What?"

"Ray," he croaks the word out like there's a noose around his neck, "says you need to have sex."

"Look, just because it's been a while since I dated anyone doesn't mean it's any of that jackass's
business whether I'm sleeping wi—"

"No. To break the... the thing. You need sex. Like, with a guy." John looks like he wants to cry, throw up or drop some more orange juice on the ground. Which is so not fair, since he's not the one who just found out he's got to get boned by some dude. And she's a top, too.

"Apparently when it happened to Ray, he slept with. Shit, Fred? Francis? The guitar one with the 'x's on his eyes. You know. Anyway, twelve hours later: penis city."

Right, the second Jesse's a guy again she's finding a new best friend. One who won't ever, ever say something like 'penis city.' Ever. Then she actually thinks about what John's said and
something even more distrubing occurs to her. "Wait, does that mean I need to sleep with Vin? Because he's even worse to make out with than you."

"When did you make out with," John stops, blinks, "Wait, what's wrong with me?"

"One, you bite way more than you need to. And two, the last time we made out you, oh, called me a fag wouldn't talk to me for a huge chunk of our senior year."

"Oh, yeah." There's an awkward moment of silence. Jesse gets up to rummage through the fridge, on the off chance Shaun's left some other kind of juice in there. He hasn't. "What about Brian?"

"John, Brian's Jewish. I'm pretty sure fucking your male friend while he's a chick violates. I don't know. Kosher laws, or something."

"Garrett?"

"Girlfriend. Couldn't I just pick up some random guy? And why isn't there anything in your fridge besides beer?"

"No good. It needs to be someone you know." John's still staring at the table top like he's expecting something nasty to rise through it. "Ray. Um. Ray said I should do it."

There's still no juice in the front of the bus, but Jesse chucks a couple cans of beer at the floor. Just to get her point across.

—

Five minutes later, Straylight Run's tour bus pulls over yet again, this time into the parking lot of a roadside diner and gas station. Approximately three seconds later Will, Shaun, Michelle and the driver hired by the label are seen sprinting across the parking lot as though their lives depend on it.

—

"Jesse, calm down," John says, peeking out from under the kitchen table, then ducking down as
another beer can ricochets off the floor next to him. Jesse's sure he must regret the band's decision to fill the fridge with beer, because the mini fridge holds a hell of a lot more cans
than it ought to be able to.

"This isn't fair," she whines for what must be the twelfth time. John's probably been keeping count, but probably won't come out from under the table, even if she requests an exact tally. "This sucks. This fucking sucks and I'm stuck as a fat girl with no tits and it's all your fault."

She throws another can—this one aimed at the wall—and lets loose a yell of frustration that can
be heard all the way to the gas pumps.

"It is not," John yells, curling himself into a ball. "All I said was, 'you being a girl might have something to do with sexual repression,' which is what Toro said to me. And then you started
acting like a fucking woman about it."

This time, Jesse gets down on her knees and chucks a beer directly at John's head. Luckily, she also throws like a girl, and it misses. "I am a woman, remember? The breasts you were fondling
last night? Still mine." She gets back to her feet, stalks back to the fridge, then stops and
spins back around, trying to shake the feeling she's in an awful, really fucked up soap opera.

"And don't even start on repression, because I'm not the one who's been in love with me for, like, a decade but won't admit it."

John's got his mouth open, like he's going to fire something back (probably about breast size, he's predictable), but nothing's coming out. He swallows a couple times, coughs once, then manages a, "What?"

"Remember high school? 'Oh, hey Jesse, here's some booze. Oh look, now here's my hand in your pants. Golly gee!'" For someone with a girl's vocal chords, she still does a killer impression of her best friend. "Or when you got sick of Taking Back Sunday and were all, 'hold me Jesse, pet my hair and tell me nice things about myself while I cry like a six year-old.' Or—"

"Right, because wanting your best friend to be there for you after something like that clearly
means I want gay sex."

She ignores that, because punching John in the face until he passes out would probably be counter-productive. "And then there's the seven different times you've drunk dialled me to leave monologues on my phone about how I'm the prettiest, smartest captain of the team."

"I like the Strokes a lot, okay?" John's face is turning purple, and when he crawls out from under the table Jesse can see he's digging his nails into his palms. "And what about you? You never said anything. You haven't said anything since—"

"You broke off all contact with me until after graduation because I tried to do something—"

"Which I apologized for, so you can get over that any time now. And you can't pin this all on me when you're the one who never even hinted that there might still be something there."

The fridge is finally out of beer, so Jesse resorts to the only dramatic gesture she's got left: shrieking in that high, grating way girls do sometimes when they're about three seconds away from kicking someone in the crotch or crying. "I dropped everything and came to fucking California because you said you were nervous about this tour. Last night I crawled into your bunk because I wanted us to get off together. What do I need to do, Nolan? Make signs?"

John opens and closes his mouth a few times, then crouches down to pick up a beer can. He doesn't look up when she leaves.

—

Inside the diner, Straylight's driver is explaining the hydraulic braking system the bus uses to a couple of waitresses while Will eats an ice cream sundae (strawberry, no nuts). Michelle and Shaun are slumped against each other, and their side of the table is covered in empty bottles of Bacardi Breezer.

It is now 11:30 in the morning.

Jesse retaliates by purchasing a fudgesicle and locking herself in the bathroom to compose a list
on a piece of paper towel.

Things I Would Be Willing to Do to Avoid Sleeping With John Nolan:

- learn to walk in heels
- wear miniskirts and be leered at by sixty year-old men
- menstruate
- wax legs
- have pregnancy scare
- talk about boys with Michelle

She sucks on her popsicle stick, rereads the list, then crosses the last item off. Some things just aren't worth the effort.

—

That night, John plays an impromptu cover of The Kinks' Lola, dedicated to his "best friend in the entire world." Jesse, who is sulking backstage at the time, would be touched by his efforts, if he were only a little more subtle about the song's clever play on gender.

"So," John stops playing altogether right before the final repeat of the chorus and stages whispers into his mic. "The thing about this song is, the girl? Is totally a dude. It's like the dude woke up and became a girl. Did I mention this song's for Jesse Lacey?"

Backstage, Jesse sighs and pulls her list out again to add:

- ANYTHING ELSE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

She underlines the newest item twice, then crumples the list into a ball and hurls it at John's big, stupid head. Unfortunately, her aim still sucks and it bounces off Shaun instead.

—

Later that night, as the band's getting drunk in the club's green room, one of the guys in the opening act stumbles over to Michelle and slurs something into her ear. Jesse can hear her cackling from the other side of the room, and in the end Shaun has to take her back to the bus after making some excuse about chicks who can't hold their alcohol.

About five minutes later the same guy's standing three feet away, holding out a beer and grinning.

"Hey."

"Hey." The beer's Miller again, and she's starting to wonder where everyone's taste in booze has gone.

The guy gives her this huge all-teeth smile, like that's the best thing anyone's said to him all day, and leans against the wall next to her. "Name's Aaron. You with Straylight?"

"Sort of." She glances around, but no one else is looking in their direction. John's busy
constructing what looks like a beer bong with one of the road techs, and Shaun still hasn't come back from the bus (she bets he's snuggling with the orange juice again). "I'm Jesse."

Aaron blinks a few times, and she can see the wheels turning in his head. Fuck. She’s about to launch into some story about winning a Jesse Lacey lookalike contest, but he just grins at her again. "Pretty name. You Nolan's new girl?"

Luck and a few quick swallows are the only things that keep beer from coming out of Jesse's nose. "Jesus, no. I made a list. I mean, I'm looking for someone who can grow hair somewhere other than his Adam's apple, you know?"

"Oh, cool." There's a pause, then, "You wanna come back to my bus?"

Thing number two to do if she ever makes it back to... penis city: set up some sort of emo boy flirting school. God knows they need it. But then she catches John staring, plastic tubing dangling from his mouth. She winks, he blushes, and Aaron starts grinning again as she
pushes him up against the wall. "Yeah, that sounds pretty good."

John's Miller Light ends up all over the floor. Again.

—

"Wow," says Michelle, as Jesse stumbles back onto Straylight's tour bus the next morning. "You're a real boy now."

He gives her the finger and goes to the back of the bus to wash off the last of his lipstick.

—

"So it turns out your stupid sexual repression theory was wrong," Jesse tells John later that morning, after wrestling the juice away from Shaun long enough to pour himself a glass. "At least, the part about needing to bone you was."

"What happened anyway? He stuck it in and wham, bam, thank you—um, mister—you're a dude again?" John's eyes are wide, and he can't decide if he looks horrified or turned on. The pervert.

"Not quite. It kicked in when I was asleep, I think. I didn't notice until this morning." He pauses, sips at his orange juice and stares out the window at the smooth lines of the California interstate. "Yeah. That was kind of awkward." If he strains he's sure he can still hear Aaron's screams of terror. "Apparently some guys get freaked out when their hookups grow dicks in the middle of the night."

"I guess that would be kind of, um. Yeah."

"Yeah."

There's a moment of strained silence. Jesse taps his fingers against the side of his glass. John
gets up and pours himself a bowl of cereal. Someone's voice floats up from the other end of the bus, followed by another howl of laughter that's definitely Michelle's.

"So," He starts to say, just as John lets out an, "Um."

"Yeah?"

John taps his spoon against his bowl, stirs his cereal counter-clockwise, kicks at the table leg and stays annoyingly silent until Jesse leans over and shoves him.

"C'mon, you were going to say something?"

"I, ah." He stirs his cereal again, chewing on his lower lip. "I did some thinking while you were out rocking tour buses. And."

"...and?" His glass is empty and the juice has disappeared into the back of the bus again, so there's nothing to do but torture his best friend. He'll consider it payback for all the breast jokes.

"I was thinking, when we get back to Long Island we should do something. Like, see a movie or get dinner." The spoon clinks against the bowl again, slopping milk out onto the table. "Just the two of us, maybe?"

He blinks. Then blinks again. "Nolan, are you trying to ask me out?"

“Uh, yeah.”

Jesse ends up laughing so hard that he bangs his knee on the tour bus table, catapulting John’s bowl to the floor. His fit of hysterics lasts all the way to LA. Shaun, who ends up mopping up the cereal, is less amused.

Punk AU for Lailases.

Fri, 11 Aug 2006 02:01:20 GMT

Title: This is Not a Love Song

Pairing: Nate Ruess (The Format) / Brandon Flowers (The Killers)

Notes: This is probably more inaccurate than an American History textbook, for which I apologize. Also, if you’ve never head Patti Smith and you’d like some context for the first scene, I’d suggest listening to Birdland.

Summary: Set in New York, in the winter of 1977 (approximately). In the words of the Vibrators: It's a serious game when you’ve got to start from the bottom again...

i.

The first time Nate sees Brandon, it’s like this.

A guy he’s working with knows a guy, who gets them backstage to see Patti Smith. She’s doing a show at this shitty little club that doesn’t have a sign on the front of it. Just her and some old piano someone else found in a basement.

The room’s packed with guys in leather jackets and girls with safety pins jammed through noses, the air is blue with stale cigarette smoke and sweat, and the piano’s out of tune. It should be a recipe for disaster, riots, broken bottles and crushed skulls. But the room’s been almost deathly silent for the last half hour, and Nate’s sure Patti’s the only woman in New York—maybe the whole fucking country—who could pull this off.

She’s alone onstage, one hand on the piano, half whispering into the mic, maybe halfway through Birdland when someone knocks the spotlight at the back of the room, swinging it half a foot to the right. No one else seems to notice. The crowd’s hypnotised, staring and sweating and breathing her words in a soft rasp. But Nate’s gaze slips off her for half a second, and that’s when he sees him, face half illuminated in the grainy grey light.

He’s pressed up against the stage, leaning on an amp, hair sweat-slicked to his forehead, eyes round and wide, mouth open like he’s gasping for air. The stage light’s leeching colour out of everything it touches, and he looks like an old 50s photograph—body in grayscale, with a splash of red at his panting mouth that hold’s Nate’s eyes and numbs his brain.

“Take me up ,” Patti’s singing, voice hushed, coming through the microphone like smoke curling out of a forgotten cigarette. “Oh, lets go up, up, take me up. I’ll go up, I’m going up, I’m going up ...”

In the crowd, Brandon’s mouthing along, lips moving half a second behind, as though it’s his voice creeping through Nate’s brain and settling in his blood, making his hands shake and his heart beat out of rhythm. And he’s stuck, hypnotized, frozen somewhere between her voice and that mouth, just barely out of sync.

The piano’s barely making a sound any more, and Patti’s voice is soaring, mixing with the hushed mumble of three hundred awestruck punks, “Sha da do wop, da shaman do way, sha da do wop, da shaman do way ...”

He can feel his lips moving of their own accord, hear the barest sliver of his own voice mixing with theirs. She’s playing the same three notes over and over, letting her voice soften, then die out, then come back louder than before, and they’re stuck in a loop of nonsense words that seem to have been going forever and won’t ever end. Then her other hand’s coming up, pressing the final cord, as the club hisses the last few words.

“We like birdland.”

When someone finally adjusts the spotlight, it swings over Brandon’s face for the barest of seconds, skin stretched tight over bones and translucent under the glare. And maybe Nate’s startled by the tears mixing with the sweat on his cheeks, but maybe he’s not.

The spell breaks. Someone screams something, fists pump, bodies jostle each other. Brandon lifts a hand, as though he’s going to wipe his eyes, then lets it drop, stays frozen, waiting.

ii.

Nate’s at CB’s the next time he seems him, nearly two months later. The band’s some copy of a copy of the Pistols and he’s already downed half a twelve-pack in the alley behind the club. The crowd is made entirely of elbows and knees and the floor’s rolling under him, in time with the chug of the bass guitar. He doesn’t even notice the pit until he’s in the middle of the it, people pushing against him on all sides, slamming into him until his teeth rattle.

He’s walking towards the stage, even as he stumbles over someone’s boots and someone’s flailing arm connects with his jaw. The band’s terrible, but it’s easier to move with the crowd than against it. It’s then that Brandon runs into him from behind, body moulding into his in the crush.

His face is flushed red, the hazel of his iris swallowed by pupil, his mouth open and panting. Nate can feel his ribs against his back and his breath on his neck, feel the heat he’s throwing off even in the murk of the pit . He tries to say something, to smile, to make himself noticed somehow, but Brandon’s are eyes glazed and unfocussed, sliding from person to person, taking in nothing.

A hand lands on his stomach, pulling them closer, Brandon’s weight on him. For a moment he’s half tempted to grab at it, to press back against the small, sweating body behind him, and his mouth goes dry at the thought.

A knee connects with his hip and he’s so off guard that he crashes into the girl beside him, getting a mouthful of her blue hair and a shoulder in the chest for his trouble. When he finds his footing, Brandon’s halfway across the room, slipping through the crowd and heading for the bar.

Nate makes himself stand through another ten minutes of anarchy, chaos, death and faked British snarls before following him.

—

“The band’s shite,” Brandon’s saying—babbling, really. His voice is a strange mix of East London and the Southwestern states and he’s talking nonstop, too fast for Nate to follow. He takes a long drag on a cigarette, starts to stub it out, catches himself and drags again. “Wasn’t even going to come tonight, but you know. Friday night. Can’t stay in.”

“I saw you,” his tongue feels like wood in his mouth and it’s an effort to form words. “At a show, a couple months back. You looked really into it.”

“Mm,” says Brandon, waving the bartender over, exchanging a kiss on the cheek and a couple bills for a shot of something clear. “Tops, mate. Really—hey, a bunch of us are going somewhere after the thing on stage is finished. You coming?”

“Where are you going?” He has to go to the studio tomorrow. There’s a guitar lick in the album he’s working on that’s not fitting the way he’d like, a couple songs still barely roughed out. But Brandon’s lips purse as he raises the glass, and Nate finds himself wondering if he’d be like this in bed, all glassy eyes and damp skin.

“Don’t know quite yet, actually. Does it matter?” Brandon tilts his head back, pouring the drink down his throat, tongue snaking out to catch a few drops of alcohol clinging to his lips. He’s leaning in and breathing too heavy, almost panting, almost obscene. “Oh yeah, what’s your name, mate?”

“Nate,” he holds out his hand, half sure Brandon’s not going to take it even as long fingers curl around his own.

“Brandon.” He’s still holding his hand as he lifts his cigarette up for another drag, and his smile is as sharp as his gaze isn’t. “Flowers. Like the... flowers. With petals.” He grins, shakes his head and slips off the stool, pulling Nate along. Their knees bump and his thigh slides between Brandon’s legs and those big eyes flutter shut.

He means to pull back, get back on his stool, maybe order a drink and try to listen to the band again. What he does is shift a little closer, steadying himself with a hand on Brandon’s waist, fingers brushing skin where his shirt’s ridden up.

“I’m gonna go to the loo, you want to come?” His voice is all twang now, the Brit gone right out of it, and Nate’s loathe to let go of him so he can move, even as he’s nodding. “Tops,” there’s a tug at his hand, and suddenly they’re halfway into the pit again. “Really tops.”

The bathroom is small and dark and nearly empty (the band must be near the end of its set, there’s not even anyone throwing up in the sinks) when Brandon tugs him into a stall. His body presses into Nate’s again, making them both hiss. Then he’s gone, bending over the lid of the toilet tank and fishing in the pockets of his jeans. When he pulls back there are a couple of lines of white powder, cut a bit crookedly, decorating the porcelain.

Oh.

“Hey, you want,” He doesn’t know what his expression looks like, but Brandon’s smile falls off his face. “Oh, shit, sorry. Do you not—if you’re not going to. This’ll only take half a second, yeah?”

“Yeah,” and then, because he feels like he needs to say something else, “I’ll be by the bar. Need another drink.”

—

Brandon’s friends are a mixed bunch. A few producers, a handful of rock journalists, some executive types and about two dozen fans, groupies and hangers-on. All together, they’re nearly enough to fill the bar they end up in—dim and vaguely Italian looking, with red check tablecloths and unlit candles in wine bottles.

He recognizes a few people from the studio and ends up half listening to them go on about a record due out next week, nursing a pint and staring at the liquor bottles stacked behind the bar. Brandon’s everywhere at once, moving from group to group, stopping just long enough to exchange a few words, a laugh, maybe a pat on the bottom. Nate makes the mistake of looking over as he slides into a booth with someone he thinks might work for Rolling Stone. He’s stupid enough to keep looking as the man tugs him in for a kiss, one hand in Brandon’s hair, the other cupping his ass.

He slams back his beer, orders another and tries to pretend that he doesn’t see that red, wet mouth open in a moan. By the time Brandon stumbles away—panting, cheeks pink—he’s gripping the glass hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

“Hey, mate. Great party, inn’it?” There’s a hand on his stomach again, and Brandon’s breath is hot on his ear as he rests his chin on Nate’s shoulder.

“Great, yeah.” He closes his eyes, fighting the urge to lean back.

“You look bored,” The hand on his stomach moves lower, splaying over his thigh. “Could help you out with that, if you want.” And God, he wants. Can already see it in his head, Brandon on his back, legs spread, head thrown back, smelling of cigarettes and sweat and sex. He turns and their lips are inches apart, so close he could just lean in a little and let gravity take its course. It should be so fucking perfect, but.

When he’s this close Brandon’s eyes are bloodshot and rimmed red, and Nate can feel him shivering, even as the heat in the bar rises. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Oh,” his voice is faux-English again, quiet compared to the noise around them. “Right, ‘course. Cheers, then.”

He slips back into the crowd, body a blur in the yellow-brown light. When Nate sees him next he’s on his way out, leaning on some suit and tie type from one of the bigger labels, head lolling to one side. They stop near the door, just long enough for the man—one of the Atlantic A&R guys, maybe—to pop the button on Brandon’s fly and slide his hand in, making him gasp.

Nate orders another beer and tells himself he doesn’t care.

[PS: If you liked this you should definitely check out its inspiration—inpurity's amazing The Year You Opened You Eyes]

Previously: Zombies. Vampires. Gwar!

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 00:42:42 GMT

Aaaand, we're back. The more I work on this, the more I am reminded why I parted ways with the third-person-past-tense point of view. Woe!

Title: There’s No “I” in “Undead”

Bands: Brand New, Straylight Run, Taking Back Sunday... with more to come (and go).

Rating: 14A for strong language and mild sensuality.

Disclaimer: Yeah, right.

Summary: fanfic100 prompt 26— teammates
Vinnie meets the rest of the monster hunters over beer and tries to hold onto his sanity as best as he can. Meanwhile, Jesse and John enjoy an extended flashback scene, and Adam whines about his carpets.

1.

Two years ago...

“Jesse, I think we should break up.”

“John,” Jesse whined, shoving at his boyfriend’s shoulder with one hand and frantically mashing the keypad of his Xbox controller with the other. “Move before you make me miss the high score.”

John Nolan sighed and scooted over on the coffee table he was currently perched on, giving him a clearer view of the television. “You aren’t listening to me, are you?”

Jesse wasn’t listening, something John knew for a fact, since he’d been attempting to break up with him for the last two hours and forty-five minutes. The sun was almost down outside, and if he couldn’t think of a way to hurry this along he was going to be late for work again. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except he’d been late nearly every day this month, and the Powers That Be were starting to mutter things about pink slips and memory wipes, neither of which sounded very appealing.

“I’m listening, Noly. Seriously.” Jesse jerked back, swearing viciously as the car he was controlling crashed into a wall and went careening off the track. “What were you saying?”

John wasn’t sure if it was frustration, or the awful nickname, or the threat of unemployment that made him grab the controller out of his boyfriend’s hands and fling it across the room. There was a crash as the Xbox attempted to follow suit and hit the floor instead, then a moment of deathly, icy silence.

“Will you pay attention to me for half a fucking second?” He wasn’t normally the kind of guy who threw fits, but according to office gossip memory wiping involved lasers. Painful lasers.

“I am listening,” Jesse muttered. This was a lie, as he was busy staring at his Xbox with a kicked puppy expression and making whiny noises under his breath. “But if you really wanted to make out again, couldn’t it have waited until I won the race?”

John took a deep breath and weighed the pros and cons of beating his boyfriend to death with the gaming console, which was clicking mournfully and starting to steam. “I want to see other people.”

“You... what?”

“Other people. People who aren’t you. I’m breaking up with you, and I want my Smiths t-shirt and any other relevant relationship memorabilia packed up and ready to go in,” he snuck a glance at his watch. Shit. “Twenty minutes.”

In the thirty seconds it took to him to make the speech Jesse’s eyes had gotten impossibly wide and blue and his bottom lip had started to tremble. Clearly, he was doing it just to taunt him. “But—wait, why?”

“Actually,” John said, producing a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and setting it on the coffee table between them. “I made you a list. Now, I’m going to need a box of some kind and unlimited access to your laundry pile.”

2.

“Fucking Nolan,” Jesse muttered to himself. “Who does he think he is?”

He paused, as though waiting for an answer from the still smoking corpse of his Xbox. There was none.

“I mean,” he tried again, louder this time, “Does he think he can just waltz down here and break up with me without any warning at all? He’ll be sorry. I give it two days, then he’ll realise what he’s done and it’ll be all, ‘I’m sorry, Jesse. Take me back, Jesse.’ You’ll see.”

The Xbox let out another halfhearted click. It had been doing this for over an hour, and he was starting to wonder if he should unplug it. Instead, he scanned the list John had left on the coffee table.

Item 1: You’re 25 years old and you still live with your parents.

Which was true. But it wasn’t as though he’d been living with his parents for all of those years. He’d had his own place, and he’d still have it if those ungrateful little—

Item 2: You’re still blaming a shitty college garage band for everything wrong in your life. Get over it and get a fucking job.

That was creepy. Maybe John had ESP and had forgotten to tell him.

The band in question hadn’t been shitty, though. They’d been good. And on the verge of getting signed to a major label when the rhythm guitar player had knocked up the chick they’d had on drums. They’d dropped out to start a family—ruining Jesse’s brief career as a rock star in the process—and he’d had moved back in with his parents when money got tight.

Okay, yeah that had all happened three years ago. But he’d been busy, scouring the scene for new band members, writing lyrics and looking for jobs that didn’t involve wearing a hairnet.

Item 3: We haven’t been out on a real date in two years, unless it’s to some shitty hardcore show.

Item 4: You’ve been wearing the same pair of pants for three days, because you haven’t stopped playing racing games long enough to change.

Item 5: All the excuses you’re making up would be way more convincing if ever left your basement, asshole.

At this point, Jesse decided that reading items six, seven and eight would not be nearly as satisfying as crumpling up John’s list and screaming, “fuck you, too,” a few times. Just for emphasis.

Which was probably just as well, as he would later discover that the final point on John’s list read as follows:

Item 8: Other people in this relationship enjoy having their dicks sucked too, you inconsiderate bastard.

John did not, in fact, return two days later, and Jesse realised there was only one thing to do. Well, two things actually, but finding a job would probably be a lot less painful than losing his gag reflex. Besides, unless the scrawny blonde guy who liked to make eyes at him was working at Best Buy that night, only the former would get him a new Xbox.

And so, Jesse Lacey emerged from his parents’ basement for the first time in two weeks, blinking and wincing in the late fall sunshine and clutching his woefully short resume to his chest. One hours, four bus transfers and a hot dog later, he was standing in front of a smeared plate glass window. ‘Victory Employment Services,’ read the sign hanging there, ‘no flyers, please.’

The woman at the front desk took his resume with a small, disapproving cluck, and Jesse found himself tucked into an orange plastic chair in the far corner of the office, surrounded by what appeared to be issues of Vogue printed in the late 70s. As he watched, she copied out his contact information using an old electric typewriter, stopping every so often to punch a series of holes into a small white card.

“Mister J. Lacey?” She called it out as though there were a half dozen people in the room who could’ve been him, instead of one loser in sweat pants sitting in the corner, looking over the hottest shoes for summer, 1978. “Follow me, please.”

A moment later, Jesse was standing in front of the largest, dustiest computer he’d seen since his first grade class had taken a field trip to a science museum in the mid-80s. It made a gentle humming sound, not unlike the noises his poor Xbox had emitted just before he’d finally pulled its plug out of the wall. As he watched, the woman inserted the card into a small slot, then took two large steps back as the machine began to shake and rattle in ways that couldn’t be entirely safe.

“So, Mr. Lacey, what skills would you say you’ve acquired in,” the woman glanced at her typed notes and winced, “Two and a half years of unemployment?”

Were high scores on Gran Turismo a skill? Jesse gritted his teeth and tried to clear away a decade’s worth of fog and careful repression so he could remember his highschool career planning classes. “I’m, uh. Great at self-motivation. I mean, I’m here, right?”

The woman gave him a look, and he could feel himself wither.

“And I’ve got great reflexes,” he added, in a fit of desperation. “Really good hand-eye coordination, too.”

Jesse had been fully prepared to have a stapler chucked at his head. What he hadn’t expected was the light that appeared in the woman’s eyes, or the final, violent rumble the computer gave before spitting a sheaf of papers onto the scuffed linoleum.

“Now tell me, Jesse,” the woman said, after scanning the printout for all of three seconds. “How do you feel about working nights?”

3.

When Jesse (who had, thankfully, finally changed out of his stupid sweat pants) walked into the warehouse three days after their breakup, John nearly dropped the vial of holy water he’d been measuring . When he caught a glimpse of the resume his ex had tucked under his arm, he did drop the vial, then dove under his lab bench to avoid detection.

It wasn’t that he was afraid, really. He’d been friends with Jesse for years before they’d started sleeping together, and he was fairly sure he wasn’t the type to become some sort of crazy stalker. There was, however, this one little thing that—

“Nolan,” Jesse’s feet came to a stop in front of the bench. If he angled his head right, John could see that his hands were on his hips. “One, you’re the only person out here and I saw you when I came in. Two, I can see you under that thing. And three, this is so not a car upholstering shop, you dirty fucking liar.”

To be fair, John had worked in an upholstery shop two years ago. When a spot in the warehouse had opened up The Powers That Be had insisted on absolute secrecy about his new line of work—mainly through binding legal contracts signed in the blood of virgins. In the end, he’d decided that if Jesse was willing to believe an upholsterer needed to work graveyard shifts, he wasn’t going to be the one to tell him any different.

“Hey, Jesse,” he plastered on the biggest fake smile he could as he crawled out from under his lab bench, trying to avoid the shards of glass scattered around him. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting a job. They hired me as, uh,” he snuck a glance down at his resume, then shot John the biggest grin he could. “Night-staker for the East Village area.”

John shot to his feet, then sank back to the ground just as quickly when his head connected with the corner of the lab bench. “Ow—fuck—the Village? Jess, are you sure?” When he’d told his ex-boyfriend to get a job, he’d meant he should become a bartender, or a clerk at Old Navy, or a snake charmer. Something boring and mundane and safe.

The last staker to work the East Village had come back to the warehouse stuffed in seven plastic grocery bags. The one before that had managed to make it back in one piece, which was great, except for the bit where he’d inexplicably been missing all his internal organs. It was with that in mind that a pale, panicky John jumped up for the second time and threw his arms around Jesse’s neck with a wail. “But you need your pancreas. And your liver. And your stomach and lungs and—oh my god, take your hand out of my back pocket right now.”

Jesse, as usual, ignored everything he’d just said in favour of copping a feel and nuzzling his jaw. “Hey, about number eight on that list,” he licked his lips and leaned in, murmuring against John’s throat. “I thought maybe I could make that one up to you when you’re done here. More than once, if you think you can handle it.”

John rolled his eyes heavenward, sighing as Jesse licked at his pulse point. He wasn’t going to do this again. He wasn’t. He was not. “Will you move out of the basement?”

“After the first paycheck, babe.” Teeth scraped along his skin, just shy of his jugular, and he had to fight down a moan. “I’ll even throw out the sweat pants.”

“Oh, why the fuck not,” John ground out, scanning the warehouse floor for stray co-workers before hooking a leg around Jesse’s calf and pulling him back towards the work bench. “You’ll be dead in a week anyway.”

4.

Two years later...

The Ghost Man was on a back street, tucked in between a gas station and a tiny, vinyl-sided motel that offered rooms by the hour. The bar took up the entire ground floor of an apartment building that was, so far as anyone could tell, mostly deserted. A pink fluorescent light in the shape of a skeleton flashed on and off the front window, next to a hand-lettered sign bearing both the bar’s hours of operation and some cartoon bats.

The bar had stopped serving alcohol five hours earlier, but that didn’t stop Jesse from pounding on the window hard enough to make the skeleton rattle against the glass. A light went on in one of the back rooms and a moment later he heard the click of a lock being turned.

“What do you want?” The figure in the doorway groaned. It ran a hand over its face, and Jesse caught a glimpse of silver as the skeleton’s light reflected off the barrel of a gun. “If this is about the fuckin’ health inspector, I don’t know what happened to his legs—”

“Hey, Adam,” He plastered on his best charming smile and motioned to Brian, who was trying to keep Vinnie upright and pay the cab driver all at once. “You got time for a pint?”

The man in the doorway groaned again, slipping the gun into the pocket of a bathrobe covered in pink daises. “Lacey, if you don’t start calling first I really am going to put a bullet through you some day, just for the hell of it.”

“What, and ruin all your fun?” Gun or no gun, it was hard for him to take someone wearing floral prints seriously. If Adam was going to make this whole macho bartender image stick, he was really going to have to find tougher pajamas. “Turn on some lights, Laz. I’ve got a sick friend to bring in.”

Adam’s expression went stony. “If this is another one of those stupid emergency surgery things that gets blood on everything and uses up all the hot water then you can fu—”

There was a crash behind them, and Jesse turned in time to see Brian and Vin topple into a garbage can. “Nothing a drink or two won’t fix, promise. Go back and wake Garrett up, okay? I’ll call Nol and it’ll be like a party.”

“If he gets blood on anything, I’m shooting you.”

“Deal,” he nodded. Vampire bites couldn’t possibly bleed for more than an hour, could they? There was another crash as Brian managed to untangle himself from the can, then knocked it over. “I’m gonna go give him a hand. You pour the beer.”

Adam gave a long-suffering sigh, pulled the belt of his robe tighter and headed back inside. Brian stumbled back to his feet, got an arm back around Vinnie’s waist, then paused for a moment to make eyes at the still unconscious body. And Jesse, true to his word, flashed Brian a thumbs up for moral support before pulling out his cell phone to call John and wake him up.

5.

Vinnie came to slumped over a table, with a pint glass next to his left shoulder, a throbbing headache, and a hand rubbing a slow circle on his lower back. Someone nearby was shouting something about witches—or maybe it was ‘bitches,’ and he’d woken up on the set of a rap video—but the air around him went silent as he started to sit up, then slumped back against the table as the room swung violently to the right.

The hand on his back moved to his shoulder, and he tipped back in his chair until he was staring at what looked like a familiar face, though he wasn’t sure why. “Vinnie? You alright in there?”

Instead of answering, Vinnie scrubbed at his eyes, blinking away the fog that had settled over his vision. He was in a room—a bar, from the looks of it, done up in the style of a 1920s speakeasy, complete with a piano in the corner and a wooden dance floor. The tables had been shoved together and five other men were sprawled around them, each with his own collection of empty glasses scattered around him.

The hand on his shoulder prodded at him. “Can you hear me? You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Complete and total lie, because the second he spoke his throat seemed to erupt in flames, and the throbbing in his head redoubled. “Where am I?”

“Bar,” the guy he still couldn’t place guided one of his hands to the glass, wrapping his fingers around it. “Drink, you’ll feel better. Or care less, whatever.”

This seemed like the best advice he’d heard all day, since his mother had called and—Wait, his mother. Pete. Pete the vampire. The room swung around again, and he took the biggest swig he could manage. “Right, this is going to sound like a really dumb question but, um. Did I... get bitten by a vampire tonight?”

There was a long pause, as the five other men all squirmed in their chairs and pretended to be very interested in their beer. That had to be a bad sign.

“Brian,” a blued eyed man at the far end of the table groaned, before slumping to one side and burying his face into the neck of another, skinnier man. “Remember the part where they tell you how to explain things to civilians? You fucking fail at that part.”

“Shut up,” Brian muttered, crossing his arms and slumping down in his chair. “It’s not my fault you were too busy playing with the zombies to give him the spiel.”

Zombies? Vinnie tried to think back, got a mental image of a girl chewing on an arm, and drained his glass in three gulps. The ache in his neck was starting to fade and he pressed a hand to it experimentally, wincing when his fingers touched bandages and a new wave of pain lanced through it. “So, that’s a yes? Because if I’m going to grow fangs and start drinking blood I want a little heads up.”

“Uh, yeah, about that.” Brian’s hand slid down his spine, petting his back again. “Are you feeling at all, uh, dead right now—hey, stop that.” The last was directed at a man in a floral-print bathrobe sitting on the other side of the table, who had jus leaned across and cuffed him over the head.

“Sensitive, Lane. Real sensitive.” The man shook his hair back out of his eyes and shot Vinnie a sympathetic smile. “I’m Adam. The idiot trying to feel you up wants to know how much blood you lost. Any idea?”

“I’m Vinnie,” he held out a hand. Instead of shaking it, Adam handed him another glass of beer, which seemed much more sensible, once he thought about it. “And, I don’t know. There was this girl—eating this arm—anyway, she showed up right after the guy. Uh. Bit me. So he stopped.”

Adam made a humming noise, tapped his fingers against the table, bit his lip, squinted, then took another large gulp from his own glass. “That’s different. Anyone got any thoughts?”

The blue eyed blue eyed man, who was still filtering most of his words through his skinnier friend’s neck, groaned. “Do you guys still keep a copy of the manual around?”

“I’ll get it.” The other man at the table, who hadn’t spoken before—and, like Adam, was wearing a bathrobe, sleeves shoved up to reveal a tattoo sleeve—pushed his chair back, crossed to the bar and, with a grace that seemed to defy the laws of physics, vaulted over it in one smooth motion.

“Bring some more beer when you come back, too.” Adam yelled at his back. “Speaking of which, you fuckers better be able to cover your own tab, this time.”

“Hey, not to be rude or anything,” Vinnie said, interrupting the flurry shuffling and looking at the ceiling that had descended over the table. “But who the hell are you guys?”

“Oh, yeah, that.” Brian’s fingers trailed up his back in a way that was totally unnecessary, but also felt kind of nice. “I’m still, uh, Brian Lane. The guy in the daisies is Adam—”

“Lazzara,” Adam added, cutting him off. “The guy behind the bar is Garrett Tierney. The bar’s ours.” He patted the table fondly, before shooting a look at the two men still curled together at its opposite end. “The two lameasses necking in the corner are John Nolan,” the skinny one gave him a sleepy smile and waved. “And Jesse Lacey.” The blue eyed man grunted, head not moving from John’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Vinnie managed a weak wave, “Nice to meet you and all but. I was more wondering about the thing, earlier. I mean, there aren’t normally random vampires stalking around New York City in the middle of the night, you know?”

There was yet another awkward silence. Vinnie sighed and took another drink and Garrett slumped back into his seat with a tray of beer and two thick, leather-bound books. One went to Adam, the other to John. “Check the indexes first. I brought the European and North American editions, just in case.”

John shoved Jesse off and scooted his chair closer to Adam’s, already paging through the book. “What do you think? Just check ‘vampires’?”

“Is there a listing for ‘nonlethal injuries’ in the EU’s edition? I know the American board hasn’t got around to putting it in yet.”

“Just for werewolves, I think. No, wait,” John pulled the book closer, reading aloud. “ ‘Though vampires typically kill or turn their victims, a bite itself is not necessarily fatal.’ And... oh. Uh, that’s it.”

“So,” Vinnie said to Brian, “Just how many vampires are we talking about?”

“Oh, loads. Hey, Nolan, forget the encyclopedia. Try the protocol notes—there might be something in the staking section.”

“Staking?” His head throbbed again, and suddenly there wasn’t nearly enough beer left in his glass. Brian was sprawled across the table, pointing at a page with a light blue border—like an unusually sinister phonebook section, Vin thought—and he grabbed at his shirt, pulling him backwards. “You. Talk and explain. Now.”

“What about this,” Jesse cut in, leaning over John to point at a different page. “If an attack fails and—”

“And the victim’s skin remains un-punctured,” Garrett finished. “I’m not sure how you missed the punctures on the guy’s neck, but I would’ve thought you’d have noticed the bloodstains on your shirt.”

Brian opened his mouth and leaned back toward the manuals, only to have Vinnie yank him back by the shirt again. “No, shut up and tell me what’s going on or I swear to God, I’ll break this glass over your head.”

Brian stared at him, mouth gaping. Vinnie glared back, gripping the glass in one hand and trying to ignore the twitch building in his left eyebrow. At the other end of the table someone was yelling something about dry cleaning costs. “Me and the guys,” Brian managed, “We’re. Um, we’re called stakers. Well, Jesse and I are—John’s in research and development, and Adam and Garrett do freelance shit. An exorcism here, a ritual burning there. You know.”

Vinnie took a deep breath and another sip of beer and counted backwards from ten as slowly as he could. “Okay. Great. Can I smoke in here?”

“You could try, but Laz would probably pull some creepy voodoo shit on you.” Brian frowned and looked over at Adam, who was jabbing at the manual with a pen and muttering to himself. “I can take you out front if you promise not to run off or anything. I don’t really want to bring my crossbow along.”

As they crept out the front door, John’s voice floated back to them. “Check the section on ‘Regrettable-but-Unavoidable Civilian Deaths,’ will you Jess?”

6.

The sun had finished rising sometime between Brian’s first and fifth beers, the harsh light washing out the pink of The Ghost Man’s skeleton sign. Vin’s neck, stretched out as he leaned against the front window, had turned a sickly shade of purple-brown, and it was all he could do to keep from offering to kiss it better.

“So,” he said, trying to keep his voice light as he sucked down another drag of smoke, “What do you do?”

The glare Vinnie gave him would have withered a lesser man. As it was, Brian (who was used to staring down things with larger teeth, sharper fingernails an unnatural strength) felt his internal organs clench and knot. “I work in a call centre. And you, what is it stakers do again? Hunt vampires and kidnap people?”

“Sort of,” he kicked at the lamp, trying to will his liver and kidneys back into their usual positions. “I’m actually more of a consultant. I do paranormal folklore—sasquatches, bleeding nuns, haunted castles, that kind of shit. And, uh, we don’t usually kidnap people.”

It was meant to be reassuring, but Vinnie just looked that much more pissed off. “Great, so what’d I do to deserve special treatment? And if you even try to pull some sort of Buffy-style ‘chosen one’ thing on me I’ll—”

“No, I promise no. It’s more like,” Oh, this was going to be awkward. He held out another cigarette as a peace offering, then took a few steps back so Vinnie couldn’t stab it out in his eye as he talked. “A bureaucratic oversight.”

He was sure he could see the muscles in Vin’s jaw clench, even from five feet away. “Spit it out, Brian. Spit it out before I kill you.”He lifted his head from the window just long enough to manage a weak, tired glare.

All things considered, it was probably an empty threat.

“You remember how you got bitten tonight, right?” He tossed his cigarette butt away, shoved his hands into his pockets and plowed on, ignoring the glare still being thrown his way. “Well, okay. The thing is, you’re not supposed to be alive after those. They did some study in Holland and it takes maybe five minutes for a vampire to kill someone. Three to turn, I think. Maybe two and a half.”

“Turn?” Vinnie was starting to look a little green, but that might’ve been the bruising.

“Into a vampire, yeah—oh, don’t worry about that. You’re standing in the sunlight and not burning to a crisp, which pretty much guarantees that you’re still human.”

Vinnie sighed in relief, slumping back against the window. “Okay. I’m not a vampire and I’m not dead, so I’m not really seeing a problem here.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem, actually.” He stepped forward without thinking and tucked a strand of Vin’s hair behind his ear, then nearly recoiled when his fingers brushed against dried blood. “I’ve never heard of anyone getting bitten and surviving. We get people who walk away without being bitten and people who become vampires and loads of body bags, but never this kind of thing.”

“I had a lucky day.” His hand was still on Vinnie’s jaw, and while he was still glaring daggers at him, he hadn’t shoved it away. “I still don’t see what’s wrong.”

“Protocol,” Brian mumbled, finally dropping his hand and looking down at his shoes, “says we have to stake all bite victims still moving after an attack.”

“Oh,” said Vinnie. Then again, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he kicked at the streetlight again, missed, and scuffed the toe of his shoe on the sidewalk. “If you’re thinking about running, I should warn you that I can probably take you down before you make it a block.”

“What, then? I go back inside and you guys kill me and dump my corpse in an alley?” Vin’s voice had gotten small and quiet, and he slid down the window, crouching just above the pavement, head in his hands. “If that’s what you’re going for, is there any way I can convince you to give me a ten second head start on the running away thing?”

“Hey,” Brian dropped down to one knee, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t kill anyone who’s not dead anyway, man. No one in there actually wants to stake you. I’m sure there’s got to be a way around it.”

“You think?” Vinnie looked up and damn, his eyes were all wide and hopeful and— “Brian?”

“I’m not staring,” he blurted, then mentally kicked himself for the second time that night. “I mean. I’m sure they’ll figure something out. Well, John will. Jesse’s probably just going to sulk.”

“So what do I do?” Vin asked, chewing on the inside of his cheek and sighing. Brian reminded himself that the poor guy had probably already been shoved up against buildings and ravaged enough for one night, and got to his feet instead, extending a hand to help him up.

“We go back inside. We have one more beer, John and Jesse give each other a couple hickeys, and we try to think of some way to get you out of this.” Vin’s fingers slipped into his, and he couldn’t help but move closer as he pulled him to his feet. “Sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

They were halfway through The Ghost Man’s front door before Vinnie shot him a pointed look, coughed and tugged his hand away.

Jesus jokes for EVERYONE!

Thu, 29 Jun 2006 07:23:31 GMT

Oh my god, why am I still up? Anyway. As per her request, have 2350 words of Andrea pretending to be Kasha, in order to satisfy her twisted desires. You heard me, twisted.

Also, I think this fandom needs more fic remixes. I'd forgotten how much fun these suckers are. Anyone game?

Title: Mock Trial, a remix of kosher_pareve’s Semantics

Pairing: Jesse and John

Rating: Oh, R. So many kinds of R.

Summary: To quote Kasha—
"In which Jesse Lacey discovers the difficulties of doing without. Or, alternately, in which Jesse Lacey is a total stoner."

Deep down inside, John blames Mrs. Lacey for all the stupid shit her eldest son forces on him. Not because of the upbringing thing, or the cancer scare thing or even the Jesus thing, really. (Okay, he blames the Jesus thing a little, because there's religious and then there's reciting psalms to pass the time on long car rides, and the latter is a little too Ned Flanders for him).

No, John's real problem with Mrs. Lacey is that she never explained leavening agents to her big, fat motherfucking pothead of a son. A fact John finds out when they're gnawing their way through Jesse's second batch of special brownies and he growls out, "You know, you're not Jewish. You're allowed to use baking powder on the holidays."

Jesse gives him a blank look, and John throws the plastic knife he's been hacking at the brownies with at him.

The batch his best friend brings to school the next day are almost too salty to be eaten at all, but—as Jesse helpfully points out—they are light and fluffy in the extreme.

-

As it turns out, not only is Jesse Lacey a big fat motherfucking pothead, he's also a budding bio-terrorist. At least, that's what John decides when he's been off the brownies for four days and his stomach's still trying to secede from his body.

-

Five days after renouncing his best friend claim to Jesse's special brownies, John wakes up with a bad feeling in his stomach. Which, is par for the course these days, yeah. But as he floats into consciousness he realises it's less a bad feeling in and more a bad feeling on.

This is, more or less, the point where John opens his eyes, sees someone sitting on him, and tries to scream 'rape.'

Luckily, Jesse's reflexes have reappeared for Lent and there's a hand over his mouth before his mother hears anything and comes charging in, swinging a lamp.

"Okay," Jesse's hissing. "Okay, okay." And if John wasn't pinned down by his stupid best friend, he swears he'd punch him.

-

Jesse Lacey would like everyone just tuning in to know that he is not, in fact, clinically insane. Okay, yeah, breaking into his best friend's house at 4am isn't the best decision he's ever made, but this is not his fault.

This. This is Lent's fault. Or whoever thought up Lent. Jesse may be religious, but that doesn't mean he's got the time to slog through a millennium and a half of church history. That stuff's dull, yanno?

What happened, in a nutshell, was this:

"So, Nolan, I'm giving it up for Lent."

John had stared at him, blinked vacantly a couple times, then finally asked the question Jesse had been shooting for with a long-suffering sigh. "Giving what up, Jess?"

"Smoking pot, asshole, what else?"

At this point, John was supposed to be impressed. He was supposed to bow to his obviously superior will power and dedication to Jesus and all that shit. What John was not supposed to do was laugh his big, stupid head off. "Yeah, right. And I'm the pope."

To which Jesse calls bullshit, because John's not 80 and hasn't been to church since he discovered alcohol and rock music. Granted, that was all of three years ago, but John’s mom is the sheltering type. Jesse’s pretty sure he didn’t even know where babies came from until the sixth grade.

"Shut up, heathen. I'm giving it up and when you're roasting marshmallows in hell I'm gonna be laughing in..."

"Heaven?" John prompted, looking all superior. Which was totally unfair, because Jesse had just spent the last half hour burning through all the weed in his sock drawer (so he wouldn't be tempted later) and shouldn't have had to remember fucking celestial geography.

And it should've been easy. So incredibly easy. There was just this one little tiny almost insignificant problem—

-

"Jesse, you are the biggest motherfucking pothead I've ever met," John grumbles, shoving him away and sitting up in bed.

Yeah, Jesse thinks. Yeah, that sums it up pretty well.

-

It's not that Jesse Lacey is a cheat.

It's just that in his younger, more innocent days (before the rock music and the booze) he used to belong to a mock trail club. And mock trail? Is all about the semantical argument.

And it's not cheating if he's using something he learned in school, right? Right.

-

So that brings us back to John's bedroom at 4am, with 24 days of Lent still to go.

The thing is, 24 days is a long time. It's 576 hours. 34 560 hours. More minutes than Jesse can even comprehend without a couple hits. Anyway, it's a fucking long period of time to get through when the special brownies that were supposed to save your life are giving you a stomach ulcer.

But Jesse Lacey is a good Catholic boy, with good Catholic guilt. And he is not giving up Lent and succumbing to the fires of Hell, even if the devil shows up in a low rider with a half dozen bitches and a bong in the back seat. Jesse's path is the path of the righteous and true.

Besides, John would never let him live it down.

Which is why he's here in the first place, on John's bed in the middle of the night, flailing around like he's just had the single best plan in the universe. Which he has, obviously.

-

"This," says John, staring down at the plastic playground tunnel, "Has got to be the single worst plan in the entire universe. Obviously."

For the record, John has always sucked at constructive criticism.

"No, come on. It'll be great," Jesse says, hopping up and down partially in excitement, and partially because he can't really feel his toes any more.

“Are you serious? That thing’s tiny.” Which would be a fair objection, were it not coming from the guy who's so skinny Jesse once mistook him for a coatrack after six fingers of jäger.

“I know, man. But it’ll keep us warm and out of view while we smoke up.”

“I thought you gave up on pot for Lent." John whines, clutching his arms to his chest and shivering and looking seriously put out. Which is stupid, because Jesse's not even making him throw down for the weed. "And besides, if you wanted to smoke, why couldn’t we just do it in the fucking car like always?”

“We couldn’t do it in the fucking car like always because your parents were home, dumbass,” He hauls John towards the tube, shoving him down on his hands and knees when his doesn't get the hint. And, man, there's some awesome prison bitch joke just waiting to be made here. “And I gave up on smoking pot, if you’ll recall.”

-

Semantics, John thinks, are going to be the death of him. Or better, the death of Jesse, because after tonight he's definitely going to start keeping a can of pepper spray under his pillow. Pepper spray and a switchblade, just in case his best friend tells some potential rapists about the broken lock on his bedroom window.

“How, exactly, are we going to smoke up without smoking?” He knows he doesn't want to ask the question, even as it leaves his lips, because Jesse's already snickering about showers and lockups behind him and this is all too creepy to be believed.

“Oh,” There's a scuffling sound and then Jesse is settled in his lap, eyes glinting in the half-light, looking pretty demonic, considering the whole Good Catholic Boy thing. “You’re going to be smoking. But I’m going to be shotgunning.”

-

Okay, scratch that bit about the plastic tubing. This is the single stupidest idea in the history of the universe, including that time John decided to film himself having a solo light saber battle in his underwear.

Speaking of which, 'solo light sabre battle' sounds way more incriminating than it has any right to.

-

Jesse Lacey may not have retained much from Junior High, but his mock trial skills are still finely honed. This becomes crystal clear about five minutes later as John crouches over him, sucking smoke into his lungs like his life depends on it.

Which it might, actually, since they took Jesse's car here, and he's pretty sure his best friend isn't above leaving him here for the night if he can't deliver.

It's this thought that has John pressing his lips hard to Jesse's a moment later, exhaling into his best friend's mouth and trying desperately to ignore the crick in his back and the creepy way their hips are pressed together.

All things considered, shotgunning with his best friend could be a lot worse than it is. "Like mouth-to-mouth," is how Jesse described it, and it’s a more apt description than John would've expected.

When he pulls back Jesse's grinning like an idiot (also an apt description, in John's opinion) and a few seconds later he exhales slowly, a cloud of smoke filling up the tube and making it even harder to see. And maybe it been too long since he smoked up, because John finds himself sucking down another drag as quickly as he can and sealing his lips over his again.

-

They're about halfway through the blunt when things get awkward. Really awkward.

"Oh for Christ's sake," John mutters, pulling away with a jerk and cracking his head against the top of the tube. "Please tell me you brought a fucking flashlight and I just didn't notice."

-

Jesse did, in fact, bring a flashlight on his late night adventure. Unfortunately, it's sitting under the driver's seat in his car. Even more unfortunately, his hips are pressed up against John's stomach and he's willing to bet that John can tell that his whole 'ten inches soft' proclamation was a dirty lie.

It's then that Jesse really starts wishing he'd just sucked it up and bought brownie mix instead.

-

"Oh my God," says John. Then he says it again, just in case someone missed it the first time. "Oh my God, man. Oh my fucking God."

It's not like Jesse's never had an erection around him before. Hell, they were friends when puberty hit and they're still stupid, horny teenage boys. But there's a difference between, like, your best friend getting an erection in English class and your best friend's erection poking you in the stomach when you're on top of him in a tube and you've still got half a blunt in one hand.

Jesse's covering his face with one hand, hips wriggling under him—which really can't be helping things down there, now that he thinks about it. "Okay, fuck. Fuck, okay. Um. Fuck."

And this, John realises suddenly, is why Jesse would never face a mock jury in junior high without spending ten minutes in the bathroom first. So he does the only thing he can think of to make things better: puts the blunt back to his lips and inhales for all he's worth.

-

The biggest shock of Jesse's life comes when he feels John's lips on his own, breathing smoke into his lungs again.

The second biggest shock of Jesse's life comes about thirty seconds later, when John goes down on one elbow and snakes his free hand between his legs, squeezing hard.

As it turns out, slipping your best friend some tongue mid-exhale is the worst way to fuck up a perfectly good shotgun.

-

John's not gay.

Not that anyone would think he was gay, because there's nothing about his spindly, pasty, Morrissey-loving self that screams anything but 100% heterosexual. But, you know, he's not. Gay, that is. In case you were wondering.

Which doesn't explain the hand kneading at his best friend's crotch, but that's okay. John can't really explain that either, except that it seemed like a good idea thirty seconds ago. And it still seems like a pretty good idea now, because Jesse's fucking writhing under him and practically biting his mouth. Which ought to hurt more than it does, and shouldn’t be half as sexy as it is.

Jesse whines when he pulls back, but he waves him off. "Gotta... gotta finish this."

And he's talking about the pot, but his other hand is undoing Jesse's jeans, so the meaning might not be as clear as it could.

-

Jesse's aware that this should feel weird. Because, okay, shotgunning in a plastic tube with his best friend was already kind of odd, but shotgunning in a plastic tube with his best friend who's giving him a handjob? There's only one word to describe this shit, and that's 'surreal.'

Actually, that's a lie. There are a couple other words, too.

'Really.' Also, 'hot.'

Which may explain the hand he's trying to shove down the front of John's pants. Either that, or he's just discovered a new level of pot stupid he didn't even know existed. Speaking of which...

"John. H-hey, John," he manages to pant out as John does this, this thing with his wrist that makes him buck up and wail. "Where'd you put the blunt?"

-

Later that afternoon, two elementary school children will find the charred remains of Jesse's emergency marijuana stash as they attempt to make a snowman next to the swing set.

-

"It's in my pocket," John gasps, pushing at Jesse's jeans before grinding himself down against the smooth skin of his hip.

Jesse Lacey is not the only one who has retained his mock trial skills. John's always been good with his tongue and—no, forget it, that's too awful a pun to make, even in his own head. He settles for grinding down again and listening to Jesse moan and gasp and curse as his body arches up again and he comes stickywarm against John's thighs.

-

"So," John will say in the car on the way home, with entirely too much smug satisfaction for his own good. "I guess this makes you my prison bitch, right?"

Jesse drops his Bible in a Goodwill donation box two days later.

Well, so much for finishing in ten...

Mon, 26 Jun 2006 17:58:30 GMT

Title: Drunk on Love? No—Drunk on Gin! 10

Pairing: John Nolan/Vinnie Accardi

Rating: R? There’s a lot of swearing in this. And a really lame masturbation joke.

Disclaimer: Faker than John’s 20/20 vision.

Summary: fanfic100 prompt 033— too much
Jesse Lacey and alcohol make their triumphant returns this chapter. Also, someone has a fight on a train platform, sock puppets recap the plot, Nintendo gets an unnecessary product placement and everyone continues to obsess over their virginity—or lack thereof.

Remember how this was supposed to be the last chapter? Yeah, not so much.

I’m starting to think that having sex isn’t actually that different from taking pills or shooting heroin into my eyeballs. Because when I wake up Saturday afternoon my limbs are heavy and my brain is hazy and the soft patch of skin on the inside of Vin’s elbow has become the most fascinating thing in the universe. My parents aren’t supposed to be home until six, and we end up wasting a good two hours just lying there while I pet his arm.

I’m definitely never waiting a year between sexual encounters again. A couple hours sounds like a good wait time, but I guess I could deal with a few days in a pinch. A week, tops. I think I understand Jesse now, and I’m already half-wondering if I can convince Vin to make this a daily part of our final exam studying. Stupid medieval history could definitely be improved with sex.

Vin’s really quiet all day, but that’s okay, because talking seems like too much effort right now. He doesn’t even make fun of me for the weird arm-stroking thing, and I’m tempted to jam a chair under the doorknob and spend the rest of Easter vacation just lying in bed.

That plan would probably work, too, except that I’m too lazy and out of it to move. It’s not until I hear the front door slam and my dad’s footsteps on the stairs that I get moving, diving for my pants and shirt and tossing Vin’s at him. My t-shirt’s on inside out and my fly’s undone when he sticks his head in to tell us when dinner’s going to be, but he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t want to notice, maybe. As though it makes a difference.

By the time dinner’s halfway done I’ve been coerced into going to Easter service. Vin’s lucky my parents are too nervous about ‘the pastor’s gay son’ rumours to guilt him into getting right with Jesus. He’s not going to have to spend Sunday wearing the tie he wore to Catholic school for years while women in floral print dresses try to set him up with their daughters. But I can’t argue. My mom’s got that glint in her eyes that says she’d love an excuse to weep into a dishtowel and make six or seven pans of brownies.

I’m dragging Vin out the front door and down the street before we’re halfway through dessert. My dad yells something about ironing my dress pants as the door shuts, but otherwise no one seems to notice us. “Cigarette?”

Vin hands me one as we turn a corner a few blocks later, but won’t light it for me. “Just play with it, Nol. You’ll be happier that way.”

He’s probably right, so I tuck it behind my ear and sit down on the sidewalk, watching him smoke his way through one cigarette, then another, then a third. He doesn’t say anything, and for a while I’m cool with that, content to watch the clouds and breathe in his second hand smoke. When he starts on his fourth one, though, I fell like I’ve got to say something. “My mom stressing you out that much?”

“Huh?” He turns his head and blinks, like he hasn’t heard me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The last time I saw you smoke that many in one go you were trying to write a thirteen page paper six hours before it was due.” I shrug and pull my cigarette out again, rolling the thin paper tube between my fingers. “I swear she’s not going to kill you—not unless you tell her you’re not a Christian.”

“My mom’s Roman Catholic, that close enough?” He sucks in another mouthful of smoke and exhales slowly, breath coming out in a slow grey stream. “And I wasn’t thinking about her. But since you bring it up, uh. Has she always been—”

“Such a histrionic bitch?”

He gives me a thin smile. “I was going to say ‘demanding,’ but I guess that works too.”

“Oh, right. That too.” I pull his cigarette out of his fingers and attempt to inhale without coughing. It works, but I think I prefer the taste of Marlboros when it’s filtered through Vinnie. “She’s been like that for as long as I can remember. You don’t even want to know what it was like when I was little. I’d brush my teeth five, six times a day so I wouldn’t get cavities and force her to cry her eyes out while she baked a couple layer cakes.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Well, okay. It was probably more like three or four times a day, but with careful flossing after every meal.”

He snorts and elbows me, and I feel some of the ever-present Long Island tension float away. And, God, it sounds so cheesy but I’m so glad he’s here that when I go to pass back his smoke I can’t help but duck in to kiss him.

Except that doesn’t quite work. Vin turns his head and my lips connect with his hair.

There’s this weird, long moment of silence where neither of us move at all. Then he turns red and looks back at me again, mumbling around the cigarette he’s got clamped between his lips. “Sorry.”

He looks embarrassed, as though our timing is usually better than this, so I squeeze his knee and try to keep my smile reassuring and not lecherous. “Hey, no problem. You could always make it up to me.”

There’s another long silence, and I have this odd urge to say something about pancakes. Vin pulls his knee out from under my hand, tosses his cigarette butt away and scrambles to his feet. And forget pancakes. Panicking sounds like a better course of action.

“Vin—?”

“We should really get back. It’s late.” It’s eight o’clock.

“Yeah, right.” I reach for his hand as we start to walk back. He swerves away, until he’s out of reach, then lights another Marlboro.

—

After two years of living with Jesse, I was sure I’d dealt with every awkward situation imaginable. I’ve lived through half naked groping on my English homework, and the fort he tried to build out of textbooks and socks when Brian managed to snag some government-grown pot in first year. I’ve even survived walking in on him jerking off to his own picture in our high-school yearbook (though the nightmares about that lasted for a good four months).

But, as it turns out, sleeping next to someone I’ve just had sex with is actually worse than listening to Jesse moan his own name. At least, it is when that person seems repulsed by the very thought of touching me.

Vin allows me one kiss on the cheek, then moves so far over in the bed that he might as well be sleeping on the bedside table. When I get up for church he’s curled up on the floor with a pillow and half of the sheet. I consider poking him and telling him he can have the bed now, but I’m betting even that’s too much contact for him.

Dad’s sermon is pretty much a carbon copy of the one he gives every Easter, except for the five minutes where he derails and makes a bunch of pointed comments about sodomites that seem out of place in the middle of the big Jesus love-fest. Maybe the inside-out t-shirt thing affected him more than I thought.

After the service there’s a blur of baked goods and small sandwiches and old women who smell like moth balls and lilacs and want to tell me about their very pretty, very single granddaughters who are just my age. By the time mom’s ready to drive me home so I can make the train back to school I’ve worked out an intricate suicide plan using only sporks and a bowl of potato salad.

Vin doesn’t say anything on the ride to the station, or while we’re on the platform waiting for the train, or on the train itself. For a while I can deal with that, can pretend he’s just tired and not in the mood to talk and everything’s fine. And then I go to touch his shoulder to let him know it’s almost our stop and not only does he shift away, he moves over one seat and sets his bag between us.

This is, approximately, the moment when I lose it.

“Jesus, Vin, what’s your problem?”

“What?” His voice is innocent, but his cheeks are red and he won’t look at me. “Nothing’s my problem. I’m fine.”

I look down at the suitcase, then up at him. “Right. Fine, I can see that.”

“You’re paranoid. There’s nothing wrong.”

“Yeah?” I reach across the suitcase for his hand and he jerks away from me again. “Because that, that’s a really convincing reaction.”

He finally turns to look at me, eyes narrowed. And I’ve got that sinking feeling in my stomach again, the one that makes me wonder if I wasn’t better off with my parents. “Would you just drop it? You’re so fucking demanding sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah, right. I’m such a bastard for wanting to touch my boyfriend.” A few of the other passengers are watching us. Normally I’d feel weird about outing myself to a bunch of complete strangers, but right now I’m busy being pissed off.

“Yeah, well, I would’ve thought a fuck would be enough to satisfy you for a while.”

Of course. Of course it would be something like this—so goddamned typical that I can’t even be surprised.

“Right, that was all about me. Which is funny because I remember this other guy being there who seemed to be having a pretty good time.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek, trying to shut myself up. “Which he’d be better at doing if he wasn’t such a fucking prude.”

His hands clench and his cheeks get redder. “Since everyone who’s not totally into sex is a—what was it again? Oh yeah, a Catholic schoolgirl, right?”

“No, but the average person realises he’s not the only person on the planet to ever lose his virginity and gets over it.”

“Believe me, I’m over it.” He crosses his arms and slumps down in his seat. “It wasn’t even that great.”

“That’s not how it sounded last night.” It comes out sounding choked, and I can feel my face heating up too. That hurts more than I’d like to let on in the middle of a train car, nearly as much as Vin thinking we need to have this fight again.

“Like you notice anything aside from the chance to get some—”

“Or you’re capable of doing anything but whining about your poor, wronged self. I didn’t realise I’d signed up to date my mom.” The train lurches, then stops. I grab my bag from the floor and stalk out, leaving Vin to follow.

He catches up with me at the edge of the platform. “You know, if I’d known this weekend was going to be you pressuring me and then freaking out, I think I’d have stayed here.”

“Pressuring you? For Christ’s sake, Vinnie,” We’re stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, pissing everyone around us off, probably. But the only glare that’s worrying me right now is the one coming from my boyfriend. “If you’d said anything about not wanting to do this I’d have backed off. That bit where I asked you if you wanted to stop? More than once? That would’ve been a great time to bring this up.”

“You think it’s that easy?” He’s yelling now, which means I probably am too. It would explain all the people staring from the train platform. “Just to—”

“Yeah, actually. It is that easy. I say, ‘you sure you want to do this?’ Then you say, ‘not really.’ Then there are rainbows. And puppies. Clear enough for you?”

For a moment Vin doesn’t say anything, just glares and bites on his lip. Then reshoulders his suitcase and starts towards Eisley with a muttered, “Whatever.”

I don’t exactly know what having your heart spontaneously combust in your chest would feel like, but I’m betting it’s something like this. He’s a block away before I can even mange to scream something back at him.

“Yeah, fuck you too, Accardi.”

He doesn’t look back, and there’s not much to do but dig my nails into my palms and head back to the dorm. Jesse’s playing Zelda in bed again, and shoots me the guns and grins when I come in. “So, good weekend?”

I make it about as far as his desk before I have to sit down and hide my face in my hands and bite my tongue until I stop wanting to cry.

—

Even though he’s the worst roommate in the universe, there are moments when Jesse manages to remind me why I still consider him my best friend. He doesn’t ask why I’ve decided to have a mental breakdown in his half of the dorm, just pulls me onto the bed and forces this awful old flannel blanket on me. (One he’s had forever and hides in the closet when he’s planning on having someone over, so I know it’s safe.) It’s then that I lose it for the second time today, and end up wailing into his shoulder while he pats my back.

“So, I guess you didn’t get laid?” He’s probably joking, but I can still hear Vin screaming accusations in my head and I’m full-on bawling instead of laughing. I’d be embarrassed to do this in front of anyone else, but Jesse did whine at me about true love and strawberry cheesecake flavoured lube for the better part of last week. I think I’m entitled to a little emotional drama right now.

Like the true friend he occasionally is, Jesse waits until I’m done soaking his shirt before propping me up with a pillow, handing me the Nintendo controller and running off to God knows where. I’m not sure how Zelda’s supposed to cure heartbreak, but I managed to kill half an hour staring blankly at the television and running through everything that’s happened in the last day and a half a couple dozen times. By the time Jesse reappears I’m torn between wanting to track Vin down and scream at him until my throat bleeds, and wanting to throw myself out the nearest window.

“Cheer up, Nol, I brought you a present.” He throws something at me, then groans when I don’t move to catch it and it hits the wall. I look down at the mattress just in time to see a neon pink and yellow video case slide out of an unmarked grey bag.

“...Jesse, please tell me that’s not porn.”

He grins at me and nods, kicking off his shoes and plopping down on the other end of the bed. And just as I’m about to strangle him with the controller cord, he unzips his jacket and there’s a clink of glass on glass and all is forgiven.

“You can tell me all about it, I promise,” he says, pressing a bottle of Colt .45 into my hands before unscrewing his own. “After, uh, Anal Action 4.”

—

Two hours later my bottle’s only half as full as it used to be, the porn dvd’s been watched from beginning to end (deleted scenes and ‘making of’s documentary included) and Jesse’s sprawled on the floor, trying to order a pizza. At least, that’s what he went down there to do. Now it sounds like he’s hitting on someone, and I wonder if I should tell him that Pizza Hut’s outsourced most of its call work to, like, Montana or somewhere.

“You’ve got a real nice voice,” he gives me the thumbs up and then falls onto his side when that unbalances him. “Should come share this with us. We’re getting extra cheese, yeah?”

I take a swig from his bottle, just to teach him a lesson, and he glares at me, tries to sit up, then flops onto his back with a groan.

The burn from the alcohol’s gone, faded into a prickling warmth in my throat and stomach that works with the heat of the blanket cocoon I’ve been making on Jesse’s bed. I’ve got my head and arm free, so I can keep drinking, but other than that I have disappeared. I’m sure that if I actually peeked under the blankets—which I won’t—I’d discover my whole body’s disintegrated. That’s how it feels anyway. I wonder how many more shots of Colt I can get down before I get alcohol poisoning and die.

“Fifteen minutes, hey? You know, I can definitely last longer than that,” Jesse grabs at the mattress with his free hand and manages to pull himself halfway onto the bed before he gets stuck, one knee on the floor, ass up in the air. “John, hey, a little help here?” I offer him a hand and he nearly pulls me off the bed. The phone goes flying and he dives for it, and ends up back in a heap on the carpet. “Ow, Jesus—no, no baby, I’m fine. You just keep telling me about your special deals.”

God help me, but if he gets some because of this I’m going to drink every last drop of his alcohol.

“Hey, before I go, can I get you number?” I reach for his bottle, but stop when he groans in frustration. “Really? Montana? That’s rough.”

I think about it for a moment, then take another drink of his Colt anyway. All the cool kids get alcohol poisoning, right?

“Nol, I think I’m stuck.” I look down again and Jesse’s lying on his stomach, clutching at the bottom of his desk chair and whimpering. “The room’s fucking... spinny.”

“Just keep your eyes shut and don’t stand up fast.” I wave the bottle at him and close my eyes to demonstrate. There’s a scrambling noise, followed by a groan, followed by a crash. “I said not to do it so fast, Jess.”

The mattress shifts and when I open my eyes he’s clawing up the side again. This time his makes it all the way up and ends up half-falling on me, head banging against my thigh, which must mean it’s still there under all the blankets. He steals one of the bottles back—the one with more in it, the bastard—and takes another long drink, staring up at me.

“So, by the way, what was the thing with all the whining about earlier?”

“It wasn’t whining, fuckass.” I’m trying to glare at him, but it looks like there’s two of him now, and I’m not sure which one I should be angry with. “I was manlul—manfully—it was sobbing. Of the manly kind.”

“Right, yeah. Are you going through another emo phase? Because I gave up the whole Dashboard singalong thing when I was sixteen.”

The second I can stand up without hurting myself I’m moving out and living on the lawn. In a box. Swear to God. “I broke up with my boyfriend. Don’t be a jerk.”

“Seriously?” He starts to sit up, fails and ends up propped on one elbow, which is digging into my leg. “I thought you two were all making babies and picking out curtains.”

“What?”

“You know,” he waves a hand at me, hitting me in the chest. “Committed and shit. You were all, like, ‘oh my God, Jesse, I’m totally going to have sex’ on Friday. Did he laugh at how small your dick was or something?”

“It’s not small—and I don’t say totally.”

“Sure you don’t, Nol.” That’s it. I’m totally stealing his bottle again and—fuck. I mean, I’m definitely stealing it. Which is what I do, and now his is starting to look empty. So there. “What happened?”

“Um, okay. Do you have a sock?” He gives me a look, then grabs one from under the bed, sniffs it and hands it over, so I can slide it onto my hand. “Now, pretend this is Vinnie, and I’ll be me.

“So, John,” I’m trying to imitate Vin, but my voice sounds more like a prepubescent girl than anything, “I think we should have sex.

“That’s great, boyfriend of mine,” I say to the sock, ignoring Jesse’s eyeroll. “So we did it... I mean, me and him, not me and your sock. That’s your department.”

“Nolan, I’m going to—”

“Anyway,” I turn back to the sock, “So that was great, hey Vin?”

“Acutally,” says the sock, “I hate you. You took my virginity.”

“Wait, what?” says Jesse, only a couple of seconds behind me.

“Ssh,” I waggle a finger at him, then take another swig out of my bottle. “Listen to the sock.”

“I’m always angsty,” the sock whines, “Because I’m a virgin. But now I’m just as angsty because I’m not a virgin, so it must be your fault. Don’t touch me. You pressured me into having sex even though I said I wanted it those five time you asked me if you should stop. I’m going to storm off in a huff. Go die.”

I take the sock off and fling it across the room. Jesse stares at me, steals a drink from my bottle, then stares some more. “Uh, John. You know that doesn’t make any sense, right?”

“That’s what I thought,” I try to collapse backwards dramatically, but since I’m sitting against the wall, all I do is crack my head. “It’s not fair. I didn’t—I mean, yeah, I wanted to do it—but it’s not like I wasn’t fine with blow jobs. I liked the blow jobs, Jesse. I liked them a lot. And now I can’t even have those because your sock is pissed off at me.”

Jesse looks over at the sock then takes another drink, which seems like a great idea right about now. “He’s an idiot. You should probably sleep with someone else.”

Easy for him to say. I bet the pizza dispatcher is already buying him a plane ticket so he can fly to Montana and have sex with... Him? Her? “I don’t want to sleep with someone else. I actually like him for other reasons, weird as that may sound.”

“So what? He’s a douche, you can do better. Not a lot better, maybe, but you could at least find someone who’ll put out without all the drama.”

“Look, would you let that go? I’m not worried about getting laid. I like hanging out with him, I like talking to him, I like the way his hair smells when we spoon. That’s what I’m going to miss, Jess.”

“And the blow jobs.”

“...yeah, and the blow jobs.”

“Look, I know you’re big on the whole girly ‘all my relationships really matter’ thing, but real life doesn’t actually work that way.” He lies back again, head in my lap, and I know it’s lame but I can’t help but wish he was Vin, because this is sort of how I pictured our evening going. Without the booze, or the porn. “Sometimes people have shitty, irrational relationships. Sometimes you find someone who’s fucking perfect for you and you mess it up.”

He blinks too fast and swallows, and I feel a stab of guilt in my stomach, because I know he’s thinking about Brian right now.

“Yeah, but—”

“Anyone who’s gonna make a relationship entirely about their virginity doesn’t deserve to date. I mean, can you even remember who you slept with for the first time? Because I can’t.”

“Sarah Phillips, after the winter formal dance in sophomore year. You called me at 4am to ask for advice on getting stains out of a dry-clean only dress.” Jesse glares at me, so I keep going. “I lost mine to Adam Lazzara. The week before prom, because losing it on prom night was too cliche or something.”

“Adam was your first? Jesus, you’re a late bloomer.” He tries to sit up again, and actually manages this time, stealing half of a blanket and resting his head on the wall next to mine. “Anyway, point is, it’s not the be-all end-all of anything. You broke up with the Laz-freak and you got over it.”

“Yeah, but he was taking enough painkillers to kill small farm animals and hitting on everyone he met because he couldn’t tell faces apart. And he was moving across the country anyway.”

“Beside the point, Nol. If getting fucked for the first time was more important than fucking you then you’re the one who got ripped off.”

I don’t say anything for a long moment, partially because I can’t feel my tongue, partially because I’m having trouble forming words in my head and partially because I think he might actually be right. “Jesse, did you just say something that made sense? Like, the logical, good advice kind?”

He shrugs and gives me a crooked, shit-eating smile. “It happens. Now if we’re done with the life lessons, I think there’s still some director’s commentary left to watch on Anal Action 4.”

Mumblemumblesomethingwitty.

Sun, 04 Jun 2006 05:57:33 GMT

So this chapter's over 5000 words long. Just a warning. Also, it's not well edited because someone (cough notthegnomescough) wanted it to go live sooner. Enjoy responsibly.

Title: Drunk on Love? No—Drunk on Gin! 9

Pairing: John Nolan/Vinnie Accardi

Rating: There’s semi-explicit sex in this part, but let’s face it. Nothing I put here is going to stop you if you don’t want it to.

Disclaimer: Still not true, though I’m betting there really is a Robert Smith poster in John’s room. Oh boys.

Summary: fanfic100 prompt 034— not enough
Regrettably, we’re back to Very Special Installments here at Drunk on Gin. I’d try to be vague about this, but we all know what’s coming: John’s wackjob parents, cigarettes, more Robert Smith and the uh, climax, as it were, of the piece.

The next three hours are possibly the most horrific of my life. John’s guess about the cakes turns out to be right, and from our spot on the living room couch we can hear his mother slamming cupboards, running mixers and muttering darkly at her potholders. We’ve got some action movie turned up as high as it’ll go, but even that’s not enough to drown out the sounds of irate Christian baking.

I’d feel better about the apocalypse in the kitchen if John seemed at all bothered by it. But he’s just sitting here, watching the movie as though his mom isn’t plotting ways to kill us one room over. It’s probably because he made me sit on the side of the couch that’s closest to the door. When she starts hurling knives I’m going to be the one to go down first.

“John,” I hiss, reaching over to poke him on the arm. There’s a pillow shoved between us—to keep the homoerotic touching to a minimum, I guess—and I fight the urge to bat it away, crawl in his lap and wail at him until he promises to build me a protective fort. Preferably one made out of bulletproof glass. He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the television. “John, look at me. Your mom’s going to stab us.”

“Nah, she’ll probably just slip rat poison into the frosting for the devil’s food cakes.” He doesn’t turn to look at me, and his voice is flat and distracted. “You know, to take out the parishioners tempted by Satan.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking and that scares me even more than Mrs. Nolan. “Shut up, asshole,” I whine, in the most dignified manner possible. And even though I know I shouldn’t, I grab for his hand, wrapping my fingers around his. “I’m going to die and that’s not cool, okay?”

He jerks his hand away and shifts away from me, shaking his head. “I’m joking, Vin. She likes you, promise.”

I know I got the whole ‘no boyfriends in the house’ speech on the way up here, but his reaction still makes something in my stomach twist uncomfortably. “She glared at me. How is that liking?”

John turns back to the movie, and his voice flattens out again. “Because she didn’t pull me aside the second we came downstairs and ask me what the hell I’m doing, bringing you into her house.” He shrugs, and his hand twitches towards mine, then moves back to his knee. “Which is her usual reaction when I bring not-boyfriends home.”

“Oh,” I say. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He crosses his arms and slumps down in his seat, eyes still fixed on the tv screen.

“Nol?” He grunts and pulls his arms closer to himself, and I don’t really know what to do. We’ve never really talked about our families (unless you count the “Your mom really calls you this early?” conversation) so I’m not sure what’s going on here. I’m trying to think of a tactful way to ask if he’s alright when the front door slams and a high female voice yells something down the hall.

“My sister.” John volunteers with another grunt. “Michelle.”

I see a skinny, dark haired figure stalk past the door and into the kitchen and can’t help but cross my fingers and pray this new Nolan doesn’t try the devil’s food batter. In the front hall the door opens and shuts again, softer this time. There’s another set of footsteps on the carpet, and out of the corner of my eye I see John wince and pinch the bridge of his nose.

A moment later another head of dark hair is poking through the doorway, staring the two of us down. This time it’s a man, who has to be John’s dad because they’re almost identical, aside from the thirty-some year age difference. They’ve got the same build—all elbows and knees and torso—and I’m willing to bet John’s jaw line is pretty similar to this guy’s under the stubble he won’t get rid of because he’s too lazy to shave.

“Vinnie, right.” It should be a question, but it doesn’t really sound that way. But just in case, I nod and try to smile. The man in the door nods back, but doesn’t smile, then wanders off towards the kitchen without saying anything else.

I consider asking John if he’s actually from a family of robots and just forgot to tell me, but when I look over at him he’s got his jaw clenched and his nails are digging into his arms. Shit. I liked this weekend better when all I had to worry about was my stupid virginity.

—

Dinner with the Nolans isn’t as bad as I expect it to be. And by that I mean it fucking sucks, but at least no one looks directly at me, except for Michelle, who makes eyes at me when I pass her the salt. Apparently my horrified expression is enough to kill any thoughts in that direction, because after that she ignores me just as much as her parents do.

John’s mom is busy muttering about baked goods, ducking into the kitchen every few minutes to pull something out of the oven and put something else in. John’s dad is still working out his Easter Sunday sermon, and mutters out lines of scripture and analysis between bites of mashed potatoes. John’s little sister is having problems with some teacher, and uses the lulls in her parents’ monologues to bitch and moan about integers and grades and how some girl who sits behind her called her a skank.

The only person not whining or talking about God is John, who spends most of the meal staring at the tablecloth. He only speaks once, when his dad says something about biblical passages, and then only to mutter, “Just use Mark sixteen again,” in a monotone. And sure, John’s not always the most vocal person when he’s eating, but this is just weird.

When his mom starts clearing the dishes off the table it’s all I can do not to cry with relief. John’s on his feet seconds later, shoving his chair back so hard I’m sure it’s going to topple over. “I’m going to show Vin around, okay?”

I don’t know if he’s expecting an answer, but he doesn’t get one because Michelle’s talking about skanks again, and Mr. Nolan’s still reciting psalms under his breath. For a moment John’s hands clench and his eyes slip shut, then he’s headed for the door and I’m trying to thank everyone for dinner, untangle myself from my chair and follow him outside as quickly as I can. The sound of the door slamming behind us may be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’m tempted to just sink down on the front steps and refuse to move for the rest of the weekend. But John’s already halfway down the street and showing no signs of slowing down.

I have to run to catch up with him, and by the time I do we’re down the street and around a corner, far enough from the house that I figure it’s okay to stop him by grabbing his waist and pulling him back against me. “Jesus, Nolan, where’s the fire?”

He tenses and I’m sure he’s going to shove me off, but then he’s turning around and his arms are around my neck and his mouth is crushed against mine. It’s so sudden, and he’s got so much of his weight on me, that my knees start to buckle and I nearly fall over. Luckily, John pulls back a little and braces himself, so when I stumble into him he doesn’t budge. He’s got a hand up in my hair, fingers clenched tight enough to pull, and we’re not kissing so much as we’re breathing the same small patch of air with our lips smashed together. And it’s official. I’m fucking worried.

“Okay, seriously. What’s wrong?” I try to step back, but John’s still holding on to me and I can’t move more than a few inches without getting scalped.

“Do you have your cigarettes with you?” His expression is as flat as his voice was earlier, and I can feel a tight knot of nerves forming in my stomach. There’s half a pack shoved in the pocket of my jeans and I fumble it out and offer it to him. He takes one and sets it between my lips, then does the same for himself. “Light?”

“Yeah,” I hand over my bic and inhale when he holds the flame up to my cigarette. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Now,” he finally lets go of my hair and steps back so he’s not breathing right into my face. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you about this.”

I take a drag of smoke, and after all the shit I’ve had to deal with today the hit of nicotine makes my blood sing. We’re still standing in the middle of the road, so I take John by the wrist and pull him down to the curb. “About what? That Long Island turns you into a cigarette mooch?”

“No, that my family’s evil,” he puts the cigarette to his lips and starts coughing almost immediately. “Evil and—fuck, how can you do this to your lungs?—shitty.”

“Don’t inhale that much, genius.” I pat him on the back and he leans into my hand, until we’re pressed shoulder to shoulder. His skin is warmer than I expect it to be, and I have to fight down a shiver for some reason. “They don’t seem that bad. Just kind of weird.”

“Yeah, you can say that because you haven’t been stuck with them for twenty years.” He takes another drag and winces, but doesn’t cough, as he exhales a tiny plume of smoke. “They’re just so. Fucking...” he trails off, gesturing with his cigarette.

“What?” His free hand’s resting on the sidewalk between us, and I pass my smoke off to my left hand, draping my right over his. He doesn’t pull away like he would’ve earlier, but then again, his mom’s not on the street.

“I don’t know. Selfish, maybe?” His head drops to my shoulder and I take his cigarette and toss it away before it finishes turning to ash in his fingers. “They’re busy, I’m not, I get that, yeah. But being around them. It’s just like, I don’t know. You know?”

“No?”

John groans and slumps against me, nearly knocking me over again. “I feel like everything I do is this big personal insult to them. Like, oh my God, my dad’s a pastor, my mom’s a housewife, my sister’s popular. And then there’s me, the freaky gay son who fucks it all up.”

“I thought you said you weren’t out.” My cigarette’s almost done and I pull out another one, pressing the old butt to the end of it until it lights.

“No, I said they didn’t know I was dating you.” He tilts his head until he’s speaking into my neck, the words making my skin buzz. “I came out back in high school. My mom locked herself in the kitchen and baked a couple dozen loaves of bread. My dad told me it was a phase and gave me a bunch of scripture to read so I’d get right with Jesus again, or whatever.”

“So they—”

“They assume I’ve gotten over the urge to suck cock and I’m going to make babies with a nice Christian girl.”

I squeeze his fingers under mine and I think I can feel him shudder, though now that the sun’s starting to set, that could be because of the cold. I wish I knew what to say to all of this, other than ‘that sucks’ or ‘I’m sorry.’ It does suck and I am sorry, but that doesn’t mean anything or help much. “John, you—”

“And, look, I don’t want to freak you out but. Can I just? I really fucking like you, Vin. I like you a lot, and I want to be able to tell them without someone throwing a fit. And it sucks that I know I can’t.”

“I... yeah.” Now I’m really not sure what to say, not that John’s listening to me at all at this point.

“It’d just be nice if they could be happy for me instead of worrying about what everyone at church is going to think if it gets out that the preacher’s son takes it up the ass.” His hand curls into a fist under mine and he huffs out a sigh. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be—they just piss me off so much, though, you know?”

I still don’t know what to say to him, and now I’m busy trying not to over-think his whole ‘I like you’ comment. So I do the only thing I can think of and pull his face up to mine to kiss him. John freezes for a second, then scrambles forward, nearly pushing me over for the second time tonight.

It’s strange. My stomach doesn’t lurch and my heart rate doesn’t jump through the roof. My lungs don’t close up and stop working. My palms aren’t sweating. My limbs aren’t turning into Jell-O. Hell, I’m not even shaking.

And when John’s tongue touches my lips, I don’t feel like throwing up at all.

—

By the time I wake up Saturday everyone else is dressed and eating breakfast, except for Mrs. Nolan, who’s busy frosting enough cakes to feed most of Eisley Hall. John’s dad’s got a bible at the table, and he’s scribbling notes as he eats, while Michelle tries to explain something from this month’s Teen Vogue to anyone who’ll listen. John shoots me a look of pure relief when I stumble into the kitchen and I squeeze his knee under the table when I slide in next to him.

Part of my brain is still freaking out since (oh my God) today is the day I’m going to lose my virginity, but I’m feeling weirdly relaxed about everything. Maybe because it’s too early to think straight. Or maybe because everything feels trivial when it’s placed next to Michelle’s monologue about gaucho pants.

As usual, no one says anything to me directly. There’s a moment when John’s mom asks us what we’re doing for the day where she almost looks me in the eye, but for the most part she’s busy glaring at the wall just above our heads. Though this time her expression might have more to do with John’s flat-out refusal to help get ready for the service tomorrow than any lurking gay vibes coming off us, or whatever normally pisses her off.

Luckily for her (and us), Michelle doesn’t have any excuse to get out of helping. After another fifteen minutes of tense crunching and mumbled scripture, the rest of the Nolans disappear into the garage to pack themselves into a minivan. John slumps down over the kitchen table in relief, nearly planting his face into a glass of orange juice.

“Thank God. I swear, if I have more than three hours with them for the rest of this vacation,” he trails off, making a gun with his fingers and placing it to his temple. “If we’re lucky they’ll be gone until at least seven. So we can,” he pauses again, chewing on the inside of his cheek and toying with a spoon. “Do whatever for the day.”

And, there we are, back to normal. My stomach twists and I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from wincing. “Yeah, sounds good. I’m gonna grab a shower.”

I don’t quite sprint for the bathroom, but it’s close.

—

He’s sitting on his bed when I get back to his room. There’s something playing on the stereo in the corner and I can’t really focus on the tune or the melody, but I think it might be The Cure. The blinds on the window are drawn and John’s propped up against the pillows, legs folded under him, picking at his cuticles.

It should be entirely innocent, him sitting there. But I know it’s not, and my stomach definitely knows it’s not—and lurches again to prove it. Half of me wants run back to the bathroom and shampoo my hair another seven times, but my feet won’t move and when he looks up I’m just standing in the doorway, frozen.

John gives me a tight smile that’s more lips than teeth and shifts over on the bed, even though there’s plenty of room on either side of him. “You, uh, want to sit down?”

“Yeah, sitting’s good.” Or it would be, if I could get my body to move. As it is, I just keep standing and staring and John’s smile falters a bit more, then slips altogether.

“Vin?” He gets up and I fight the urge to tell him to stay where he is. “You okay?”

“Great, never better.” And shit, now he’s coming over here and I still can’t seem to move at all. “Just. You know. Looking around, taking it all in, getting used to the scenery—”

Oh, awesome. Now I’m not making any sense at all. Way to be convincing, Accardi.

I don’t even realise John’s standing next to me until he’s got a hand on my face, stroking his fingertips over my cheekbone. And that feels nice, that’s safe and nonthreatening and even kind of comforting, and if I knew we weren’t about to do a hell of a lot more I think I’d actually relax.

When he kisses me, it catches me completely off guard. But it’s not a bad kind of off-guard, actually. It’s a pretty light kiss, nothing hard or insistent or intense about it. Just lips brushing against lips and his hand on my cheek and, okay, I think I can deal with this too, maybe. He keeps his other hand still on my waist, palm warm through the fabric of my shirt.

It takes a bit of work, but I manage to convince one of my arms to wrap itself around his shoulders. And that’s cool, too, because he’s warm against me and we’re still just doing that soft kissing thing. Even my stomach seems cool with that, except now there’s this weird kind of glowing feeling building up in the pit of it that dries out my mouth and makes it harder to breathe.

By the time John pulls back I’m panting and his face is flushed red. He moves to step back, but I still can’t really move my arms to let him. Which isn’t such a bad thing really, if his hand’s going to keep touching my face like that. His eyes are glassy and half shut and he’s breathing as hard as I am, and it’s weird, but I really want to kiss him again.

My legs start working sometime after I get my hand under John’s t-shirt, but before he presses me up against the door. My stomach’s rolling again, but it’s different this time—more a weird tightening sensation than the usual clenching and bottoming out. It’s almost impossible to breathe now. I’m stuck gasping into John’s mouth, and his lips keep sliding against mine, teeth connecting with swelling lips.

My hands don’t want to stay where I’ve put them any more. They keep slipping on his back and I have to dig in with my fingertips to keep from losing my grip on him. John’s not having much luck staying up at all and we end up crushed together, one of his hands clutching at the moulding around the door to stay upright. He slides a knee in between mine, and when I grab at his back again his thigh presses up against me at just the right angle and I really can’t breathe.

I pull back to get some air and my head bangs against the door, hard enough that it should hurt, except John’s pushing against me again, and I can fee him too, hard against my hip. His lips are on my neck and, God, if I can just get a leg up he’ll—

“Okay, ow, wait—fuck. Hold on.” Maybe wrapping a leg around his wasn’t my best idea ever, because now his knees are buckling and I’ve got a doorknob in the small of my back. John lurches back and I manage not to fall on my ass and someone (I can’t tell which of us right now) lets out a laugh that’s just this side of hysterical.

“Sorry, sorry,” his voice is strained and he’s still half laughing, which answers that question. He jerks a hand through his hair and gives me this wild-eyed stare, then finally thinks to offer me a hand and help me stand up. “Should we,” he trails off and looks back at the bed.

Kissing him is easier than answering, so I go with that.

Getting naked with John is always kind of an adventure, and this time’s no exception. The shirts we get rid of without any major problems, but I can’t figure out his belt buckle at all and there’s this really awful moment where we’re both hopping around on one foot, trying to get our socks off. He trips over his own pants while he’s getting his boxers off and we knock into each other again. But that actually works out okay, because then there’s a bed underneath me and John above me, all pale skin and pointy limbs, laughing half-dementedly again.

“What’s so funny?” I pull him down by the waist, and if he answers it gets lost in heat and sweat and friction and these awesome low whimpers he makes when I bite at his collarbone. He’s a lot more vocal now, with no roommate next door to overhear anything, and the sheer number of sounds I can get out of him is fascinating. There’s a groan when I drag my nails down his back, a gasp at my tongue on his nipples and this weird, soft keening noise when I hook a leg over his hip again and press our cocks together.

This time he’s the one who pulls back first, panting and glassy eyed. He’s got a hand braced on the mattress, next to my head, and I can see his arm shaking. “Vin, d’you—are you, I mean, did you still want to...”

I don’t know what he means at first, because his hips are still pushed up against mine and there’s this red splotch on his neck in the shape of my mouth that’s distracting. But John keeps staring at me and his words start to sink in. I suddenly, desperately want a cigarette. A cigarette and some pants, both of which are sitting in a pile somewhere near the bedroom door. Which is kind of far, but not so far that if I pushed John off and dove for them—

“Vin?” John’s chewing at the inside of his cheek and he’s got the same little frown on his face as he did before he kissed me. He unhooks my leg from his waist and sits back on his heels, dragging a hand over his face and sighing. And even though running away in terror still sounds great, I can’t help but want to pull him back.

“What?”

“We don’t—we can just keep doing this. It’s cool. It’s not like I’m expecting anything.”

This conversation is already too familiar. “No, it’s fine. I want to.”

“Are you sure?” I’m about to snap something back at him, while my stomach’s still behaving and I still have the nerve to. But something in his expression shuts me up. He’s gotten paler and he’s blinking too much and his hands are twitching. “If you don’t want—if you’re not ready... I just don’t want to fuck this up for you.”

It never occurred to me that John might actually have any opinion about this beyond ‘hell yeah,’ but the look he’s giving me right now is awfully familiar. He looks the way I feel: scared as hell.

“You won’t.” I don’t know where that comes from, but it seems like the right thing to say. John smiles a little, and suddenly I’m thinking back to last night, sitting on the sidewalk, and fighting down another inexplicable shiver. “Hey, I really like you, you know?”

He leans back in and I’ve got my leg back around his waist before I can even think about why. “Yeah?”

And fuck it, I have no idea what I’m doing any more. “Yeah.”

“Cool.” He’s got a hand on the back of my thigh and I’m pretty sure my heart’s going to beat a hole in my chest. But I let him inch it up higher, until he’s cupping my ass. The cd’s stopped playing and we’re both holding our breath, and it’s gotten deathly silent in here. John closes his eyes, swallows and slips down to press against me. It’s then that I finally remember I need oxygen to survive and end up gasping like a drowning man.

John freezes again. “Should I stop?”

“N-no, that’s okay.” It feels really weird, not bad exactly, just this odd pressure. I don’t get what Conor finds so attractive about this yet.

“Oh, okay.” He sounds like he might hyperventilate. “Just. Hold on a second.” He pulls back again and ducks to the side. For a second I’m sure he’s going to pitch himself off the bed again, but he just dangles over the edge, rummaging through all the stuff on his floor. He’s prying a bottle open with his teeth when he sits back up, and when he slips his hand back under me his fingers are slick against my skin.

“So, uh, try to relax, okay?” His other hand finds mine and squeezes and then there’s that pressure again and—

“Fuck, John, that’s weird.” My teeth are gritted and now his fingers are tangled in mine and I’m half worried I’ll snap one. He kisses the corner of my mouth and nuzzles his cheek against mine.

“Breathe. It’ll get better, I promise.” He’s whispering now, like we’re back in the dorms, voice all husky and low and, dammit, I have to fight off another shiver. We stay like that for what feels like forever, until I can finally unclench my jaw and exhale. And then John moves his finger inside me and it feels... weird still, yeah, but also kind of good. Better than I’d have expected, anyway.

His hand pulls away from mine and wraps around my cock as he slides another finger in, and it’s all I can do to keep from mewling while I bury my face in his shoulder. I can feel his lips on my temple as his fingers scissor inside me and it’s almost too much. It’s hard to think or breathe and I can sort of understand why some girls cry during sex.

And then John’s pulled back again. I can hear rustling and the hitch of his breathing, and I want to know what he’s doing but I can’t seem to open my eyes. Which is probably good, because if I can’t see what’s going on I can’t chicken out again, right?

“Vinnie. Hey, Vinnie, look at me?” It takes some work, but I manage to force my eyes open to find John blinking down at me. His glasses are gone and his lips are red and swollen, and I dig my nails into my palms to try to keep my heart rate from going through the roof.

“Uh, since this is your first time and all,” John’s making these weird little gestures with his hand, like he wants me to do something, but I’ve got no idea what that would be. “It’d be easier and stuff if you maybe turned over?”

“Oh. Yeah, right.” I nod and don’t move, and John has to push my shoulder a few times before I actually get the hint and roll onto my stomach. I feel him settle between my legs, and then his lips are on the back of my neck, making me jump and nearly elbow him in the ribs.

“You ready?”

I nod again. My stomach feels like it’s full of live hamsters and I’m already clutching at the sheets for dear life, but I guess I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be, right?

John kisses my neck again, nudging my legs until I’ve got them in a better position, then covers one of my hands with his own. And Jesus, there’s slow and then there’s tortuous and if he doesn’t do something soon I’m pretty sure I’m going to stop breathing all together and die.

“Still ready?”

I consider screaming something obscene at him, but then he’s got a hand on my hip and he’s pushing into me and I can’t say anything at all, no matter how much I want to. John squeezes my hand again and I press my face into the mattress and try to will my body into relaxing. I can hear him murmuring something into my shoulder, but I can’t tell what it is.

It’s a really fucking weird sensation, this is. It hurts and it doesn’t. It feels good and it doesn’t. John’s fingers are stroking the back of my hand and I try to concentrate on that, instead of on the bit where I’m not really a virgin any more, or the burn in my muscles. I can hear him behind me, all ragged breathing and stifled groans. He’s not moving yet, and it must be driving him crazy. I’d tell him he can just go for it, except I still can’t get my mouth to work.

“Are you okay?” he whispers it into my ear and I can hear the strain in his voice. “God, Vin, you feel...”

“You can move if you want,” it comes out in a whisper too, so maybe John’s not doing that for style. He kisses my shoulder again, then moves his hips a little. And it still sort of hurts, but it actually feels good—the kind of good that makes my insides twist up and the warmth flare up in my belly again.

He wasn’t kidding about going slow. He doesn’t do much more than rock his hips until I finally relax enough to shift back into one of his thrusts. That seems to be the right thing to do because he finally speeds up and does something that sends sparks up my spine. He slides a hand under me, stroking me as he moves and, fuck, that’s it. My brain is shutting down for the day. All I can do is whimper and curse and push against him while he grips my hand tighter and tighter and his movements get faster and shakier.

And then it’s over, and I’m coming into his hand. Nothing explodes, there aren’t hearts or fireworks, no dramatic music. Just heavy breathing and sweat dripping into my eyes and John hissing above me and shaking and then his weight on me as his elbow buckles.

“Shit, shit sorry.” He mumbles, pulling away and out, skin slipping against mine. The mattress dips next to me and I turn my head to watch him drop a condom into the garbage next to the bed. He catches my eye when he turns back and gives me a small, lazy smile before looping an arm around my back and curling against me. “How’re you feeling?”

“Okay.” I lean in and kiss him because it seems like a good idea and he grins, fingers stroking over the small of my back.

“Tired?” I’m not really, but my body’s gone liquid and he looks like he’s halfway asleep, so I nod. He nods back, eyes slipping shut, nuzzling at me again. “Still really like you, yanno.”

There’s a good response to that, but I can’t think of it right now. “I know.”

John sighs sleepily against my neck and closes his eyes. I spend the next two hours staring at his poster of Robert Smith, waiting for his parents to come home and wishing for a cigarette.

What do you mean, this isn't my French composition?

Sun, 14 May 2006 20:35:10 GMT

Title: Drunk on Love? No—Drunk on Gin! 8

Pairing: John Nolan/Vinnie Accardi

Rating: R, not for children, the faint of heart, or anyone whose eyes might fall out if they roll them too many times.

Disclaimer: The only thing even close to being true in this is the layout of Eisley Hall, which is a knock-off of Risley Hall, the third ugliest building at Dalhousie University. (Although some of the roommate stuff is almost too true to be believed.)

Dedicated... to the girls of room 527, the coolest partners in slash ever.

Summary: fanfic100 prompt 79— when?
Unlike the last few chapters, this is not a Very Special Installment of Drunk on Gin. No, friends, this is a Very Garrett Installment, as the fabulous Mr. Tierney makes his first in-person appearance. Also, someone throws up, Robert Smith wears lipstick, and Vin and John try to have sex.

John’s roommate and his boyfriend have their first major fight a week before Easter vacation. I don’t hear many of the specifics, but it had something to do with being sick of each other and Jesse forgetting to buy lubricant, which must be pretty serious when all you do is screw all day. When John phones to tell me about it, I can hear screaming in the background and the sound of something being thrown against the wall.

The two of them break up three minutes into our conversation. John’s really gleeful about it, and if he hadn’t spent the last week curled up on my floor whimpering about handcuffs and low-fat dessert topping I’d think he was getting too much enjoyment out of his roommate’s misery. As it is, I feel like I ought to throw him a party.

The rest of John’s week is spent comforting his roommate with Cheetos and Southern Comfort, and I only see him in the cafeteria, leading a vacant eyed Jesse around by the elbow. I spend Monday in a bed by myself and it’s weird but also kind of a relief. It’s not easy to fit two people into a twin bed, even when you’re willing to spoon. The joy is short lived, though, because Garrett drives down from Boston on Tuesday with a trunk full of beer, intent on skipping all his classes and sleeping in my bed for the next three days. By Thursday evening I can’t remember what it feels like to be sober, and I’ve almost forgotten my Easter plans with John. Almost.

Almost, because it’s kind of hard to forget something like telling a guy you’re going to let him have sex with you at a scheduled time. If I had a day planner I could pencil in ‘screwing John’ for all of Saturday and Sunday and, hell, maybe Friday too, if he’s feeling really ambitious. I wouldn’t be surprised if Conor’s got a system like that already—colour coded so he can remember which guy he’s hooking up with. I’m sure I could get scheduling pointers from him, but the thought of asking Conor for sex advice makes me feel kind of nauseous.

Then again, any thoughts related to a) sex b) this weekend or c) sex with John this weekend are making me want to find a nice corner to throw up in for a few hours, so maybe it’s not all Conor’s fault.

Not that I’m nervous or anything. No, not at all. I’m not so freaked out about this that I’m considering running away from school and living in a cardboard box with the hobos. Really. If I was going to run away I’d take a pup tent or something. At least pup tents are waterproof.

And that tent I made Garrett bring and stash under my bed? Not a sign of anything. Swear to God.

“Vinnie?” Someone pokes me in the shoulder, and I’m so cool and collected and not-nervous that I yelp and leap across the room to hide behind my desk while Garrett stares at me like I’ve just grown another head. “Uh, you okay man?”

“Yeah—yeah, fine. You want something?”

He gives me another look and holds out a can of beer. “Just wondering if you wanted another one. Are you in bad with the mob?”

I climb out from behind the desk, snatch the beer and drink half of it in one go like the cool, collected guy I am. “What?”

“You’ve been a spaz all week. What’d you do, rob a bank? Knock up the dean’s daughter—son, I guess.”

I finish off the beer and dive for another one. “Fuck off, I’m fine. No one’s trying to do anything to me.” Well, not the killing kind of ‘anything,’ anyway. But, like I said, I am totally fine with that kind of doing. So fine that I haven’t even curled up in a ball and whimpered about it once—though that sounds like a really good course of action right now. Except it’d be calm and collected whimpering. Right.

“Vin?” Garrett’s giving me this look that’s all raised eyebrows and suspicion. Which might have something to do with the fact that I’ve cooly and calmly polished off three cans of beer in under fifteen minutes. “Seriously, if you need some help, I’m pretty sure my uncle Larry’s got connections. I mean, yeah, he’s a furniture salesman, but he plays pool with this guy who’s definitely an enforcer—”

“No one’s trying to kill me.” My legs are starting to feel like jelly and I slump down on the floor, tuck my knees up under my chin and finally get around to having that whimper. “I’m very happy. Leave me alone.”

He drops down on the floor next to me and pushes my hand away when I reach for the beer in his hand. “Dude, don’t Bogart the Pabst. And you’re not fine. You haven’t looked this freaked out since that time in middle school when I convinced you that mole on your shoulder was a third nipple.”

“Shut up, that was traumatizing.”

“Hey, if I’d been right you could’ve gotten it pierced.” I think that’s supposed to be comforting, but it’s hard to tell with Garrett. So, just in case, I throw an empty can at him.

“Go away.”

“Can’t. There’s this crazy new law about not driving when you’re trashed. You heard of it?”

“Jackass.” My stomach feels weirdly heavy, and I’m starting to regret force-feeding it all that alcohol. “Hey, do I have a bucket?”

For all that Garrett’s a sarcastic jackass, he knows how to move quickly when there’s any possibility of vomit. I barely have time to blink before he’s got me slumped in front of the garbage can, hands holding my hair out of my face. That’s the kind of friendship you don’t throw away for anything, even jokes about knocking up boys—oh God, now I’m thinking about sex again, and Friday, and John, and sex with John on Friday, and Friday’s tomorrow, so that means sex with John tomorrow and—

And about six seconds later the contents of my stomach are decorating the inside of my garbage can. Garrett makes an ‘eep’ noise and I’d agree except my insides are still squeezing themselves together. Maybe running away to live in a tent wasn’t a bad idea.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I stare down at the trash can for a couple of seconds while Garrett strokes my hair and makes cooing noises that would be embarrassing at any other time. Then I nod, like the cool, collected person I am. “Yeah, never better.”

—

“Hey, Vin?” I jump, as usual, then wish I hadn’t. John and I actually left school early enough today to score a couple seats on the train to Long Island, but the car’s too crowded to set my bag on the floor. I’ve got my suitcase in my lap and John’s hand is sandwiched between it and my thigh, and every time I move it shifts higher up my leg.

“Yeah?” It comes out strangled and I can feel my face getting red. I can’t even look at him, so I’m staring at a poster for some community college that promises me a job in nursing after only two years of school. Maybe if I’d become a nurse I wouldn’t have spent last night curled around my trash can while Garrett tried to convince his uncle to send bodyguards to my dorm.

“There’s this thing you need to know, before we get to my house. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way but, uh, you’re not my boyfriend for the weekend, okay?”

I can’t figure out what he’s saying to me, because his hand shifts up again, pressing against my groin. “Oh. What?”

“It’s just,” he cups his hand and presses down, and the happy looking nurses on the college ad swim in front of my eyes. “My dad’s a pastor and he’s not really into the whole ‘I have a gay son’ thing. So I told them you were in one of my classes and we were, like, study buddies.”

“Oh,” I say again, because now John’s grinding his palm into me and my stomach’s started lurching again. “Sure. That’s cool.”

“You’re not pissed off?”

I close my eyes, suck in a deep breath and try to think about something safe, that won’t make my lunch claw its way back out of me: real estate agents, old episodes of Batman, different scents of laundry detergent. And under my suitcase John pops the button on my jeans. “N-no, I’m not—oh, shit.”

He looks over at me, wide eyed and concerned as though it’s not his hand slipping into my pants. “Vin, are you alright?”

God help me, I can’t decide if I want to punch him or kiss him. I settle for leaning in and hissing into his ear. “We’re still on the train.”

He grins at me and presses his palm down against my erection again. “No one’s looking, babe. And besides, this is at least a triple orgasm weekend.”

Babe? I want to say something, but the words ‘triple orgasm’ fold my stomach in half, and I’m too busy swallowing bile, desperate not to throw up when we’re still half an hour from John’s stop. I settle for nodding and burying my face in my suitcase as his fingers half-wrap around me, awkward and nearly immobile with my jeans still on.

I think I can hear the nurses on the college advertisement laughing at me. Unless that’s John, who’s probably ever-so-amused that his boyfriend has to bite down on his luggage to keep from having a hysterical, screaming orgasm on the New York public transit system.

The thought of having at least two more of these makes me wish I had packed Garrett’s pup tent instead of those extra socks.

—

There’s no one home when we finally get to John’s house, which is a relief. I’m not sure I could come up with an excuse for the flustered, sticky-pants, post-orgasm look I’ve got going on, or the stain on John’s t-shirt, where he wiped his hand off on the train. This way, all I have to do is run for the bathroom while he throws our stuff in his room and finds a new shirt.

It’s not until I stumble out in different pants that I realise there’s also a downside to this whole missing family thing. Because John’s not wearing a shirt any more, and it takes all of two seconds for him to pounce, shove me up against the wall and stick his tongue down my throat. Making out six feet from the front door doesn’t seem to bother him, but I’m imagining Mrs. Nolan coming home to find her son feeling up his Perfectly Heterosexual study buddy in the front hall, and that thought alone is enough to make me shove him away.

“Not in the hall.”

He nods, and I try to ignore the way his eyes look—hazy and dark, pupils swallowing his irises like he’s just taken a triple dose of something illegal. “You want to see my room?”

All the saliva in my mouth seems to dry up at once and all I can do is nod. This is cool, this is fine, this is better than fine. This is great, and I want this. I want this with him, and my spinning head and stomach just haven’t gotten that newsflash yet. And when John takes my hand and tugs me towards the stairs I let him link our fingers together and keep repeating that in my head: I want to do this. I want to do this. Really.

John’s room doesn’t look that different from his dorm. It’s got the same plaid and beige sheets, the same posters of new wave bands, the same pile of dirty laundry mouldering in the corner, waiting for his mom to take care of it. The only unfamiliar things are a collection of Star Wars action figures clustered on top of a dresser and the promised double bed, pushed under the window.

“So,” he makes a vague, half-pointing motion with his free hand, then shuts the door behind us. “This is it. It’s sort of messy, sorry. I forgot to clean up last time I was here.”

“Hey, don’t worry. You should see mine.” It comes out automatically, my tongue forming words my brain can’t even comprehend right now. I’m busy staring at the bed that I’m about to lose my virginity on and reminding myself that this is still a good thing. I sneak a look at John, who’s looking at me like he’s a famine victim and I’m a four course dinner, swallow a couple times and take a seat on the edge of the bed.

I can do this. I just need to remember to keep breathing.

I feel the mattress dip beside me, and then John’s face is swimming in front of me, eyes shut, warm breath hitting my cheeks. I move first, pressing our lips together. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can stop hyperventilating and get on with my life.

I can feel his lips curve up against mine and a hand comes up to cup my face, fingers stroking along my cheekbone. He shifts closer, bumping our legs together, but that’s all he does. There’s no hand going for my pants, no body on top of mine. The kiss is close-lipped and slow and that alone is kind of freaking me out. So I do the only thing I can think of to speed this up: climb into his lap and get his bottom lip between my teeth.

John’s grinning now, but instead of ripping off my clothes or whatever he’s supposed to be doing, he just links his arms around my waist and pulls me in closer. He mumbles something against my lips that I don’t catch, and I use to opportunity to slip my tongue into his mouth. I can hear his breath catch and a groan form low in his throat, and my shoulders twitch as a shiver runs up my spine.

We shuffle towards the middle of the bed, until John’s lying on his back, propped up on his elbows. His arms are still wrapped around my waist, fingers clutching at my shirt and he still hasn’t tried to get it off. When he finally untangles a hand from the fabric, it goes up to my hair, not down to my fly like I’m expecting. He brushes my hair out of once eye and leans back, still grinning lazily.

“What?” It’s weird. John’s the one without the shirt, but I feel more exposed. “D’you want me to take something off?”

He shrugs and smooths a thumb along my eyebrow instead of answering. I can’t decide if that’s a yes or not, so I settle for playing with the hem of my t-shirt, as though I might get rid of it later. It must be the wrong decision because John tugs on my wrist, repositioning my hand on his side, just over his ribs, then kisses me on the cheek.

“Relax.”

I’m not expecting him to speak, and I can’t help but jerk back a little. “I’m fine.”

John doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives me is clearly of the ‘yeah, right’ variety.

“I am. This is me, relaxed.” I lean in to kiss him again, just to prove how extra-super-completely relaxed I am, but he turns his head away and my lips hit his hair instead.

“It’s fine, really. I’m not gonna rush anything,” he strokes my hair back again, and I fight down the urge to blush. “We can take this as slow as you want.”

Great, fine. Except I’d feel better if this was over as fast as possible, so I can break the curse of eternal virginity and then never think about this period of my life again. “Yeah, slow, sure. So can we just do it already?”

John frowns. “Well, yeah. If you want.” His fingers tangle in the hair just behind my ear, and his other hand dips under my shirt, hovering just above my side. “But we don’t have to, like, this exact second. We’ve got loads of ti—”

Downstairs, the front door slams and I can hear a woman’s voice. And then I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling as John throws himself across the room, grabbing a shirt out of his suitcase and pulling it on. “Shit, look natural,” he hisses, before raising his voice to a shout. “We’re upstairs, Mom.”

The door to John’s room opens a few seconds later and an older, dark haired woman pokes her head through the door. “Hello, you must be Vinnie.”

She’s seen me with my eyes open, so it’s too late to pretend to be asleep. I settle for nodding at her, not saying anything and praying she doesn’t notice that her son and his not-boyfriend have matching sets of swollen lips.

“I’m John’s mother.” There’s something strange about the way she talks, like her teeth are permanently gritted, or she’s just smelt something really awful and is blaming me for it. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” my voice sounds hoarse and I half expect her to jump into the room, scream ‘Aha!’ and accuse me of making out with her precious baby boy. Thankfully, she just nods and says something to John about dinner, still sounding like she’d like to kill us both. When she shuts the door again, I let out a breath I didn’t even realise I was holding.

“Wow. Your mom’s intense.”

“Oh, that? She’s not normally that psychotic. My whole family goes kind of batshit crazy at Easter. Someone at the church probably just told her they need twelve dozen more cakes before the service or whatever. Just, uh. Stay away from her when she’s got a knife in her hand.” He shrugs, coughs and looks at the ceiling. “Just in case.”

I consider crawling under the bed and not coming out for the rest of the weekend, but then John’s sitting next to me again with a hand on my leg, and my brain actually freezes up for a second. “A-are we still going to,” I can’t seem to finish the sentence, and settle for swallowing hard and fighting off that goddamned blush again.

“Yeah, I mean. We can,” John’s cheeks get red and he darts his eyes off to the side to stare at a picture of Robert Smith taken during his skinny, lipstick wearing days. “But maybe not when my mom’s home, you know? She’ll be out of the house tomorrow. We’ll have the whole day if you want.”

A whole day. A whole day of going as slowly as we want to, and not rushing into anything, and taking our time. “I should’ve brought the tent.”

“What?”

“...that sounds great, John.”