Perfect Stranger (SevenxBathos)

"Fair enough." Nick said, sliding into his own seat and starting up the car; despite the look of the thing on the outside, the engine was astonishingly quiet, scarcely making a noise when it turned over and started up. As he pulled out of the driveway, the radio flicked between stations until it arrived at Michael's station of choice; the sound of an acoustic guitar filtered in through the speakers:

I can't seem to face up to the facts,
I'm tense and nervous and I - can't relax,
I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire,
Don't touch me, I'm a real live wire.

Nick chewed on the inside of his cheek as he drove and his eyes shifted down to the radio with painful slowness and lingered - just for a moment - before moving back to the road.

Psycho killer, qu'est que c'est?

On the back seat of the car, Nicholas' briefcase tilted over from where it had been standing upright, and hit the leather seat with a low thud.

"On second thought," Michael practically squeaked, lurching forward to switch off the radio as the case thumped over on the back seat. (And he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was the only reason he didn't flail like a little girl.) Michael wondered why he'd never before noticed the car's freakishly excellent acoustics.

"Still a little hungover," he explained lamely, and offered no explanation about his night. By that point in their relationship, it was understood that Michael woke up hungover two or three times a week, and there was nothing abnormal about it. "Headache."

His fingers tapped out a nervous little beat on the arm rest, repeated it twice, and then stilled. "Uh, so the Raiders tonight. Should be a good game."

So, yes, Michael definitely just resorted to talking about a game Nick didn't even care about just to avoid the silence. But he also didn't figure it would seem all that odd, considering Michael's own manic love for the sport. He'd played in high school and even caught a scholarship to a minor state university, but there was a certain rum-stained accident involving a Ford S10 and a parking meter that dashed his chances at college ball.

Also, the Raiders game was most definitely not going to be a good one. But Nick didn't need to know that.

Then, without any semblance of a segue, Michael asked brightly, "So, uh, where'd you say you were going next week again?"

Up until that point, the silence could have been cut with a chainsaw - though probably not with a blade any smaller; despite that Nick didn't comment on the raiders game; he just gave Michael a sideways look that told him he doubted very much that it would be a good game - but he wasn't about to take away Michael's hopes and dreams.

The upside to Michael's place, as it turned out, was that it was a relatively straight shot to the downtown area - though, ultimately, that could have been seen as a negative as well. Like with any city, Los Angeles' downtown was a rundown, filthy-looking area due to the high amount of traffic moving through, a direct result of the public transportation system being located in the area. Most of the stores there were old, family-run places.

"Zheleznodorozhny." Nick replied, in answer to the question, "In Russia."

And, moments later, he was pulling into the broken down lot of a small restaurant with an orange awning 'Csardas Imports'; a melanoma-ridden senior sat at one of the tables outside of the place, taking slow drags on a thin little brown cigarette, staring off at the sky from under an ancient ballcap, but there seemed to be no other customers.

Nick parked the car then, and peered out the window at the place before offering up one of his smiles.

"Zula-what?"

Michael couldn't even pronounce the word and Nick just rattled it off like it was just another item on his grocery list. He supposed that was why he was a lowly door man and Nick was a--

Well. He wasn't really sure what Nick was, anymore, but it was definitely more demanding than collecting cover charges and checking I.D.s. And it obviously still paid well. (And here Michael tried very hard not to consider the implications of that fact.)

"Whoa," Michael said when they pulled to a stop. He joined Nicholas in looking out the window, eyebrows hitching up a few centimeters as he took in the scene. "You said hole-in-the-wall. Guess you weren't kidding." There was a bright quality to his voice, however. This was the kind of place where Michael would feel right at home.

He got out of the car and, on the way to the front door, he didn't even try to hide the way he stared at the old man. Michael felt as if he were getting a cautionary glimpse into his own future and, with an appropriate sense of urgency, he scurried inside the door.

This was just another reason why Nick liked Michael; where anyone else would have registered alarm, doubt, or even mortification, Michael got that gleam in his eye, like he had just found his homeland.

And, of course, Nick couldn't blame him for that feeling - he shared it.

The immediate entrance led to a small alcove of a store, complete with a glass display case (with little in it) and a few unpronounceable foreign products (hogolyo, pehely, Vilmoskörte); to the right was a pair of large, heavy wooden doors that led into a restaurant area - or something like a restaurant. The inside was poorly lit and decorated sparingly with old black and white photos of rolling hills, alps, chapels, and small villages; a few ancient ceiling fans circled lazily overhead, but the floors and walls were covered in dark wood; booths made of maple and care-worn dark red leather were surrounding a circular bar.

And, behind the bar, polishing a glass with enormous hands propelled by forearms built like Popeye's, was a man that could be estimated as being in his sixties, but the only way of deciding this would be from the lines around his eyes and the slightest stoop in his enormous back; at only five-foot-six, the bartender was built like a gorilla. He peered at both of them through thick-rimmed glasses and an impressively large white moustache shifted - he may have been smiling, but it was difficult to tell with the facial hair in the way.

"Isten hozta," he said cheerily, and Nick looked over at Michael, lifting his shoulders a little, then looking back to the bartender,

"Uh. Sorry - we don't speak Hungarian. " Nick said, and the man gave him a long, sideways look before nodding his head.

"Welcome," he re-iterated, setting down the glass and picking up a couple of lamanated pages that were probably the menus; he came around the bar, walking with a slightly bow-legged gait, as though the muscles in his legs were too big for him to operate normally. He was wearing a small, gold nametag with 'Csardas' printed onto it in neat letters.

Standing near them now, Csardas gave Michael a long, appraising look, head to toe, before he said:

"Wow. What do they put in the water here, huh? Americans - they are so big." he said, accent heavy, but his English was excellent; he waved a giant hand at both of them, waving for them to follow as he led them to a central booth, "Hungarians? Not so much. Big dogs, both of you."

"Hungry dogs." Nick added, and Csardas grinned at him, then gave them both a friendly slap on the back that felt like being hit by a freight train.

"Best thing for hungry dogs - meat, yes?" Csardas said, and handed them each a menu.

When Csardas' hand thudded into his back, Michael's lungs emptied of breath and his eyes bulged like maybe they kinda wanted to pop free of his sockets and go sailing across the room. It was a fleeting moment, and when it was over he cleared his throat and fiddled a little with the fabric of his t-shirt like it was the key to reclaiming his wayward masculinity.

He landed heavily in the booth, took the menu from the Hungarian--and had Nicholas known the place's history, or did he actually recognize Hungarian?--and laid it flat on the table rather than opening it. He had more important matters to attend.

He craned his head around and stared hard at the bar, eyes going slim with an expression of cold, hard focus as he read off the handles on the bar's keg tap. There were few things one could say Michael Jones took seriously; open up a dictionary and flip to the definition of "levity" and one was likely to find a rough sketch of his grinning face. But beer?

Beer was Michael's thing. "Bass," he read out loud, when his eyes settled on just the right label. He looked back at Csardas then, his face relaxing into an open smile. "In the biggest glass you've got."

Csardas offered Michael a broad smile; his teeth were glistening white, but bizarrely crooked, as though he had only recently discovered dental care and hadn't got around to the braces.

"British beer," Csardas said, remarking upon Michael's choice, putting his shoulder in a vice-like grip and giving him a small shake; he turned his eyes to Nicholas as he did it, "Very good. He knows what he likes, your boy. And what about you, doberman?"

Nicholas peered over at the bar, but only for an instant,

"I'll have the, uh, Dreher. Hungarian lager, right?" Nick said said, and Csardas' crooked smile grew just a little more before he finally relinquished his hold on Michael,

"If you had chosen Czech, we would have had to fight." Csardas replied, before heading off to get their drinks.

"I'll keep that in mind." Nick called after him, then turned the menu over; it was a single page, written on the back and the front, with one side in English and the other in Hungarian.

Michael didn't know what he thought about being referred to as Nick's "boy," and also, wisely, decided not to dwell on it too long. Instead, he flipped over his menu to the side he could make heads or tails of and read over it.

Ultimately, he decided to go with the New York strip, prepared medium, and a side of loaded mashed potatoes, green beans, and a buttered roll. That decided, he moved on to scanning the dessert portion of the menu for pie--preferably apple, as Michael was nothing if not unfailingly American.

When his pale ale settled onto the table in front of him in a fresh, frosted mug, condensation already gathering and slipping down the womanly contours of the glass like a lover's caress, Michael's eyes glistened lovingly.

He told Csardas his order then, looking at the older man with an expression reminiscent of that of a puppy hoping to get just one more Milkbone out of his master. When Csardas had taken both their orders and trotted off with them, Michael wrapped his fingers around the sweating glass, put it to his lips, and promptly sucked down half its contents. His head tipped back as he swallowed it down, a look of pure, rapturous delight on his face.

When he set the glass down again, he took a deep breath and smiled happily at Nick. For a moment, he could kind of forget that the guy was totally freaking him out lately.

"So, uh. How you holdin' up?"

Similarly, Nick went with steak - sirloin, specifically rare enough for him to doubt it was dead - with vegetables, and whatever Csardas recommended for dessert.

"Surprise me." Nick suggested, and Csardas' moustache bristled with what may have been amusement.

"You should be careful," Csardas said playfully, taking their proferred menus; when he did, his big forearm became visible, and with it, a long faded tattoo of the Hungarian coat of arms, "You never know what you could get, you know? But I be nice. I give you something good. You wait."

And as Csardas wandered off, Nick paused for an instant to watch Michael take a slug on his drink that took half of the contents with it,

"I get the feeling you're going to need a second one." Nick said, taking a drink of his own beer; while Michael's was a pale ale, Nick's was so dark that light didn't get through - it was the sort of beer that one nearly needed a fork and knife to get through. His eyes flicked up from the glass when Michael spoke, and for a moment Nick looked confused.

Right. That.

Cheating fiancee.

"I'm fine." Nick said, rubbing at the back of his neck, "Haven't done anything stupid yet, aside from getting hammered and taking your bed."

He put his chin on his fist then, shrugging his mouth,

"Ultimately, I think Bianca and I are about even," he said, "She's involved with Kennedy Chance - I don't think I could dream up a better revenge than that."

He sat back, adding a little miserably,

"I suppose the power was a draw for her. House of Representatives and all, might get into the Senate."

'Aside from getting hammered and taking your bed."

Michael couldn't detect anything in Nicholas' voice that might indicate that he remembered what went on between them that night, but that didn't stop his face from getting a little pink or his eyes from dropping quite suddenly to the table.

"House of Representatives and all, might get into the Senate."

And then they snapped right back up, blinking owlishly. He'd heard Brian that night at the jail, when he told Michael that Chance had been a candidate for election. But he'd kind of assumed it was for something kind of lame and useless, like Circuit Clerk or, at the very best, a county commissioner.

After a moment, Michael's expression crumpled into one of sheer desolation. He idly spun his beer glass between his fingers and gave a long, pitiful sigh.

"I'm never gonna get my truck back, huh?" He huffed a quiet little laugh. "I punched out a representative. And he took it like a little bitch." Michael laughed again, this time audibly. "So worth it."

"Well, you did manage to damage the face of America's bright future." Nick replied, tone infused with a deadly sort of sarcasm, "The fact you even got near him is something of an accomplishment, mind you."

Kennedy Chance had started receiving death threats not long after joining the House of Representatives; as a member of L.A's elite and with an enormous trust fund - his late South-American father's diamond industry - to back him up, Chance had taken up an entourage of bodyguards and security to accompany him to major events.

"But if you want your car back," Nick said, "My bet is that you just need to make a scene about it. The last thing Chance wants is anyone thinking he has some sort of involvement with anyone like -"

Nick gestured broadly,

"You." he finished lamely, "His world doesn't like people who drive trucks and drink beer - and punch him in the face. He'll want to make this problem dissappear, even if it was a blow to his ego - it would be an even harder hit to it, though, if this sort of thing got into the news. He may not press charges just so he can avoid that possibility. Little embarrassments can really kill a career, you know?"

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, as though he had just been discussing the weather instead of implying blackmail; he took a drink of his beer and moments later, Csardas arrived with their meals, setting them down in front of them. The steaks were big enough that they hung a little over the side of the plate, and it appeared that a second plate had been put beneath Nick's in order to catch the blood; Nick cocked his head at the food, and then peered over at Csardas, who was grinning.

Csardas gestured to Nick,

"He is a mad dog. Out for blood." he said brightly, then whacked them both on the back with the utmost enthusiasm, crowing, "You enjoy!"

Before he headed off again.

Michael smiled weakly at Csardas' retreating back, an unnatural kind of quiet settling over him. First Nicholas, and now this Hungarian fuck, dropping all these ominous little phrases, getting inside Michael's head.

Michael wasn't smiling when he turned back to Nick, and his voice was flat and touched with irritation when he said, "Dig in, mad dog."

There was no way it was all just paranoia. All this talk of blood and dogs and "taking Michael out." It had to mean something, he just had no idea what.

Michael attacked his steak with a little more fervor than usual, gripping the knife so tightly his knuckles went white and bloodless. It was actually really good, which helped to calm his nerves, but there was still a note of poorly concealed suspicion in his voice when he looked up a few moments later and said,

"So, uh, which of your stuck up Gucci-wearin' friends recommended this place, exactly?"

Nicholas gave Michael a brief, confused look before he lifted his eyebrows in a sort of facial shrug and dug into his steak; it was cooked perfectly - which essentially meant it just needed to be warmed through, considering how rare it was - and it had the distinct taste of meat that had been cut very, very recently.

He glanced up when Michael spoke,

"For starters, most of them wear Versace or Dolce because they think Gucci has become too mainstream. " Nick replied, gesturing vaguely with his fork, "And no one recommended it - I saw it in passing a while ago and thought I would give it a try. I've been in before; the ancient guy out front was the one who told me to come back some time for steak - even better, the guy's name is Hrodulf. I had to come back, if only because of that."

He offered up a broad, boyish smile, clearly amused by a Hungarian named after one of Santa's reindeers; very occasionally, Nick the outstanding citizen and polite gentleman had a ridiculously juvenile sense of humour. It came out from time to time in strange ways, usually when he did something like suddenly rugby tackling Michael.

"Oh," Michael said tonelessly, looking down at his steak and suddenly not feeling quite so hungry. Clearly, he was losing his mind. He was suspicious of everything, down to the way Nick liked his meat prepared. (Though, honestly, it did look a little creepy, bleeding all over his plate like that.)

He took another long drink from his ale. The only way to deal with this (apparently) one-sided awkwardness was undoubtedly to get a buzz on, and then put it entirely from his mind. So he drained the glass and waved it at Csardas in the distance, motioning for another round.

"So, Nick," Michael began, looking again at his friend, carefully keeping his eyes trained above the neck. The way he said it, Nick, was like he kind of wanted to tack onto the end, 'if that is your real name,' but he didn't. "You headed back into Echo Park after this? I could use a ride to the station, see if I can get the ball rolling on this whole assault thing."

Nick watched as Michael looked down at his steak, and he briefly quirked one fine eyebrow, which descended to its original position when his friend looked up again.

"I thought you were nursing a hangover." Nick said as Michael slugged back his beer and waved for another; he had, of course, heard the tone of Michael's voice through out most of their interaction so far and there was no mistaking it - there was a definite edge of suspicion, of doubt and maybe even something edging on anger in the way that his best friend was talking to him. Nick supposed it was his own fault, letting himself get into that state to begin with - he'd let himself be just a little too vulnerable that night.

He had gotten too comfortable - it had been a mistake that he wasn't sure he could afford to make.

He told himself he wouldn't do it next time, he just wasn't entirely sure what to do about this time, he was sure that he should be taking it more seriously; he just couldn't seem to bring himself to be anything but -

- amused.

Nick was just about to respond to Michael's question when his cell phone went off, causing his pocket to begin playing something that sounded as though it might be something by Rage Against the Machine. Nick's eyes rolled skyward for a moment and he sat back and let out a sigh, sticking his knife into the centre of the steak and pulling out his cell phone, which he flicked on.

There was no one on the other line, only a text message, which came with the slightly grainy picture of a scraggly-looking man in his mid-thirties, dressed in khakis and a beaten-looking purple windjacket. Beneath it, it read:

Dinner with Grant Burke? Will supply the drinks.

For a moment, Nick was silent, blinking slowly at the image; he typed in a response:

Will be there.

"Yeah," Nick said finally, looking up, "Yeah, I'll be heading that way."

And, moments later, Csardas emerged again, stepping behind the bar to retrieve Michael his drink, which he set down in front of him before dissappearing once more.

Michael's eyebrows hitched up as he watched--possibly rudely--as Nick tended to his phone, and they stayed that way when he looked up again, a clear invitation for Nick to share. When it became apparent that he was not, in fact, going to disclose to Michael his super secret spy business (as he had begun to think of it).

"Hair of the dog," he mumbled, more to himself, attempting to play nonchalant, as he reached for his replenished ale, and drank heavily from it once again.

He went back to his meal, devouring it in record time. He was on edge, too nervous to even make polite chit chat with a friend. He sort of felt bad about this, because it wasn't as if Nick had actually wronged him in any way. Simultaneously, he felt petulant, like it was his right to be dull and drink to excess if Nick was going to have scars and tattoos and fake passports and creepy knives.

When he was finished, he pushed back his plate and leaned back with a sigh, catching his glass in his hand as he reclined and bringing it to his lips.

"Hrodulf was right," he said, and didn't exactly have to force out the satisfied smile, though it wasn't entirely natural, either. "Steak was pretty damned good."

Pretty pretty.

She was so very, very pretty, all blue eyes and slim arms and delicate features and fluttering little hands; so pretty and soft, with her lean neck and her calves, the way they changed shape when she was wearing heels.

So very pretty when she lifted her nose at the people around her, knowing she was too beautiful to need to acknowledge them, so pretty and perfect for the lights and the camera. Such a pretty fucking bitch.

Just like the rest of them had been.

---

Burke lurked; if he was good at anything, it was lurking.

He lurked in the very early hours of the morning and very late at night, and if he was feeling particularly ambitious, he might even do some mid-day lurking. Over the years he had been reported an impressive number of times by alarmed business owners and bystanders for generally just loitering and looking far too suspicious while doing it; from his messy tangle of red hair, to his messy tangle of red beard, to the shuffle-step way he walked and the dusty clothes he wore, Grant Burke had the homeless look down to a science.

Most days, he could be found in Echo Park, slouching near the trees or lazing on a park bench - but people were used to him. As far as they were concerned these days, he was just a harmless vagrant.

Of course, none of them knew about the - things - he sold. Little packages that were priceless, but he had managed to affix a cost to them anyways - and it was a substantial cost indeed, and only those who could afford it would come to him, which were unfailingly Los Angeles' wealthiest and elite citizens, dressed in their fine clothing and always so damn nervous.

He still sold drugs, of course - that was how he made his living. But once in a while he got a call from a guy who wanted him to sell something much more substantial, to a much smaller market. He had another of them to sell that day, and it was only during these sales that Burke was willing to relocate, as the clients in these cases were much more surreptitious about the purchases, picky about where they went and who they were seen with - so he followed his instructions. That day, Burke left his usual haunt and lingered around Inglewood, where he fit in seamlessly, blended in with the crowd.

And he waited.

---

"Hair of several dogs." Nick remarked, watching as Michael's second beer was nearly drained; he concentrated back on his own food, extracting the knife from the centre of the steak and devouring it before it had a chance to go cold, eventually mirroring Michael's movements by sitting back and paying attention to his lager.

"Business meeting tonight," he said after a lengthy silence, and he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, trying to rid himself of a phantom fatigue and then bringing a hand to his neck, mindfully checking that his tie was properly adjusted - which, naturally, it was.

"I'd just better not end up sent to Egypt again, is all I can say." he added, giving his phone another irritated glance before putting it away, "I hate camels."

Michael raised his eyebrows at Nick, mouth twitching a little with the beginnings of a smirk, but said nothing. He was sometimes a little envious of Nick's jet setter lifestyle, but he couldn't say that he was too terribly fond of camels, either. Not that he'd ever met one, but he was pretty sure they spit on people at random, if the Internet was anything to go by.

Lunch passed by them in relative quiet, a fact that Michael found both awkward and fortunate in turns. He promised himself that next time he and Nick got together, things would be different. The shock had to wear off eventually, and when it did they would be back to their old tricks. Until then, he'd just have to wait out the tension.

They both thanked Csardas on their way out the door, Nick perhaps a bit more genuinely than Michael, and passed by Hrodulf, still sitting quietly in front of the restaurant. The extinguished butt of a little brown cigarette sat next to him on the bench and there was a fresh one smoldering in the corner of his mouth. Michael gave him a second, harder look as they passed by. He found it unlikely that Hrodulf actually spoke English, but if Nick said he did, then he did.

The drive through Inglewood was just as quiet as the tail end of lunch, but Michael's discomfort had eased. He turned his head and watched the dull scenery pass, tapping his fingers idly against the armrest. Inglewood never looked as depressing as it did from the passenger seat of Nick's sedan. The rundown shop fronts looked a little lonelier, and the clusters of vagrants even looked a little colder, despite the sweltering heat. When Nick rolled to a stop at an intersection, Michael noticed one man in particular, with a wild red beard and matching hair, sitting on a bench with a paper cup, of all things, resting atop his disheveled head. The look in his eyes was particularly disconcerting, intense and hard, despite the fact that he also looked incredibly bored.

Michael turned his head away.

In the middle of the day, the drive to Echo Park took twice as long as usual, but that was still only half an hour, and so the sun was still high in the sky when Michael found himself sliding out of the passenger seat in front of the community detention center.

He leaned his head into the open door with a smile and said, "Thanks for the cow, man. I'll call you later, hopefully from my truck."

Nick watched as Michael slid out of the car and stood with the detention centre as his background; somehow, he couldn't help thinking that it wouldn't be the last time he saw the combination, particularly given Mikey's penchant for being a little - compulsive. After a long moment, he finally gave a nod,

"Talk to you soon." Nick agreed, observing as Michael made his way towards the doors and when he was nearly out of sight, Nick looked at his wrist, eyeing his watch; he had plenty of time, he was never late for this sort of thing - not that it would matter.

People like Grant Burke made it so easy; he had seen the redhead before, lurking around Echo Park, sunning under an oak tree or reclining in a ditch, forever passive to the casual observer, though they would still avoid him out of some built-in social safety rule. After all, people were raised from birth not to talk to strangers, but there were always addendums to those rules - if the stranger was filthy and slept in dumpsters, they were duly cautious - it was a rare show of intelligence that Nick had observed in other people.

Even though they were wrong.

Nick was a believer in instinct - and it was through his own that he knew Burke was a scavenger, not a predator. Burke was too lazy to be a real danger, too slovenly, taking far too much pleasure in the way he made others nervous to ever be a successful beast of prey.

Predators had to be subtle.

It was why Burke gave him that oily smile when he showed up in the alleyway on the outskirts of Inglewood - because he had no idea.

"You're late." Burke said, leaning casually against the bricks, lazily sweeping his eyes over Nick - standard stuff. Good-looking guy, clean-shaven, expensive suit; the kind of nine-to-five businessman that he saw sitting in groups in outdoor cafes or walking into some modern glass bowl of a workplace. The kind of guy with a gorgeous wife at home, maybe a couple of bratty, spoiled kids and a high-priced car. He knew the type; they were the ones that usually bought from him.

They were the ones who were bored.

Or just the ones who were sick enough to want what he had to offer - and Burke would be the first to admit he was a flawed man - but even he didn't have a taste for these particular wares.

The redhead watched as Nick looked down at his watch, inspecting it before looking up at him.

"Am I?" he asked.

And that, perhaps, was Burke's first inkling that maybe he'd made a snap judgement - because most guys were too nervous to do anything but babble out an apology.

"Because my watch puts me at 'punctual'." Nick added.

"Yeah. Well." Burke said, a little thrown off, but rebounding admirably; he dug a hand into his jacket then and fixed Nick with a sideways look, "You got something for me amidst the Armani, Mr. Punctual?"

"As long as you're talking about money, yes."

Burke raised a ginger brow at the remark; under the beard, he grinned just a little.

"Yeah, I'm talking about money," Burke confirmed, "I haven't gotten into other services."

The redhead considered it for a moment,

"But if you're offering to toss something in with the deal -" he added, giving another oily smile, shameless and aimed specifically to make the other man uncomfortable.

It didn't seem to work, because Nick took a step forward - and that was when Burke got his second clue that maybe, just maybe, this one was a little different. A street light threw Nick's features into sharp contrast and Burke got a good, long look at him for the first time; his initial assessment had been correct of course - the guy was good-looking and definitely a businessman, but -

- the eyes weren't right.

Suddenly Burke was wondering if he had made a mistake by goading the man.

This was confirmed just before he lost consciousness; for a nine-to-five hack, the guy had strong hands.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that report has already been forwarded to the Prosecutor's Office. You'll need to contact them to find out how to proceed from here."

The button-nosed clerk at the Rampart Community Detention Center gazed serenely at Michael, her perfect blonde hair catching the artificial lights. It was goddamn shimmering at him, and she was smiling this empty, patronizing little smile, and he couldn't see how she was a day over sixteen, fresh-faced and bubbly and wholly unperturbed with Michael's lack of transportation, spouting off standard police procedure like she'd ever witnessed a crime in her entire candy coated life.

"Look, dollface, I know all about how to proceed from here. This ain't my first rodeo and I doubt it'll be the last. But my truck is not evidence of a friggin' crime and unless they've changed the laws in the past six or seven minutes and it's now possible to charge a Chrysler product with aiding and abetting, you've got no right to it. So get me my goddamn truck or get me your supervisor."

The clerk stabbed a finger at a wood-and-brass plate directly to her right. "My name," she said slowly, as if that were the only way Michael was going to understand her, "is Elizabeth." Sure enough, that was exactly what it said on the cheap placard. "Not," she continued with the tiniest bit of ire sneaking into her tone, "dollface."

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose and tried desperately not to weep.

-----------------

"You say you're who, now?"

Michael was getting fed up with tiny chicks looking at him like he was something foul stuck to the bottom of their knock-off couture pumps. Really fucking fed up.

It kinda helped that this one was a knock out, with this impossible kind of hair that was about thirty different shades of brown and probably took a whole team of stylists to get it to stay perfectly coiffed on top of her head like that. In a different situation--like, say, at a bar after many shots of something wicked strong--he would have been all too happy to be on the receiving end of that stare, preferably on the heels of one of his bawdier pick-up lines.

Maybe not, though. She looked like she might be a slapper.

Michael stuck out like a sore thumb in his plain t-shirt, jeans, and Justin work boots, standing awkwardly in the middle of the waiting room belonging to none other than Kennedy Chance, and he knew it. In fact, he really didn't want to be there, wasting this secretary's time and probably his own. But Nick had told him to make a scene and Mr. Chance would crumple like a rum soaked house of cards, so that was what he was going to do. Nick, as far as Michael knew, was never wrong about these kinds of things.

Now, women? They were another story.

"I'm, uh, Ken's cousin. Lincoln." Michael laughed. "I know, right? Our family has a thing for presidents. They suckered him into the whole political gig, practically Photoshopped 'im into the Oval Office for his senior pictures, but not me. I'm what you might call the, uh, black sheep." Michael lowered his voice a notch. "I've got priors. Anyway, I was just in the neighborhood and Ken told me to--"

"Yes, Mr. Chance?" the woman said, already on the phone. Apparently, the secretary wasn't into ramblers. Score. "I have your cousin here to see you." A pause. "Yes, I know, but--" She grimaced. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right away, sir."

She hung up, folded her slim, manicured fingers together and looked up at Michael with this tight little expression that would have a lesser man cradling his privates protectively. "You can go on in," she said.

Michael grinned. "Thanks, dollface." He breezed past her desk and went in through the door labeled in fine gold lettering, 'Kennedy Chance.'

"I have your cousin here to see you."

Kennedy Chance frowned at his phone as though it had committed a fashion crime; he carefully set down the nail file he had been using and picked up the phone, holding it delicately near his face,

"My cousins live in Utah, Delia." he replied flatly, and there was a hesitation before Delia responded again, her voice meek;

"Yes, I know, but -"

"Send him in." Chance said, eyeing his fingernails - they glistened under the light; clean, carefully cut, perfect.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right away, sir."

Chance didn't like being called 'sir', it made him feel old - Delia knew that, but from the way she was responding, she was nervous, which was odd, considering Delia could give people a look mean enough to melt metal. Something had taken away some of that poison, and Chance was interested to know what it was - and he was quite sure it wouldn't be a cousin.

And it wasn't.

He immediately regretted his hasty decision, because the caveman from the previous week walked through his office door, unkempt and filthy-looking - the same one who had nearly broken his nose when he was visiting Bianca.

On his feet, Chance stood bizarrely straight; tall, pin-thin, and created from the sort of genetics that make a man 'pretty' instead of 'handsome' or 'rugged', Chance's porcelain pale skin was bruised along the cheekbone, right eye, and near the bridge of his nose; the bruise was fading, but still stood out in contrast to his skin tone.

"You've got some nerve, being in here." Chance said, haughty, then he added, "I've got video cameras in here. Anything you do, I'll have evidence, Mr. Jones."

---

Burke's head hurt. His neck hurt. Hell, his hair hurt.

When he woke up he was freezing cold, which was bizarre for anyone who had spent their entire life in Los Angeles; he was also tied up, which really wasn't that bizarre for anyone who had spent their entire life in Los Angeles.

On top of that, the air smelled strange - almost stale - with the tang of something distantly familiar, like a bad memory.

He could hear screaming. A woman, screaming - it sounded far away, a little muffled.

Burke opened his eyes and was nearly blinded by the combination of flourescent lights, and white.

Everything was white; the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and the rolling fog that was obscuring his vision - Burke had to blink several times before his vision adjusted to his surroundings, before he became more aware of where he was.

For starters, he was strapped to a metal chair, and it had wheels. The walls had steel vents. There was a drain in the floor.

Then, when he focused, he realized there was something in the distance; some large, strange shape hanging from the ceiling; Burke wiggled in his chair, trying to lean forward, but he stopped short when he felt resistance at neck-level, simultaneous with an uncomfortable pull on his arms, bending them upwards unnaturally behind him, the wrong direction for his elbows.

Apparently someone studied bondage.

So Burke had to squint; staring at the shape - and it began to swing gently from where it hung, like it had been moved by a soft breeze. It spun slowly. It did nothing else.

He cocked his head to the side. It looked like a -

"Fuck!" Burke shrieked, because something was suddenly shoved up in front of his face, something organic that had glassy, whitish eyes, and it was being tilted from side to side; Burke nearly knocked himself backwards on his chair, but something behind him held him upright, kept him from falling.

Then the thing was dropped into his lap.

It was a cow's head.

Burke twisted in the chair until it fell off his knees, letting out a groan of dismay - and then he felt movement behind him, heard something scraping. A leather chair appeared in front of him, directed by a hand and followed up by the man from the alleyway.

Nick straddled the chair; he set something on the floor, and hefted up the cow's head by the temples, and turned it so he could look it in the face.

"I don't think he likes you. Or me." Nick said conversationally to the detached head. It was distinctly unresponsive, so Nick shrugged and let it drop; it hit the ground with a wet noise and he rubbed his hands against his slacks before focusing on Burke again.

"Which is fine. Really." he added reassuringly.

"What the fuck?" Burke said, too stunned to come up with an articulate response; he had to search himself for several moments before he could find something to say - he went with: "Why the fuck am I tied up?"

Nick stared at Burke; really stared hard at him. Then, without ever blinking, he nodded head slightly and spoke slowly as though he was conversing with a very small child, he said,

"So you don't run away."

Burke gaped. He looked down. The cow's head gaped back. He looked back up, and he found Nick holding his index fingers at either side of his head like little horns, and he made the same face as the cow.

"What the fuck?" Burke repeated.

"You've asked a lot of questions." Nick replied, and reached down again; thankfully, this time he didn't come up with the cow's head - though, he did come up with something else. It was a portable DVD player, white like the rest of the room.

Nick pushed something, and the woman's screaming started again; he peered at it for a moment before turning it around so Burke could see it; the redhead's face immediately twisted into a look of disgust.

"What, you don't like that?" Nick asked, "I thought you got your jollies off of this stuff - here, maybe you just can't see it well enough."

Nick scooted his chair forward; he shoved the DVD player into Burke's face.

On screen, a blonde woman was being violently assaulted; her attacker was wielding a knife and messily taking out his rage on her, occasionally muttering obscenities while her screams became less and less.

Burke closed his eyes; he leaned his head away, tilted it to the side, strained to get away from the snuff film.

"Hey. Hey, you, open your eyes." he said, and Burke didn't respond; Nick rolled his eyes and reached around behind Burke, tugging hard on the rope, temporarily strangling him, enough to make the man's eyes bug open.

"Watch it."

Burke watched it; he was vaguely green by the end.

"I guess you aren't the type to sample your own wares, huh?" Nick asked, setting the DVD player aside - Burke was unresponsive, staring off at the floor where the player had been set, shocked by what he had just watched. Nick pursed his lips and then he stood; his legs were so long that he actually stepped over the back of his own chair and he casually kicked it away - it clattered off elsewhere, and he straddled Burke's legs instead.

"Hey." Nick said again, patting Burke lightly on the cheek a few times before he reached down towards his own ankle, "Hey, you saw that right? He kind of skinned her, huh? But he had a pretty sharp knife."

His hand came back up with - a potato peeler.

"I forgot mine. This might take longer." he reasoned, and Burke was suddenly paying attention again, "I should know, it was a bitch to make mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving. I had to get a new peeler because this one is all rusted, see?"

He held the peeler closer, it's slightly bent end near Burke's left eye - and he could indeed see that the peeler was rusted. Very rusted.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Burke asked, and Nick could feel the pulse in the man's leg, throbbing hard and fast.

"Um." Nick said, drawing the peeler back, and looking down at it, frowning and furrowing his eyebrows as though he had forgotten. He brought it up to his mouth, tapping it against his lip, eyes pointed to the ceiling, "Umm."

"Look, I'll give you anything." Burke replied, at the negotiation stage of the deal, and Nick's eyes rolled back around to him, "Anything. Just - fuck. Tell me what you want from me."

"Maybe I want to make a movie out of you." Nick replied, and Burke took in a sharp breath, staring at him, looking suddenly ill. Nick's face split into a grin and he added, "Jokes. Jokes. No, seriously. Not into it. I suck at videography, I can never hold the camera still, it's like a day in the life of a Palsy patient. Umm. What I want is the guy who is good with the camera."

"What?" Burke asked.

"Hey, look, the one with the knife? That one? Doesn't ring a bell? I've got this video here I can show you if -" Nick began, reachin for the DVD player again, but Burke made a noise of protest, "Oh, you remember? Well, just ask if you want to see it again. Maybe you can learn some of her lines, right, and we can act it out later?"

"You're a lunatic." Burke said, aghast, "You're a goddamn lunatic."

"Lunatic!" Nick replied, sitting back, putting a hand against his own chest as though to say 'who, me?', pulling his expression into one of surprise, "Lunatic! No! No. I'm no lunatic. Showing you a movie isn't something a lunatic would do. I'm like a gentle host. I even provided you with air conditioning. Bet you can feel it."

Nick rose then, relieving Burke of the weight from his legs; they had fallen asleep during the process, and he had to flex his toes to try and begin circulation again. Nick dissappeared into the rolling fog, but his voice remained audible,

"I haven't done anything that would imply lunacy." he called back, and Burke began to tug his hands against his binds again, trying desperately to loosen some of the vinyl cord that had been secured around his wrists and upper arms.

He didn't get very long to try, though; Nick was back within moments, and he was holding a glass bottle.

"Favourite brand." he said conversationally, stepping in close to Burke, "Dreher. It's good stuff."

He lifted a foot beneath the chair and suddenly the world turned sideways as he was knocked back to the floor, impacting hard; Burke let out a shout of surprise and began to squirm frantically in the seat until Nick stepped over him, staring down.

"You should probably try it." he added cheerily, shaking the bottle.

He leaned down, took a handful of Burke's hair to wrench his head back, and sprayed the bottle of freezing, carbonated alcohol up the man's nose and into his sinuses. Above Burke's screams, Nick said:

"See, that's something a lunatic would do!"

Michael didn't bother to shut the door behind him as he strode into Chance's office. The idea, after all, was to get noticed and to get Cassanova noticed, put him on edge. So he let it swing loosely behind him, hinges carrying it nearly shut, but not quite.

His mouth was set into a grim line as he entered, shoulders squared and ready for a verbal throwdown, but he stopped short when he set eyes on Chance for the second time. His eyebrows made a hasty jump, like they were trying to crawl into his hairline, and his previously solemn expression cracked into a wide, smug grin.

"Dude," Michael said, his tone revealing equal parts amusement and disbelief. "I worked you over." It was true, too. Chance looked like Hell, and while Michael had known he'd gotten a solid punch or two in, he'd had no idea the night was such a roaring success.

"Okay, serious faces now," he said, but his grin had only settled into something closer to a smirk. He was making an obvious effort, though, and that had to count for something. "I need to know if you're gonna press charges or not, because--

"Seriously? Cameras?" Michael twisted at the waist, glancing around the corners of the ceiling in search of any recording devices, not because he genuinely cared, but simply to dramatize his next remark which was, simply, "Kinky."

Chance's pretty face was registering surprise, blue eyes wide as he watched Michael come just a little closer,

"Yes. You left something of a mark." Chance replied coldly, reaching up to absently touch at the purple and black colouration on his face; he turned his head slightly to move the bruises out of the other man's view. He stood that way for a moment, eyes looking strangely unfocused, pinkie finger resting against his bottom lip,

"While I understand what you did, I don't condone it." Chance said distantly, "You saw your best friend's fiancee with another man. You lost your temper. You lashed out - you must really love him."

He finally looked back at Michael, eyes refocusing as though he had forgotten where he was; some of his hair fell down over his face effeminately,

"But you also beat me, Mr. Jones." he added, pushing his hands flat onto the desk, "I have a televised interview this week and now I'm going to have to be layered in more make-up than Harvey Fierstein just to do it. I've already had to speak to foreign diplomats looking this way and I can assure you, it did not leave them with a good impression of our culture. You may have left a significant scar on my career with your miserable actions - why wouldn't I press charges?"

---

Everything burned; Burke's entire head felt like it was on fire from the alcohol in his sinuses and he simultaneously felt like he was drowning. After what felt like an eternity, the hold on his hair was released and he was able to lift his head, coughing and spluttering out the icy fluid; he felt weight on his chest, but his eyes were too clouded with tears to be able to see.

"Hrrk." Burke said.

"Yeah, you sort of have to develop a taste for it." Nick replied, and Burke blinked away enough tears to be able to see that the man was sitting on his chest now, staring down at him, unblinking. The harsh flourescents of the freezer lit up the man's eyes in a way that was both hypnotic and disturbing, highlighting rings of gold and amber around his pupils, bizarre flecks of black and green swimming in a honey hue.

They were gorgeous eyes. Burke had never seen something so beautiful in something so hideous before.

Not for the first time, it occurred to Burke that he was in the same room as a very skilled predator.

"Hey," Nick said, "So before I cleared your sinuses, I asked you something - but you're probably a little fuzzy right now. I'll just ask again - who's your camera man?"

"Fuck." Burke spluttered, and Nick waited a little longer, resting patiently on his knees, still holding the dripping glass bottle in one hand; the redhead wasn't sure he had ever seen a beer look so threatening before. Nick took a drink from it and waited some more. The cow's head lingered nearby and watched.

"Fuck." Burke repeated, "I don't fucking know. He wears a mask for a fucking reason."

"Yeah. I got that." Nick said, "I did. But you get the DVDs from somewhere - and if you say that you dont, well - then I'm just going to assume you make the videos, and then things are going to get really interesting."

"They'll cut out my goddamn tongue if I tell you anything."

"Um," Nick replied, "Right. But I'll cut off other things if you don't, you know?"

There was a moment of silence, then Nick added helpfully,

"With a potato peeler."

Burke let out a whine, but said nothing else; Nick cocked his head to the side, then turned his upper body enough to peer back at Burke's legs, which were strapped tightly to the chair - then he smashed the beer bottle over one of Burke's knees.

You must really love him.

Michael's face went beet red in about the span of half a second, and he turned his head to the side, away from Chance, feeling suddenly exposed and cold and-

And ridiculous. There wasn't anything to get all bashful about. He did love Nick. He'd take a bullet for the guy. He forced his head back around, made himself look at Chance while he spoke.

Make a scene, Nick had advised him. Michael squared his shoulders, sucked in a deep breath and said,

"You wouldn't press charges because this would make the news. Lord knows how it hasn't already, but I'm bettin' you've got guys for that." Michael swallowed, surreptitiously wiped his palms against his jeans and went on, "But it'll get to the press eventually. And while I may be guilty, so are you." Michael quirked a brow, tilted his chin in, gave Chance the you've-been-naughty face.

"Two months, dude," Michael said, raising his voice just a little higher than absolutely necessary. "Two months you were with Bianca when Nick was, too. First? That's gross."

He went on in a normal voice, "Second, people ain't gonna like it when they find out."

Michael would never give this story to the press, even if he thought they'd be interested. (And he doubted they would, but he was constantly overestimating mankind like that.) He wouldn't blow Nick's personal life wide open like that, but Chance had no way of knowing that, and it was all Michael could think up on the fly.

Chance was watching Michael with something bordering on interest as the man turned his face away, refused to make eye contact - yes, Chance decided, there probably was something to what Bianca had been saying. Perhaps it hadn't been as much of an exaggeration as he'd thought it was.

But then Michael was changing his tune, and Chance's face fell into a scowl that wasn't even remotely frightening,

"Perhaps Bianca wouldn't have sought me out if she had been getting the attention she needed. Or if she had been getting anything at all." Chance replied snippily; when he had met Bianca, the woman had practically been starved for sex. He had initially thought that he was just encountering a woman with insatiable appetites, but as it turned out, in her year-long relationship with Nicholas Godwit, there hadn't been any sex.

At all.

"Your boy has some sort of rule about it, as it turns out." Chance added flatly, irate now, "No wonder she was cold - but she warms up well. Perhaps you should let Nicholas know that."

He crossed his thin arms over his chest, pointing at the door with his chin,

"Don't come near me again. I'll drop the charges if you get the fuck out. Now."