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Perfect Stranger (SevenxBathos)

"Bumper cars," Michael breathed with a faint tremor in his voice. His eyelids had momentarily become too heavy to hold up, and his body went rigid and still. He counted backwards in his head, because he'd heard before that it worked to relieve stress, and he was all at once feeling very stressed.

"You were talking about bumper cars," he said a second time with a suddenly dry mouth, looking once again at Nick. His pupils were blown wide, hardly anything left in his eyes but black, and somewhere beyond Nick's face Kobayashi was making choking noises behind his hand. The bastard was laughing at him.

Coming back to himself all of a sudden, Michael shook the fog out of his head and batted Nick's hand away. "Stop it. And I'll shave when I'm good and ready, old man!" This he hollered as he dragged Nick out the door, letting it slam shut behind them with petty satisfaction.

"Gimme your damn keys, man," Michael demanded shortly, for once in his life openly in a bad mood. He allowed himself this one small indulgence because he was 85% sure that Nick wasn't going to remember it in the morning and, even if he did, was likely to understand.
 
Nicholas managed to look astounded, raising his eyebrows,

"Was I?" he asked, having wound a lean arm around Michael's shoulders, pulling him close so their sides were pressed together and he walked alongside Michael, surprisingly capable of putting one foot in front of the other, but unsteady enough that his inebriation was obvious, "That's kind of stupid. Um. Where are we - oh, the car. Yes."

When they reached the black Nissan, Nick leaned up against the side of it; despite the entire night, despite being covered in dried wine, despite missing his tie and jacket, everything about him was still neat and precisely pressed. The only thing that had changed, it seemed, was his sobriety.

He leaned his head back then, looking up at the sky and exposing a throat that would normally be closed off from sight by a tie; with the neck of it open enough to expose a little collarbone, there was a long, white scar that curled around the very base of his neck where it connected with the right shoulder.

"Mm," Nicholas said, a small noise of satisfaction, as he looked up at the stars, "Nice night."
 
The whole night was a goddamn travesty.

There was Bianca and then Chance and Bianca and then the security guard and Brian fucking Meadows and Mr. Kobayashi and Nick.

Giving his damned tie away like it was a medieval maiden's token, behaving like an utter lush with his head in the clouds, completely ignoring the carefully erected barrier of personal space that Michael had been cultivating and nurturing all these years and--

Michael swallowed.

Damn it all, Nick's throat, stretched out long, with his tie long gone, a wider expanse of his flesh than Michael remembered seeing on his friend. There was the shadowed ridge of a collarbone and this silvery wisp of something--scar tissue, maybe?--catching the low light of the parking lot.

Something like panic flared up in Michael. There were reasons for all the personal space. Good, solid, friendship preserving reasons. He wasn't supposed to see Nick like this, not ever. It sent his mind to dark places.

"Yeah," he said, inching closer to Nick and staring hard at that silver spot on his neck, fascinated. "It's great. Just ... Aw, hell. C'mere."

Michael shoved a hand in Nick's pocket, turning his head away like it would distract him from the warmth of his thigh heating up the keys, the solid mass of muscle beneath his fingertips, or the smell of wine and cologne and vodka and Nicholas that filled up his nostrils when he got close.

"Got 'em!" he said, when he drew the keys out, jangling them triumphantly in Nick's face, ignoring his own flushed, breathless state.

"Please, Nick," he went on, pressing the unlock button on the key chain. "Please just get in the car."
 
To be fair, it actually was a decent night; though the air was humid and there was no wind to relieve them from the night heat, the sky was still clear and the stars were bright - there was even a full moon hanging low and silver in the sky, casting a strange play of light and shadow on both of them.

Caught in a stupor from the drink, Nicholas didn't notice Michael again until the man had his hand in his pocket, and then his eyes snapped down to his friend, eyebrows climbing high as he watched him - of course, Michael was looking elsewhere, he suspected it was some sort of courtesy thing, not to make eye contact when one has one's hand in one's best friend's pocket. Regardless, Nick didn't look away; he merely watched Michael in a strange silence until the keys were held up in front of his face.

He cocked his head to the side when Michael practically pleaded for him to get into the car, and after a long moment, he lifted his shoulders,

"Mm." he said again, and turned towards the car, taking a moment to work out how to make his fingers properly navigate the handle before he slipped into the passenger seat, slouching uncharacteristically, long legs touching the dashboard.

"You know." Nick said conversationally, once they were both in the car, "She accepted the proposal, um, after she had started seeing Chance."

He offered a smile that was more self-deprecating than cheerful,

"She never had any intention of marrying me." he added, scrubbing at his hair with his fingers, knocking some of it out of place, "Figured that out tonight. That, uh, that sucked. Should've seen it sooner, maybe. S'too busy to notice I guess. Or didn't want to? I dunno. Getting too old for this anyways."

He stifled a small yawn then, peering out the window, leaning his head against the doorframe.
 
Michael switched gears from exasperated to feeling like a total ass with impressive speed. Nick had just gotten his heart broken and Michael had no right to be snapping at him for tying one on. In fact, Michael had often been in his cups over less, and aside from a few mother-hen-ish comments dropped teasingly over the years, Nick had never put him through the ringer over it.

"Girl's stupid," Michal told Nick without looking away from the road. As far as he was concerned, it was the truth. "Rich daddy fucked her up in the head, spoiled her rotten, and now she's damaged goods. There's nothin' you coulda done about it."

Michael paused then, just long enough to take a breath, and then cast a sidelong glance at his passenger. "All that noise about me, though. Hangin' around at your place. That wasn't, what I mean is, there isn't any, like, credence to that. She was just bein' a bitch."

He didn't pose it as a question. Not exactly.
 
"We're all damaged goods." Nick replied off-handedly - though not unkindly - as he watched the world move past the car. After Michael spoke again, he rolled his head slowly back towards his friend, looking him over again with half-lidded eyes,

"No creedence to what?" he asked, blinkingly sleepily, rubbing his palm against his temple and then down to his throat, digging his fingers into the side of his neck, working away stiffness that had crept up on him overnight; his muscles had begun to ache a few hours before, and the alcohol had offered assistance in that regard as well as others.

He looked over at the car radio then; the time blinked back at him - 3:32 a.m, just as they pulled into Michael's driveway again.

"Hey, the night's not over yet." Nick protested good-naturedly, despite the fact he looked as though he was ready to curl up on the leather and fall asleep right there.
 
"It has to be over," Michael said wearily, because he honest-to-God could not take anything else the shitstorm of a day had to throw at him. There was a rope, and Michael was at the end of it. He took a deep, centering breath, and then looked over at Nicholas. He didn't look like he'd make it as far as the bed--which was absolutely where he'd be sleeping. It was definitely a downgrade from the condo, but Michael couldn't let the guy sleep on a lumpy sofa after the day he'd had.

Michael pocketed the keys and came around the front of the car, opening the passenger side door on account of the fact that Nicholas was probably too preoccupied with pink elephants to do it himself.

"C'mon, big guy." He pulled Nicholas from the seat by his arm and, once they were standing, slung it over his shoulders. It seemed like that was where it was going to end up, anyway, whether Michael liked it or not.

And he didn't. He absolutely did not enjoy the feeling of his best friend pressed flush up against his side, nor did he shiver at the feeling when alcohol sharp breath ghosted over his face, Nick obviously forgetting himself and neglecting to turn his head politely in the other direction.

His two-car drive had never seemed so long as it did by the time he got Nick to the front door. He fumbled for his own keys then, and if his hands were shaking a little, then that was only because Nick was so damned heavy.

"All right, man, not much further to go. You still with me?" Michael kicked the door shut behind them.

His house was small, consisting of only one bedroom, a modest kitchen, a claustrophobic living room, and a bathroom that would strain to fit two grown men shoulder-to-shoulder. But it was neat, the cable included the sports package, and the tiny refrigerator was always at least half-full with beer.
 
As Michael moved around the car to the passenger side, Nick leaned over in his chair and groped blindly around the back seat until his fingers found the cool metal handle of his briefcase; normally he kept it in the trunk of his car, but he had gotten distracted that evening when he'd received Michael's phone call. He clumsily tugged the case to the front seat and into his lap before he allowed himself to be steered out of the car and to the front door, one arm secured around Michael's shoulder even though he was quite sure he could maneuver himself to the door.

Maybe.

Either way, he didn't protest, and he soon found himself in Michael's home; he had been there many times before and despite the fact it was nothing like a high-priced L.A. condo, Nicholas always seemed quite happy to be there. It had been a casual observation on Brian's part on several occasions that Nicholas seemed as though he had never really gotten used to the fact he was rich, like he had maybe bought the condo just to play along with what he was supposed to do with that much money at his disposal. Ultimately, Nicholas' only obvious expenses came from the suits he wore to business meetings, and beyond that, he didn't seem particularly interested in making any extravagant purchases.

"M'still here." Nick murmured, leaning against Michael as they stood in the foyer; he set down his briefcase then, leaving it absent-mindedly by the front door and finally removing his arm from his friend. He took an unsteady step or two, and then peered around blearily as though he had forgotten where he was, and then he wordlessly went over to the kitchen sink, turned on the tap, and stuck his head under cold water. After a moment of this, he came up with his hair sticking out at strange angles, water running down his jaw and into his shirt.
 
"Oh," Michael said, and then, after a moment of gawking went on to add, as an afterthought, "'kay."

If he didn't know better, if he hadn't known Nicholas for years and known beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was simply impossible, he would think that Nick was actually trying to drive Michael mad. That maybe he was getting some sort of sick, sadistic kick out of watching him squirm and fidget and flush, struggle for breath, wish for sweet, merciful death.

Well, perhaps that last bit was an exaggeration. But he did wish Nick would just get to the business of passing out in a drunken heap already and end his suffering.

There was water dripping off of his chiseled jaw. How could that, in any known universe, be considered at all fair? He was standing in Michael's kitchen with his perfect face and his perfect throat and his perfect fucking hair all sopping wet like some kind of exotic calendar model, and if he were just some chick from the bar, this would be an all clear, game on, and he'd have that girl's ass on the counter before her panties hit the floor.

But this wasn't some girl. It was Nicholas fucking Godwit, career heterosexual and, come to think of it, Michael wasn't in the habit of checking out the grass on other side, either. He wasn't.

"Bed," Michael blurted, a little louder than he meant to. He cleared his throat. "You should go to bed." And he pointed in the direction of his bedroom because, damn it all, there was no way he was getting within five feet of Nick just then. "Sleep it off in there."
 
Nick rubbed his hands against his face, wiping some of the water from where it was running down from his hair line; he had done a good job of utterly soaking himself, the shoulders and collar of his shirt now sticking to his skin and turning the stained parts of the material a vaguely pink colour. For a long moment after he had spoken, Nick stared at Michael as though he had sprung a second head, standing there blinking water out of his eyes and generally dripping onto the kitchen floor before he finally gave a nod of agreement,

"Okay." he said finally, and then lifted a hand, index finger pointing up as though he had something terribly important to say, "But I'm not tired."

He made his way down the hallway, still remembering the layout of the place despite his drunkenness, and he stepped into the bedroom, taking a moment to unsteadily toe off his shoes before making his way to the bed, taking a moment to peer down at it as though it might ingest him if he laid down on it.

Instinctively, he reached for his tie, only to discover it was no longer there, so he let his hands fall back to his sides and looked over at the door, giving Michael a sideways glance before finally sorting himself out on the bed, settling on it on his knees,

"If, um, my phone rings," Nick said, "Don't answer it, okay. It - if it's important they'll, uh, they'll leave a - thingy - something - message."
 
"I'm not your secretary, anyway," Michael grumped with no real feeling behind it. He trailed behind Nicholas to the threshold of the bedroom, flipping on the hallway light in his wake.

Just to make sure he got settled okay.

He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed and doing his damnedest to look casual there. His eyes trailed over Nick, from where his knees dented the rumpled bed beneath their weight, up his ruined shirt, to his face, slack with overindulgence and exhaustion. Not tired, his ass.

He was actively not thinking about how good Nicholas looked in his bed. Nick was always perfectly pressed, dressed to impress, and for the first time in a long, long time--possibly ever--he was untidy. It was oddly intimate, the image he created, kneeling on Michael's bed and wrung out. If he put a hand against Nick's shoulder and pressed, he'd probably just flow back into the pillows, boneless, and his feet would come out from beneath him, legs unintentionally splayed. He'd give Michael one of his inquisitive little looks, brows knit, mouth quirked just so. Probably even say his name with a little question mark of confusion at the end. Mikey?

"Lay back," Michael directed, voice gone low and hoarse, utterly wrecked. His expression was openly hungry, and it was by the skin of his teeth that he remained motionless in the doorway. "Go to sleep, Nick. Things'll look better tomorrow."
 
"Maybe I should hire you as one then," Nick replied, wasted, but apparently still capable of sarcasm, "Then I could legitimately tell you not to answer my phone."

He leaned himself back then, putting his legs out straight and settling against the bed, though he was propped up on his elbows so he could continue to peer at Michael, his torso curved from the position he was in, dress shirt finally rumpled from the combination of mistreatment, water, wine, and generally just wearing the thing for too long that evening; he would have gone to change at some point, but the night simply hadn't allowed it.

He was watching his friend with those same sleepy, half-lidded eyes, and the play of shadow and light in the room highlighted fleck of amber and gold in his eyes, making them look strange and unreal until he blinked them again, moved his head a little.

"Things look fine already." he replied simply, and then lifted his arms up, stretching out almost cat-like on the bed and settling himself down for the evening.
 
Michael released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, had been holding since Nicholas had started to lean back, drawing his shirt taut across his chest and abdomen, bunching it at the shoulders.

"Things look fine already," he said, while looking straight the fuck at Michael with these soft little bedroom eyes, reflecting impossible colors in the light, and,

"Aw, hell," Michael whispered and was across the room, standing over Nick before his mind could catch up with him and justify the impulse. He stopped there, feeling for all the world like he was looming.

It was just that something was off. And he supposed it was the shirt, contrasting jarringly against the soft comforter. It didn't look comfortable, not to sleep in, in any case. He'd be hot enough as it was, anyway, with the amount he'd had to drink, sweating out all that alcohol.

If Michael were a good friend, he'd help him out of it.

Slowly, like he was approaching a feral beast, he reached for the uppermost button, nestled snug against Nick's chest. The fabric was wet and cold beneath his fingertips, the button refusing to cooperate with Michael's suddenly clumsy fingers, so he leaned closer, hitched a steadying knee onto the mattress, leaned close.

"You're gonna ruin my sheets with this thing," he said, ghost of a whisper, hoping Nick was a goner, anyway, but needing to say it just in case. As the fabric parted beneath his hands Michael drew in a sharp breath, filled with the smell of Nick, and moved on to the next fastening.
 
It didn't take long for Nick to fall asleep after that; he drifted off easily, completely silent and motionless in his slumber. On some level, he was still aware of the other man's presence, but there was no motion to move away and no effort to put any space between them - he felt Michael's weight on the mattress, pressing down on it, and he stirred only a little when fingers began to pluck open the buttons on his dress shirt.

Unlike many businessmen, Nicholas had disregarded what was considered a rule of suit-wearing and hadn't bothered to put anything on underneath; there was no t-shirt or even an undershirt to encounter, just bare flesh - and as it turned out, Nick's build was as well put-together as the rest of him was. Comprised of wiry, solid muscle, one may have been able to grate cheese on the man's stomach if they weren't too distracted by all of the ink on him, because as the shirt was gradually opened - hindered just a little by Michael's nervous fingers - the first thing that Michael would see, directly over Nicholas' heart, would be the small, faded blue image of a cracked, grinning human skull, adorned with the clubs symbol on its forehead.

Further down, on his right side and partially obscured by his belt was the simple image of a setting sun, and on the left, a quill pen with a razor tip - and the rest of Nicholas' torso, it seemed, was decorated with old, white scars, some of which were raised and ragged-looking, and others were smooth and thin.

And, were Michael to look up, he would find that Nicholas' eyes were open again, and watching him.
 
For a long, still moment, Michael only stared blank-faced at Nick's torso. It was like there was a written page before him, and he was supposed to read it, only all the words were in Hebrew. He didn't understand what he was seeing. One word did come to mind, echoing in the back of his skull and turning his blood to ice.

Torture.

His eyes grew wide, his lips parted in an open gape. This wasn't right, not at all. This was-

Scores of scars, marring his chest, turning him into an optical illusion of white and flesh colors. Some were clean, others were fucking brutal. Messy things that resembled tearing more than cutting. Ripping.

Something had ripped Nicholas' skin apart. Long ago, from the look of it. But still, Michael'd had no idea. Not that he imagined it was the sort of thing one talked about, but what in the hell happened to somebody that this is what they got?

Michael couldn't breathe. Tentatively, heart in his throat, he rubbed the pad of his thumb across a particularly nasty spot, extending across the sternum. It was papery soft and rough at the same time. What could do that, he wondered.

And Jesus if he wasn't a sick bastard, but it was beautiful, too. Horrifying and insane and totally mesmerizing, like a Van Gogh self-portrait. There were tattoos Michael never knew about, and when he brushed his fingertips across the disturbing image of a laughing skull, he imagined a younger Nicholas--one he'd never known--gritting his teeth in the artist's chair, eyes bright with a little pain and a little excitement.

Moments like these, Michael mused dazedly as heat pooled in his groin, were how fetishes were born.

His heart was breaking, his mind was spinning out of control, going no no no no, this isn't real, this isn't real, and still, amidst all the horror, he was overcome with the desire to kiss it better. And not in a motherly fashion.

Unbidden, and completely beneath him, came the viciously jealous thought, Bianca knew this about Nick. She saw this, this fucking tragedy, and she burned him regardless. He should have punched her. This was something to be protected and, yeah, terrified of, but cherished.

Slow as molasses, eyes fixed on the spiderweb road map of pain, Michael dipped his head, leaning ever closer to Nicholas' skin, until he could feel the heat off his chest against his face, and his pulse spiked hard and fast in his throat. He licked his lips, took a breath, and just before he bent down, he glanced up at Nick.

Oh, holy fuck.

Michael jumped back like Nick had spontaneously caught fire, stumbling a little while he caught his balance. "Dude. I ..."

He turned and left.
 
Nick had always been careful; he had always been terribly, terribly careful.

Anyone who knew Nicholas Godwit was unlikely to remember a time they had ever seen him out of his business suits and during the rare times he was, he always wore long sleeves and slacks - on the beach, the most he would ever do was remove his shoes.

That was roughly the most he had ever taken off in front of Bianca, too; she had been puzzled at first when he had refused to have sex with her, so he had lied and told her that he wanted to know they were dedicated to eachother before they went any further. He had said that he wanted to wait until after marriage before they went any further, had told her that sex complicated things, that they should focus on connecting in other ways.

So maybe all of that bullshit had been his mistake - it would figure he had managed to find the one woman in Los Angeles who was primarily interested in the sexual aspect of a relationship.

Either way, he supposed, Bianca would have left him for Chance - she couldn't be in a relationship with a man who abstained, but she wouldn't be with a physically damaged man either; he had been doomed from the beginning. He just hadn't realized it.

He watched hazily as Michael froze in place, watched him look over his marred torso with disbelief, astounded by what he was seeing - and why wouldn't he be? He had never known that his best friend was a mess of scars and tattoos, and he was only seeing part of him. For an instant, he expected a reaction of pure mortification on Michael's part but - no. There was something else there, and Nicholas cocked his head to the side to observe it, watching as his best friend's expression was morphing into one of rapt focus, watched as Michael pushed the material of his shirt aside to touch at an old, ragged scar that ran across his chest, fingers warm and rough.

He watched as Michael began to lean in, coming so close that Nick could feel the other man's breath on his skin - and then he looked up, they made eye contact, and Michael froze, expression changing into one of shock, horror; Michael was staring at him, boggle-eyed and startled to find him staring back and then he was darting out of the room like a little jackrabbit, desperate to escape the sight of its potential predator.

Nick propped himself up on his elbows then; the dress shirt slid further down off his shoulders, one of which was tattooed with an ornate candle, and the other with a medieval knight in a full suit of armour.

He stared for a long moment at the empty doorway and then, finally, he said:

"Huh."

And then he conscientiously tugged his shirt back together and laid back on the bed again.
 
Michael was losing his shit. He was going insane, that was the only explanation for it. Why else, why else would he attempt to undress, grope, and kiss his best friend while he was passed out on his bed?

Well. Not entirely passed out, as luck would have it.

When he bolted from the bedroom, he realized he had no place to go and stopped short in the living room. He couldn't very well add jacking the dude's car to the long list of wrongs he'd already done Nicholas that night. Because, see, there was already inappropriate violence (check), calling to be bailed out of jail (check), allowing him to go get blackout drunk by himself (check), and now despicable molestation of his drunken person (check).

As far as best friends went, Michael was kind of a lemon.

And Nicholas, he - He wasn't. He took it all square on the chin. Even the look he'd given Michael just now, when Michael was so obviously about to give him a trip around the world, was one of mild bemusement rather than real offense. Then again, the guy was drunk and may have been too out of it to realize what was happening.

Which would be, well, awesome.

So Michael had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and there was no way he was going to get to sleep anytime in the next week or so. He stood among his furniture, suddenly awkward and fidgety in his own home, and took a long look around. There wasn't really even anything productive to do. The place was tidy, dishes were done, floor was clean, except for Nick's briefcase next to the door.

Michael went into the kitchen, opened a beer, and finished it in under a minute. And then his eyes went back to the briefcase. It looked wrong there. Maybe in Nicholas' condo the floors were as immaculate as the tabletops, but not in Casa de Jonesy. With a sigh, he went and scooped the case up by the handle and swung it onto the coffee table.

Shit went everywhere. There was a clatter and the sound of about fifty different things flying across the floor and Michael actually looked up at the ceiling, like it was a straight shot to the Boss, and said, "Really? Really." His life had become absurd. Nick's super posh briefcase had actually come open like its thousand-and-whatever-dollar latches just got bored and took a break.

He had to flip on the light to find where everything had gone, and when he turned around he accidentally kicked Nick's passport.

"Really shouldn't be carrying this around," Michael grumbled, because he was just in that kind fo mood. He scooped it off the floor and, as he bent down, he spotted another passport. Only it wasn't a United States issue.

"What the ..."

All in all, there were twelve passports. He counted them as he picked each one off the floor. Also, and not exactly in this order, he found a false bottom to the briefcase, a kit of syringes, a partially used roll of duct tape, and a black canvas roll-up of knives. Mechanically, he picked them all up, put them on the coffee table, and fell heavily onto the sofa.

Michael was not a guy who snooped. Everyone had their personal shit, Lord knew he had his own share, and it wasn't a crime to keep that stuff under wraps. Whatever Nicholas carried around in his case, it was his own damned business and none of Michael's, but.

He opened the passports. He hated himself even as he was doing it, and he already kinda instinctively knew what he'd find inside, but he just had to see it with his own eyes. Sure enough, it was Nick's picture in all twelve of the little books, with a myriad of stamps on each of them. He was using them. Regularly. Recently.

A motor backfired somewhere down the street, loud and jarring in the silence of the room, and Michael jumped. Hastily, he scooped everything back into the case and replaced the false bottom. When he closed the case, this time he made damned sure that it latched and he placed it near the front door, exactly where he'd found it.

He went straight to the kitchen, got out some complimentary stationary from the phone company, and penned the following letter.

Nick--

Bet you feel like ass. Aspirin by the kitchen sink. Got an early start this morning. Sorry couldn't stick around. I'll call you.

Michael

He taped it to the front door before he left the house on foot. He needed time to think.
 
The sun was spilling in through the windows and the birds were singing in the treetops; the ghetto L.A. world just outside of the window was so bright and optimistic that morning that it made Nick want to stab himself in the neck. He woke up with a dry mouth and an aching head, and he sat up in the bed, normally neat hair mussed and sticking out.

A quick scan of himself informed him that his shirt was still half-open from the previous night - which was rapidly coming back to him. In fact, within exactly half a minute, he could remember the evening and very early morning in lurid, bright detail, from the lukewarm feeling of the red wine leaking down his neck, to the warm buzz of vodka on his tongue, to the hot touch of Michael on his chest.

Michael, who was currently no where to be found.

Nick ended up downing several glasses of water before he made any effort to seek him out, but it was to no avail - he encountered the note beside the aspirin, and as he popped three of them, he stood and cocked his head at the writing for a long moment. It had been written hastily, that much was clear.

Almost instantly after reading the note, Nick's eyes slid over to his briefcase, which was settled in the hallway by the front closet, right where he had left it - and, of course, there was nothing to tell him that anything had been done to it, but Nick stalked towards it anyways, kneeling down beside the case, setting it flat, and clicking it open. The top of it was layered in documents, affixed with a few pens and old flight tickets.

He lifted the bottom latch, and he stared at the contents.

His jaw shifted forward, then back. Nick brought one hand to the bridge of his nose, and then drew it slowly down his face, closing his eyes for a long moment before he looked a second time.

Yes. Things had been moved. The passports were out of order.

And he could practically smell that his knives had been touched.

Nick closed the briefcase again; he went into the kitchen, and picked up the pen. He wrote, simply:

Thanks for tucking me in.

And then he put his shoes on, picked up his briefcase, went out to his car, and drove himself back to his condo. In the bathroom, he stood in front of the mirror - dishevelled and stained with wine, the beginnings of stubble on his jaw - no, this just wouldn't do.

This didn't look like Nicholas.

Nick took a shower so hot that it practically steamed him; he shaved, he combed his hair back into place, and he put on a new, neatly pressed suit, and he inspected himself carefully under the harsh flourescent lights. Immaculate. Neat. Wholesome.

Yes, that was more like it.
 
It broke down like this:

Okay, Nick had secrets. Big secrets, possibly having to do with the CIA or NSA. Or maybe even the Men In Black. Nick. Had. Secrets. And Michael?

Well, Michael had a drinking problem. The problem being that he stopped drinking sometime around midnight, followed shortly thereafter by a red-faced Amber shooing him out of her apartment to the tune of Michael's weak and considerably slurred assertions of "this has never happened to me before, I swear!"

Because it didn't happen, that thing that happened for the first time last night. Ever.

Nick had secrets, Michael had a one-time case of whiskey dick--or, in his case, gin--and now everything was going to get back to normal. Nick, drunk as he was, would have no recollection of the other thing, and everything was going to be absolutely fine.

Michael stared blearily at his own wrecked reflection in the mirror. "You are so fucked."

It was sneaking up on noon and Michael had only just stepped out of the shower. He stayed in until the water ran cold which, sadly for him, wasn't all that long. But no matter, because everything was going to be fine.

He dressed in some faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt and drank about a gallon of water once he made it as far as the kitchen. As he tipped his head back and gulped, he kept one eye on the note he'd yet to toss in the trash. The one that said, 'Thanks for tucking me in.' Oddball phrasing, even for Nicholas.

It didn't mean anything, though. Michael was fine.

Once he was on his way to fully hydrated, he fished his cell out of his pocket and flipped it open. The time showed as 11:52 a.m. If Nicholas was doing the office gig today, it'd be about time for his lunch break. Michael thumbed the buttons to Nick's number, and debated hitting 'send'.

He closed the phone again and tossed it on the counter, more forcefully than he'd intended. He'd get in touch with Nicholas again, and soon, but today wasn't going to be that day.
 
Michael's cell phone would hit the table in unison with Nick's knuckles hitting the front door; it was followed by two more knocks before he stepped back away from the door and waited patiently for Mikey to answer. As a rule, Nicholas didn't really have 'lunch breaks', given that his work hours tended to be somewhat haphazard and unpredictable, but he knew when other people would take their lunch breaks, so it was easy to look like he had a normal schedule anyways.

Presently, Nicholas was dressed in a precisely fitted dove grey suit, which had been combined with - of all things - a pink dress shirt and grenadine-hued tie that would have looked foppish on anyone else, but somehow, on Nicholas, only emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and the strength of his neck.

And when Michael opened the door, he would find his friend waiting patiently, offering up one of his crooked little smiles, complete with dimples.
 
Michael gave a start when he heard the door and, without inspecting too closely when or why he'd become so jumpy in how own damned house, he went to get the door.

Now, Michael didn't live in the best of neighborhoods. Not by a long shot. He had the kind of neighbors who held no qualms about displaying their malfunctioning automobiles upon cement blocks in the middle of their grassless lawns, let their kids run barefoot and dirt-streaked through the street, and who warranted a police presence at least once weekly. Despite all that, he rarely made use of his peephole before throwing the door wide open. He was a big guy, after all--above average height and built in a way that landed him a job watching the door at a seedy skin club--and wasn't naturally inclined toward paranoia.

Meaning, when he threw the door open ready to tell some unsupervised brat to get his ass back to school, Michael was shocked still to find Nicholas standing on the other side.

"Nick!" he exclaimed, guiltily, like he'd been caught in the middle of some nefarious act. Uncontrollably, Michael's attention dipped from Nick's face to his suit clad chest, but he dragged them back up again in record time.

"What are you doing here?" Michael asked before he could put on the verbal brakes. "I mean- Hey. Come on in."

Awesome, Michael. Real smooth.

He stepped back to make room for Nicholas to pass, noting as he did so that his friend, as usual, was dressed for a Bond movie while Michael was dressed like he was just on his way to replace a carburetor or something. Michael liked the way he dressed, comfortable in casual t-shirts that he selected carefully (though he'd never admit it) to show off his physique. He was a confident guy, easy on the eyes and successful with women (of a certain caliber), but all it took was Nicholas Godwit waltzing into the room to make him feel like an awkward, pubescent geek.

"So, uh. What brings you out this way?"
 
As Michael stepped aside, Nick stepped forward and slipped past enough to stand just inside the doorway; he stuck his hands into the pockets of his trousers and rocked a little on his heels, peering briefly down the hall, and then back out the door.

If Michael were to glance downwards at the time, he would observe that Nick was lacking his usual fine Italian footwear; pricey leather gucchi had been replaced, instead, with a pair of slightly faded blue converse shoes, which stuck out bizarrely in contrast with the perfectly tailored suit.

"I'm going to take you out." Nick replied, and then added as an after-thought,

"For lunch. I've got a few hours to kill. There's a little hole-in-the-wall place downtown with good beer on tap and, as I hear, steak that they'll basically hack directly off the cow for you; I figured I could make up for the surrealist plate you had to prod at the other night by feeding you something that would legitimately pass for food."
 
Michael did notice the shoes. In fact, he was on the verge of a very ungentlemanly gawk, blinking dumbly at Nick's feet and trying to reconcile what he saw there with what he knew about his best friend. It was like trying fit the circle block into the square hole; utterly impossible and no small amount frustrating. But then Nick said,

"I'm going to take you out,"

and Michael snapped immediately back to attention, blood pounding. Unbidden came the image of Chechen death squads stealing into the homes of civilians in the dead of night, leaving with a heavy, black, person-shaped bag.

"For lunch," Nick went on to add, and Michael tried not to actually visibly relax, but the effort was in vain.

"Lunch," he echoed back at Nick and, without moving his head, Michael's gaze slid slowly to the side and down. He ran his palm over the side of his face, testing the length of his stubble, as if this had ever in his entire life mattered before. Incidentally, he found he only had a dark shadow going on.

"Um." Michael couldn't think of a good excuse not to go. Furthermore, he couldn't think of a reason to want an excuse not to go. Nick was here, acting like Nick, and whether or not he actually remembered that awkward moment the other night, he wasn't letting it stand between them. This was exactly what Michael wanted.

"Yeah, okay." He broke into one of his patent Michael grins, though it lacked a bit of its usual luster. "But if someone even whispers the words 'wine list,' I'm outta there."
 
"Yeah, well, you'll have to catch up with me." Nick replied promptly; he probably never wanted to see wine ever again, all things considered - he wasn't sure that the shirt would ever recover from the evening they'd had, "But I don't think we'll have to worry about it at this place. It's, uh, nothing like the Giza."

He didn't say it, but his tone implied he was just barely stopping himself from adding 'thank god' to the end of the sentance. He jerked his head towards the door then - in silent encouragement - before he stepped outside again, back into sunlight, and he moved towards the car; it was an especially hot day, but Nick seemed entirely uneffected by the weather, not even breaking a sweat in the heat of mid-day, despite the layers of his suit.

"Anyways, I'm kind of in the mood for something bloody." he added, unlocking the car doors with the remote, "A good steak."

He had been careful about what he ate since he had started seeing Bianca; on top of her perpetual calorie restriction, she was a strict vegan, and while Nick hadn't been able to completely give up the animal products, he had refrained, at least, from the more obvious carnivore delights like semi-raw steaks; the smell of them had made her sick. And possibly the sight, since Nick liked them still mooing a little.
 
Michael only barely managed not to stop short, throw his hands in the air, and demand Nick tell him what the Hell was going on. In the mood for something bloody? Take him out? If he didn't know any better--and, well, he didn't, not really--he'd say that Nick was deliberately messing with his head. That Nick had been trying to mess with his head since he walked through the door at Kobayashi's that night. Every word out of his mouth was loaded with meaning, and some things, seemingly innocuous things, had even taken on new levels of complexity the longer Michael thought on them.

"We're all damaged goods," Nick had said, while hiding all those silver and white lines beneath his shirt. That had to mean something.

Michael slid into the car and shut the door behind him.

Then again, he was still so Nick. Maybe Michael was the only one who had changed, and now he was over thinking every small remark like some caught up chick. And maybe Nicholas really had no recollection of the other night, and there was a good explanation for the passports and the syringes and the duct tape.

And again, that fucking word came to mind, chafing at Michael's tenuous hold on his sanity.

Torture.

He gave a shiver and tried to pass it off as a shoulder roll.

"Dude. If you really want to make your lame ass dinner party up to me, then I get to pick the tunes." Before the announcement was out, he already had his hand on the radio, turning the numbers to his favorite classic rock station.
 
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