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Perfect Stranger (SevenxBathos)

Michael's hands curled into fists at his sides, much like they had done the first time he had encountered Kennedy Chance. But even if he had wanted to take a swing at him--which was still kind of up in the air, at present--he couldn't have moved for the confusion anchoring him to the spot where he stood.

Some sort of rule?

Michael blinked dumbly at Chance. If his instincts were correct, and they usually were about this kind of thing, then Chance was implying that Bianca and Nick had never-

That just couldn't be right.

Except for how it kind of made sense, considering what Michael had seen now. All those scars, they couldn't be easy to share, and Bianca wasn't the most forgiving woman when it came to physical flaws. But did that mean Nick was a-

Michael needed another beer.

"Sure," Michael said hollowly, mind spinning too wildly out of control for him to devote the appropriate amount of enthusiasm to this moment. He turned, made it as far as the doorway before he stopped and added, "Oh, and sooner is better than later. Thanks, man."
 
Chance watched as Michael walked out of the room, eyes tracking him the whole way; he remained in place for several long moments after the other man had left before he slowly sank back down into his seat, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Soon after, he pressed for the intercom,

"Yes sir?"

"Delia, contact the LAPD; I want to speak with the Commissioner."

"Yes sir. Is there a problem, sir?"

Chance frowned at the machine; Delia, of course, had seen the bruises on his face but had hesitated to comment because, after all, she knew her place - as she should, given that she was paid more than enough to do as she was told, a salary that would more than cover her overpriced university tuition along with cost of living - but she seemed especially curious that day.

"No, Delia." Chance lied, "I merely need to discuss some business with the LAPD."

The line was closed and Delia eyed the intercom for a long time afterwards; she had only worked for Kennedy Chance for three months now, but she was a quick study - she knew when he was lying. She also knew that the man who had walked in only minutes ago couldn't possibly be Chance's cousin - he wouldn't have anything to do with someone who had priors, even if they were family.

That sort of thing was a career killer, after all, and if Chance was good at anything, it was keeping a clean slate.

Delia looked up from her paperwork when the doors on either side of the room opened; on one side, Chance's supposed cousin was sauntering out, on the other, a stick-thin blonde was sashaying in.

The latter had become a frequent visitor in the last few weeks, an astoundingly cold woman that Delia had done a little extra-curricular digging to find more about - Bianca Borgstrom, known colloquially as the Paris Hilton of death. The woman came from a wealthy background funded by her father's funeral business - which, up until a year ago, had been precariously close to bankruptcy as the result of poor investments in combination with an economic crisis. Something had pulled them out of it, but Delia's amateur investigation had only led her so far - all she knew was now Bianca was connected to Chance.

And her presence that day could have been irrelevant if it weren't for what happened.

Rather than brushing by and advancing into the office the way she normally did, Bianca froze suddenly in place - an impressive feat for someone on five inch stilettos - and regarded Chance's cousin with startlement.

"What are you doing here?" Bianca hissed out.
 
Michael was still reeling when he stepped through Chance's office doors and back into the waiting room, and he didn't even have the presence of mind to leave the obnoxious prick's door standing wide open, instead falling on a reflexive politeness and pulling it quietly shut behind him. He was busy sifting through the pieces of his shattered perception of his best friend; too busy, in fact, to notice that his whore of an ex-girlfriend was breathing his oxygen until he was almost right on top of her and she asked,

'What are you doing here?'

Michael looked down and, probably furthering her idea that he was a dim-witted redneck, took a few moments to register that she was actually there and not some figment of his imagination, which happened to be spiraling wildly out of control at that particular moment.

"Bianca," he said, automatically, and would later regret that he hadn't gone with something a little more fitting, like 'Satan.' But for now, he found his intense animosity temporarily subdued.

Before his mind could catch up with his mouth, he'd already blurted without preamble, "Seriously, over a year and no nookie?"

And that so wasn't his business, he realized belatedly, not that he cared about offending Bianca's tender sensibilities, but if Nick had wanted him to have this kind of information, he would have told Michael outright. He thought about taking it back, waving his hands dismissively and going, 'No, no, don't tell me, I don't want to know,' but his mouth, once again, was not cooperating. Nor were his lungs, which had gone suddenly and stubbornly still as he waited breathlessly for an answer.
 
Bianca had expected any number of responses; having known Michael for as long as she had known Nick, she had come to realize that the man had a somewhat bawdy sense of humour, as well as a tendency to say the most innappropriate things - she wouldn't have been surprised if he had tossed around some slurs or alluded to her being a prostitute, but she never would have predicted what Michael actually said.

"Seriously, over a year and no nookie?"

Bianca's mouth fell open, it closed again. Colour came to her face for the first time in a very long time, a visible flush of embarrassment before she adjusted her expression into a colder, less human one.

Delia did her very best not to stare, but had been unable to help hearing; she busied herself with focusing hard on her desk.

"I hardly think it's your concern." Bianca snapped, mentally damning Chance; could the man never keep his mouth shut? Politicians were such school girls, "Anyways, I would think that Nick had told you everything."

There was a brief hesitation, and then Bianca lifted her chin, peering at Michael from down her nose,

"Or did he actually withhold information from you?" she asked suddenly.
 
Michael had his answer. It was written all over Bianca's face. She'd really and truly never had sex with Nick. All things considered, it wasn't the most bizarre discovery he'd made in the past couple of days, but it was weird.

Unbidden, the image of Nicholas, cheerful and drunk at Kobayashi's, flashed into Michael's mind's eye. The delicate point of his tongue sliding across his wrist, chasing away a rivulet of vodka. The lazy quality of his smile, the heat of his fingertips against Michael's jaw, the flat plane of his scarred abdomen.

It just wasn't right.

He snapped back into focus, mouth turning down at the corners. "Huh? No! I mean, yeah, but it's not exactly--" He cut himself off, exasperated. Nick wasn't withholding information from anyone. He was just kind of a private guy, and not every little thing required a heartfelt discussion about goddamn feelings, that was all. Michael understood that as well as anybody, even if Bianca didn't. And she was a woman, therefore incapable of comprehending the concept, so he stopped himself from trying to explain.

"It's just that," Michael began, and despite the fact that he and Bianca had never been friends and for damn sure never would be, he took a step closer to her, lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper in hopes that the secretary wouldn't overhear, dipping his head closer to hers, and said, "Have you noticed anything odd about Nick lately? I mean, like, before you guys split. Was he acting ... different?"
 
Bianca watched as Michael went unfocused, his eyes going distant; it was an expression she had seen on the man's face many times before, and it was almost exclusively connected with the topic of Nick - it was just another reason she had found herself irritated by their close friendship. There had been days where she would have killed to know what Michael was thinking during those moments, to know if maybe there was something he knew about Nick that she didn't - eventually, she came to the conclusion that there was probably a lot.

Michael stepped forward and Bianca automatically took a half step back, stopping herself only when she heard the dip in the man's voice; a low, secretive murmur - which was new for Michael, who generally had no qualms with being boisterous about anything he had to say.

The nastier part of her wanted to hit Michael across the face for all of his involvement in the past year - but some other part of her recognized the worry in his voice.

Bianca tried to maintain her scowl but it softened a little despite herself; instead, she crossed her thin arms over her chest, eyes downcast,

"Nothing out of the ordinary for him." she admitted after a length of silence, "He was as oblivious as ever, travelled a lot. He didn't talk to me very much - not about anything of importance, anyways."

It was girl-speak for 'emotions'.

"I think he makes up for a complicated work life by being as simple as he possibly can be otherwise." she said, turning her head to the side to stare hard at the far wall; a glossy, tasteful photo of a smiling Kennedy Chance decorated it in a gilded frame. Bianca frowned at it.

"It seems to be a common theme." she added irritably, briefly clenching her jaw.

"We don't like eachother, Michael. We never will. You think I'm a bitch; I think you're a slob - I don't believe either of us are entirely inaccurate." she said flatly, "And you'll hate me for what I did - but even at the Giza, he had no reaction - and that's the way he always was. Call him laid back if you like, but there were times I could have sworn he was completely empty."

She looked back at Michael then; her expression was icy, hard, but there was a delicate crease just between her bleached, perfectly styled brows.

"And even ice princesses can only take so much of that." she said, then peered down at her wristwatch; the diamond tennis bracelet was gone, replaced with a braided silver and white gold one. "I have to go. Goodbye, Michael. I'd prefer not to have to do this again."

And with that, Bianca moved around him and continued along to Chance's office.
 
Michael stood frozen for a moment after Bianca moved past him, with his brow crinkled and his mouth turned down. He was struck dumb with the horrifying impression that he and Bianca had just engaged in what could only be described as girl talk. As if that weren't awful enough already, declaring a momentary cease fire with a woman he'd rather have pushed down a flight or two of stairs, he actually kind of saw her side of things.

At least, he could see how Nick might seem that way--the cold and empty and unresponsive thing--to someone who didn't know him like Michael did. But that wasn't Nick. Nick was warm and cheerful and odd and hilarious and, apparently, had a secret desire to ride some bumper cars.

He'd concede the oblivious part, though. If only silently, in the very far recesses of his mind.

At last, Michael got his feet to cooperate, and he made his hasty exit.

- - - - - -

It was probably a testament to his character, or lack thereof, that Michael didn't consider anything unusual about the fact that he was starting to memorize the faces of the clerical staff at the detention center, and that the same was true for them. He strolled through the outer lobby, boots thudding and echoing against the high walls, and the secretary looked up from behind the thick, plate glass window and her face fell instantly.

"Mr. Jones," she said after flipping on the speaker, and her voice came through the glass tinny and irritated. "I told you there was nothing I could do."

Michael waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, but that was before Chance agreed to drop the charges." He grinned at her, put the full force of his optimism and charm behind it, and noticed that it did not have the desired effect of warming her up. "Seriously, though. He did. So now I can have my truck."

He thought maybe if he said it enough times, the power of positive thinking would see him through.
 
Delia watched Michael leave and she watched as Bianca slipped into Chance's office; though little had been said, she couldn't help but feel that she had just witnessed something significant.

As she waited on the line to get in touch with the Chief of Police, her manicured little fingers tapped away at the computer keyboard as she did a Google search on the Borgstrom family for the umpteenth time. Headlines from late 2008 and early 2009 appeared on screen:

Strong River Gains New Muscle

Gunnar Borgstrom Expands Empire

Delia propped her chin up on her hand while the phone line played irritating elevator music; she told herself that she probably needed to find new ways to occupy her time, but settled with the idea that it was good practise for her future in Journalism.

2007-2008.

Death of Borgstrom Funerary Fortune?

Stocks Dive for Strong River Funeral Services

Strong River Cash Flow Slowing

2005.

Gunnar Borgstrom Divorces Third Wife

2001.

Borgstrom Heiress Arrested for Possession!

Nothing new there.

2000.

Ellie Borgstrom Commits Suicide

Someone had even put the pictures up, post-mortem photos of the late Mrs. Borgstrom, formerly a lively, beautiful blonde and now lifeless, her throat mottled with bruises; Delia gaped.

She jumped when the phone line crackled and practically lunged for reciever, simultaneously and guiltily closing the web browser as though someone might see.

"This is the office of Kennedy Chance," Delia said shakily, "Mr. Chance has requested you, I'll transfer you now."

---

Bianca stood against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest, watching as Chance put down the phone.

"You're sure you want to drop the charges?" she asked.

"There's no sense in making a scene." Chance replied, "Michael is human, after all, and he felt he was defending his friend."

"Not to mention this sort of thing looks bad for you in the news. You wouldn't want the voters thinking you're some sort of limp-wristed fop who runs to Mr. Commissioner for every black eye." Bianca said airily before adding a sharp: "Right?"

Irritation flashed briefly across Chance's face and Bianca nearly smiled. After a moment, Chance actually did smile.

"Get your tiny ass over here." he said.

"Yes, sir."

---

Elizabeth nearly rolled her eyes in the face of Michael's 100-watt smile; she had seen it countless times before, the charming convicts who saw a pretty girl and figured they could smooth talk their way out of charges.

Of course, all this one wanted was his truck.

"Regardless of your claim that Mr. Chance has dropped the charges, you need to wait for the proper paperwork to be filed and processed before you can come into possession of evidence. Until said paperwork is filed, the truck is LAPD property, and not before then." she droned, "I don't have the authority to make that decision."

A wispy voice came from somewhere to her left; Elizabeth started visibly.

"I do."

Commissioner Crowman appeared beside her, gliding in like a ghost, a small sheaf of papers held between spidery fingers,

"Come along Mr. Jones." he said, stepping out from behind the glass station and through the door, moving past Michael and beginning down a hallway, "If you behave yourself you can have your truck back today; I don't need it cluttering up the lot anyways."
 
"I do," drifted a voice off to Michael's right and his head swiveled on his neck, his face pulled up into an expression of hope and joy and admiration, and it was exactly like that time Luke Skywalker appeared seemingly out of nowhere at Jaba's palace to save the day. Exactly like that, only better, because this was real and this guy, whoever he was, was totally Michael's hero.

He cast one last look at Elizabeth, waggled his eyebrows and flashed her a triumphant grin and only barely just stopped himself from telling her to 'eat it, bitch,' which was just as well because the man was in the middle of saying something about Michael behaving.

Michael trotted to catch up, and fell into pace next to the man, cocking his head to get a good look at him. "Man, I can't tell you how much I appreciate--hey. Aren't you that dou"--he caught himself--"dude from the other night? The one who, uh, discharged me?"
 
Crowman didn't look over at Michael as they walked, his lamplight eyes focused unblinkingly ahead,

"Yes. And you would be the dude who trespassed, destroyed property, and assaulted a man all in one night, correct?" he asked rhetorically, but didn't even bother to pause for effect; he continued speaking as he moved, his voice slow and quiet,

"Keep your temper in line, Mr. Jones, and this sort of thing can be avoided, because if I see your truck in my precinct lot again, I'll make sure it gets left in the projects with the keys in; you can watch your Dodge Ram be driven down Drew Street by one of the Chola gang leaders. They may even paint it baby blue for you."

He led Michael through a side door and out into the heat of the day; they moved through a fenced in lot, complete with barbed wire and electric fencing. The entire area was decorated with endless lines of cars of every brand and colour, from rusting old Pintos to a brand new Lambourghini.

-

Burke's sinuses ached. His knee throbbed. He was freezing cold.

And the bastard had just left him there, surrounded by cow and sheep carcasses; he didn't even know how long he had been there, or what part of the city he was in anymore. The most he could figure out was that it was below ground level.

And that he needed to get the fuck out.

Burke began to test his bindings again; every movement of his hands caused the rope to strain against his neck.

He began to hold his breath; he knew that he wouldn't have long to escape and he was painfully aware that suffocation would be preferrable to what this guy could do to him.

-

"Hey, Csardas - ignore any weird sounds coming from your freezer, yeah?"
 
"Right," Michael said, angling for grave and failing fantastically. He'd been on the receiving end of empty threats from officers of the law for so long now that he rarely spared them a second thought. He'd heard it all, ranging from, 'You're a good kid, Michael, and I'd hate to see you get in over your head,' to, 'You're scum, you're always gonna be scum, and if I see you around here again I'm gonna blah blah blah.'

In Michael's opinion, law enforcement, as a whole, would benefit greatly if all the hard-boiled detective novels ever written were rounded up and burned to ash.

But this guy wasn't as bad as some, and he was likely saving Michael hours or even days of waiting, so he was trying to show a little respect. He caught sight of the red cab down the aisle and it was an effort not to break into a run, but he managed okay, fingers twitching at his sides.

"To be fair, whatever did or didn't happen"--he was paranoid even now about admitting to his guilt to an actual cop--"I can pretty much guarantee you that Chance deserved every bit of it." Michael looked up at Crowman again. "Say, I never did catch your name?"
 
"You don't need to convince me that beating a congressman was justified." Crowman said dismissively - he may have been making a joke, but it was difficult to tell, "And you never caught my name because I never introduced myself, Mr. Jones."

His mouth was a thin line, expression pulled into something terse as though he was against giving out his name to anyone, but he did so out of legal requirements,

"Crowman. Callum. LAPD Commissioner. I'll be sure to take your case personally if you come in again." he said finally, leading Michael up to the truck and placing the sheaf of papers onto the hood; he absently handed Michael a pen so he could set into the pile of paperwork while he opened up the driver's side of the vehicle and removed a plastic bag, placing it on the hood as well, within Michael's view,

"All vehicle contents were bagged; I'm sure your friend will be wanting his suit jacket back. Complete the forms and you can drive it off the lot. Give my regards to Mr. Meadows, I'm sure he'll do the same."
 
"Commissoner," Michael repeated under his breath, tone incredulous. With the single exception of Nick--and, okay, Brian, but only as a direct result of Nick--he'd never warranted attention from anyone in a position of actual power. It was always grunts, like the enchanting Officer Robson, who got stuck dealing with Michael.

Then again, it wasn't so much Michael getting the attention as it was Kennedy Chance, and that thought went a long way to calm his heart and stop the adrenaline that had briefly threatened to pour into his system. He had no reason to be paranoid.

He looked at the plastic bag, eyebrows raised, and took the papers. "Uh, thanks," he said, sounding a little absent, himself. He started dropping initials and signatures and dates on the paper, skimming the agreements and disclaimers, and basically doing a rush job. He could have signed his soul away in that stack of papers and Michael wouldn't have known it until the Devil came a-knockin'.

"Well, Commissioner Crowman," Michael said slowly, and then scribbled the final date with almost violent enthusiasm. He handed them back, flashing Crowman one of his huge, megawatt smiles and said, "I don't plan on coming back. Even your friggin' jail thinks I'm too low rent to spend the night, so. Assuming everything there's in order, this should be good bye for good."
 
Crowman didn't return Michael's smile; his expression didn't even budge from it's stubbornly bored one, green eyes pinned onto the other man.

"Hm." Crowman said, a noise that could have meant anything as he took the proferred papers without bothering to look down at them; it was routine work.

Well. Mostly.

"Do keep off other people's lawns." Crowman said, handing off the keys without flourish and clutching the folder in one hand, spidery fingers nearly covering the length of it. "Goodbye, Mr. Jones."

He turned on his heel and left; the gentle motion opened his jacket enough to briefly display his sidearm, holstered against his ribcage. Crowman didn't bother to glance back as he headed back through the parking lot and moved to the security booth where Michael would be passing through, placing the pile of papers down beside Elizabeth, who gave them a sideways look.

"He got clearance?" Elizabeth asked, and though the question seemed innocent enough, Crowman recognized the accusation in her voice.

"For now." Crowman said dismissively, before picking up a pen and scribbling onto a scrap piece of paper and handing it to her, "Put out an APB for this license plate. No advancing without instruction, I want observation only."

"Yes sir." Elizabeth said, giving Crowman a sideways look.

"Sometimes, Ms. Wilshire, you need to let go of the small things." Crowman added distantly, "Occasionally people have connections too strong for us to fight it."

That didn't sound like Crowman at all.

"Sir?" Elizabeth asked.

"APB, Wilshire. Please put it out." Crowman repeated, heading out of the station and leaving Elizabeth staring after him, before turning back to the pile of papers he had left for her to file; Michael Jones, the guy who had been trying to get his truck. She sorted through the papers unhappily, but just as she was entering the data on the computer, she gave pause at the truck registry - the license plate was the same as the one on the scrap paper.

Yes, that was more like it.

The LoJack was a nice touch, too.
 
Michael stared at the blackened remains of Nick's jacket, glowing and smoldering on the unoccupied half of his drive. His hands were shoved deep into his jeans pockets, his feet were bare, and his face was locked into an expression of abject terror.

So, it was no secret that he'd done some pretty stupid shit in his life. He was pretty much the king of all things born of emotional avoidance. On some level, some far off recess of his brain that still operated primarily on actual intellect, he totally got that, loud and clear.

But this shit was just beyond the scope of what he considered to be manageable psychological dysfunction.

So, he could pinpoint the moment things all went wrong. He saw it, clear as day in his head. It wasn't the football game or the handful of beers or the hot shower. In fact, it was even pretty par for the course for any night spent at home when he flopped bare ass naked onto the bed for a little quality time with his right hand.

But when he put his left hand down to clutch at the sheet, his hand usually met, well, sheets, and not the jacket he'd so carelessly thrown across the bed with the honest intention of hanging it in the closet. Nick's jacket, to be more specific.

It wasn't his fault, either, that one accidental grope of the man's suit brought his image to mind. And, naturally, in Michael's state, the image of his best friend that came to mind was, well, less than innocent. Not that Michael had a whole warehouse's worth of mental footage or anything, but it wasn't hard to imagine, off the cuff, Nicholas stretched out boneless on his bed with his shirt falling carelessly open and his eyes all dark and heavily lidded, an absolute rumpled mess.

Not all that long ago, it was goddamn reality.

What happened next, well. That was the moment, the clear as day moment, when things got out of hand. Or, well, into his hand, because Michael's hand fisted around Nick's jacket while the other was wrapped tight around his cock and, Jesus, but it was wrong, wrong, wrong to think of his buddy that way, even worse that he had to bite viciously down on his lip to keep from groaning his name into the empty room--because that seemed like an even worse betrayal of their trust than even the near-tongue-bath incident from a few nights prior, which Michael was still steadfastly Not Thinking About.

Only, shit, he kind of was thinking about it after that, the hard heat of Nick's chest beneath his fingertips and the crazy, strangely beautiful and ultimately terrifying patterns of scar tissue and ink and the way he smelled, like fucking--like--All right, he actually couldn't remember what Nick had smelled like that night, not very clearly, anyway, and so the natural thing to do was to bring the jacket to his face and breathe it in. It didn't smell like Nick, though. It smelled like Michael, but that was kind of hot, too, in its own borderline creepy-and-possessive kind of way.

After that, it was kind of fuzzy. Michael knew he the jacket somehow ended up in his teeth, he'd given up on all pretense of form and finesse and was just fucking blindly up into his own fist, these awful, shameful whimpers issuing from so far back in his throat it really felt like they originated in his balls and then he came so hard he saw bright explosions of color behind his eyelids and his bones turned to liquid, heavy and useless.

It wasn't until several minutes later, as Michael was silently freaking the fuck out and halfway to convincing himself that what just happened had not actually just happened when he noticed Nick's jacket.

Well, he'd noticed it before, but now he was noticing it. It was fucking demolished, more wrinkled than it'd ever been, and.

Well, it was stained, all right. Possibly irrevocably, Michael didn't know because he wasn't a fucking dry cleaner, but. Well, he panicked. Like a lot.

Which pretty much brought him to the present, standing in his driveway in jeans and t-shirt and watching the evidence of his psychotic episode--that's what it as, all right--going up in flames.

He withdrew a hand from his pocket, rubbed it across his face, and sighed.

"Fuck my life."
 
Crowman didn't try to fool himself.

He got off work late and didn't even briefly entertain the idea of going home to his dark little hovel of an apartment, which he used only for the purpose of sleep these days. At some point very long ago his life had become split into two locations - work and bed, and the latter was becoming more of a rarity.

He couldn't sleep at night. Men like him seldom could.

So he occupied himself during those hours where he should have been asleep, he did extra paperwork, took on a few more cases, tied up some loose ends - when he got particularly desperate for something to do, he would make his rounds in the ghetto or the strip. Sometimes he went in search of new loose ends to tie up.

Or, very occasionally, he would chase a thought - like he was doing that night.

Something about the whole thing had bothered him - it wasn't Michael running down a gate, hitting Chance in the face, or even showing up at his precinct. He knew, in part, it had to do with the very presence of Brian Meadows, a man who never took the moral high ground and always went for the highest salary he could get - Meadows would normally never take on a case with someone as low on the social totem pole as Michael Jones obviously was.

It was a small thing, really. It had itched at him just a little as he observed Michael and Brian, and something was just - off, but he had told himself to let it go.

Of course, then Kennedy Chance had called and spoken to him personally; Crowman didn't like that. Not just because Chance was a politician, but also because he was letting go of something as ego-damaging as being slapped around like a bitch - which was really kind of funny, not that Crowman would ever admit it.

So Crowman had followed up on it.

He didn't need to use the LoJack; he had seen Michael's file - he knew where he lived, and his aging, abused, grey Chevelle fit into the neighbourhood without any trouble.

Ultimately, he had expected a night of crossword puzzles and coffee, but after barely an hour of lingering just a few stops away from Jones' home - and well within view of the front door - the man himself came running out, threw something down onto the pavement, and set it on fire.

Having been the one to personally sift through the contents of Michael's truck, Crowman instantly recognized the burning item as the suit jacket that had been amidst everything else. Propping his chin up on his fist and watching the flames eat away the material, Crowman dearly hoped that Mr. Jones had removed the passport from the interior pocket first.
 
The sun was well past setting when Michael pulled his truck up to Nick's place, fingers absolutely no where close to shaking as he pulled his keys free of the ignition. He had a plan, complete with a script and a smile he'd practiced in the mirror maybe thirty times before he'd left Inglewood in search of his pal.

Everything was fine, perfectly fine. There was nothing weird afoot. Nick was not a super secret ninja agent, nor was he a survivor of some crazy childhood torture incident involving rape dogs and rusty knives. He also was not a virgin and it was merely evidence of Nick's good taste that he never managed to get it up for Bianca. And Michael was not gay for Nick--or anybody else, for that matter--but simply a very passionate human being who could find a rotten eggplant sexy in the heat of the moment.

And he was gonna prove it.

He glanced into the rear view--but not to check his hair, because he wasn't gay and therefore did not care if he looked good for Nick. He was simply checking to make sure his face was on straight before swinging out of the cab of his truck and heading up to the front door.

Michael was dressed in his standard uniform, though he'd exchanged the ratty jeans for the good ones that weren't wearing thin at the pockets and his green v-neck t-shirt was one of the ones that maybe hugged a little tighter and V'd a little deeper.

But that was for the ladies.

He stood awkwardly on the front step for a moment, reciting in his head the words he'd prepared ahead of time and steeling himself against the automatic blush he knew was going to try to rise up the moment he laid eyes on Nick. He was just that kind of self-aware.

Then he pushed the doorbell.
 
Burke wiggled in the chair. He pulled and twisted his hands and held his breath, he fidgeted in an effort to make it roll just a little from where it was anchored, but he quickly realized that the chair had been settled over a divet in the floor - a drain, in fact - and he was thus incapable of moving.

He wasn't too clear on why his torturer had left so suddenly - maybe he had lost interest - but he wasn't about to question it. It had been weird as fuck, though, because just after smashing the beer bottle across his knee, the guy had held up the broken glass and stared at it for a while as though he was studying the ragged edges. For several long, terrible minutes, Burke had been sure that it was going to be used on him; he had been positive that he was going to get shards of beer bottle embedded in his face. It would have made sense.

But then the guy had looked at his watch and pulled Burke's chair upright again; he dropped the glass.

"Don't go anywhere." he had said, "Because if I have to catch you a second time, I just - I won't be really happy, you know?"

Burke squirmed. He rocked from side to side. He gained momentum. He managed to knock the chair back again, impacting hard with the floor with a soft 'oof'. He felt glass shards pressing into his back through the material of his jacket; he began to feel around with his tied hands, searching until his fingertips came in contact with a scrap of glass.

-

Nick's watch declared that he had three days before he had to get on a plane and go to Russia; this wasn't new information for him, but as he stared at the broken glass bottle, he found himself thinking it over just a little more thoroughly, because something had been nagging him about the whole thing for a while.

It wasn't the travel, or the job itself. He had done both for too long to be anxious about either.

It was something -

- something else.

Nick thought about the Dreher beer bottle. He thought about drinking it the other day, with Mikey.

He thought a little more about Mikey. He thought about how the hinge of his briefcase was warped, and had probably been dropped at some point - he thought about how Mikey had probably seen his passports.

He thought about the passport he would need.

He thought about how he had put it in another jacket, which had been sitting in Mikey's truck in a police precinct lot for several days.

Very briefly, he thought about stabbing himself in the leg, because that was the sort of thing idiots deserved.

He didn't make mistakes. He was always careful, always exacting.

Or, he used to be.

He had slipped up; he had to get the passport back, a problem that was suddenly more prominent than a bound up drug dealer.

"Don't go anywhere." Nick said, dropping the glass and rising to his feet, gesturing vaguely with one hand, adding, "Because if I have to catch you a second time, I just - I won't be really happy, you know?"

He'd ended up going back to his apartment, searching systematically through his briefcase and all of his suit jackets in the vague hopes that maybe, maybe he had just done something marginally stupid by displacing it somewhere else in his condo. Maybe his memory had just failed him for once and he wouldn't have to blame idiocy for letting his friend walk off with an important - and illegal - document.

Nick drew in a breath and let it out slowly; he turned uselessly on the spot for a moment, and then began to pull off his suit, discarding it onto the bed and heading out of the room while mentally making a game plan.

It was simple enough, he told himself, he would just need to go visit Michael and get the jacket back. It would take all of ten minutes; the drug dealer would keep for that long, especially with the freezer to keep him fresh.

There was no need to get worked up. People did stupid things when they didn't think straight.

Briefly, Nick caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He frowned. He peered at the mess of scars.

"Fuck my life." he said with manic cheer, before stepping into the shower and steaming away the smell of Grant Burke and Los Angeles alleyways.

-

He had only just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rang, so his arrival at the front door was as hasty as his clothing; in place of the usual perfectly-tailored suit, Nick was dressed in loose jeans, bare feet, and a black t-shirt that was sticking to his still wet torso. Instead of his neatly combed hair, the dark strands stuck up at odd angles, still dripping water onto the towel slung around his shoulders.

"Oh, hey," Nick said brightly; speak of the devil who had better have his fucking passport.

Asking for the jacket right then would probably be a little hasty. He settled for something more standard with a:

"What's up?"
 
There for the briefest of moments--very brief, he hoped--Michael sort of forgot. Pretty much everything, up to and including English. He blinked owlishly a few times, and intelligently said, "Uh." Luckily, he transitioned fairly quickly so it came out more like, "Uh, hey, Nick."

Beyond that, he had nothing. He was staring Nick straight in the eyes, a faint smile on his lips, but his mind was an absolute blank, aside from the steady mantra of, 'Don't check him out, don't check him out, don't check hi--FUCK.' His eyes slipped clear down to Nick's naked toes and up again and his smile frayed around the edges.

"We're going out," Michael said, abrupt and sorta loud, although he'd kind of already changed his mind about the wisdom of his plan. It was flawed. Deeply flawed. For instance, maybe he just had gay moods. Sexuality was a weird thing and that was a totally plausible situation. It didn't mean he'd actually ever do anything about one of those, uh, moods. But they happened, no big deal.

He was definitely going with that.

"So get your jac--shoes. Get your shoes and socks, you're comin' with me."
 
Burke could barely feel his hands anymore; the combination of below zero temperatures and rope around his wrists had put his circulation in dire straights, so he found himself fumbling with the shard of glass, struggling just to pick it up.

It took several fruitless attempts and multiple cuts to his fingers before he managed to clutch a decent-sized piece of the broken bottle and wriggle enough to access the length of cord that stretched up and behind the back of the chair. Patience had never been a virtue of Burke's and his adrenaline was pumping furiously, so he worked at it with all of the gentility of a lumberjack, sawing at the rope.

He had been so focused on what he was doing that he might have make a tactical error and stopped paying attention to his surroundings, because he somehow missed the sound of heavy footsteps in the freezer.

-

Nick backed away from the door enough to allow Mikey to enter; the inside of the condo was large, well-lit, and painfully modern, designed from a base of white, black and shimmering steel, punctuated by the occasional red. The entire place look as though it had been taken from an IKEA catalogue, all cold and hard edges, and Nick stood amidst it like a flame across an ice floe.

Rubbing the towel against his still dripping hair, he crossed over to his bedroom as he spoke,

"Out?" Nick repeated, just out of Mikey's sight; he slid open the closet, in which there was a neatly arranged line of suits, the majority of which was black.

He would be seen again, briefly, as he crossed over to the bathroom where he stripped off the jeans and t-shirt that he had haphazardly thrown on, his eyes fixed on the mirror where it gave him a partial view of the sitting room,

"Out where?" he asked.
 
Michael stepped inside, running largely on autopilot, and watched Nick dog his hair with the towel while making a futile effort not to look like he was watching. Not that it mattered a whole Hell of a lot, consdiering Nick already had his back turned and was walking away. Michael trailed a few steps after him until he realized exactly where Nick was headed, and then he stopped short, left to stand awkwardly amongst Nick's designer furniture.

His head jerked up when Nick asked, "Out where," eyes naturally seeking out the source of the question and catching on his friend's reflection in the mirror. Knowing what was under the clothes wasn't anything like seeing it again, and Michael felt a wave of heat, equal parts embarrassment and lust, crash over him. He pulled a face, like he was actually physically pained and turned away, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them out of trouble.

"Uh, it's a surprise," he said lamely. And then, when he'd found his regular speaking voice again, added, "You're totally gonna thank me, though."
 
Nick kept his eyes on the mirror as he pulled on a dress shirt; through the small space left between the door and the frame, Mikey was gaping at him.

I see you.

He fixed his tie with the practised ease of one who has done so for years before ridding himself of the jeans - boxers underneath and strong legs with the muscled calves of a runner and the scars of a war veteran, one nasty scar in particular began at the back of his calf and wound up and underneath the boxers - and he pulled on slacks.

Again, he crossed the apartment, still barefoot, and dissappeared into the bedroom, voice floating back to his friend,

"A surprise." Nick repeated before he emerged fully dressed - suit jacket, socks and polished shoes, and looking every bit the perfectly-maintained businessman he always was,

"I'm not sure how many more surprises I can handle from you, Mikey," Nick said, adding dryly, "Are we going to go bitch slap a presidential candidate this time?"

He was heading for the door anyways, offering up one of his charmingly dimpled smiles.
 
Michael absolutely was not going to gawk at his best friend. It just wasn't going to happen. Or, at least, it wasn't going to happen again. Somehow--and he wasn't quite sure if it was good will from up on high or pure dumb luck--he managed to get past open staring and unethical groping once. He wasn't going to risk it a second time.

He was, however, going to track the dark blur of movement out of the corner of his eye as Nick moved between the bathroom and the bedroom and back again, visions of tattoos and scars and illogical muscle definition dancing in his head.

"No punching, I promise." He fell into step with Nick as they made their way to the door, allowing himself to look at him fully for the first time since he'd caught a glimpse of him in the bathroom mirror. His voice was reasonably under control by that point. At least he hoped so.

"Well, I mean, there's no punching planned, anyway," he went on as he stepped out of the front door and fished his truck keys from his pocket. "Never know where the night might take us, though."
 
"Yes, well," Nick said, eyeing Michael one more time before stepping out the door and heading for the familiar, towering beast that was Mikey's beloved truck, "No one ever plans the punching. That usually comes up on it's own. I hadn't exactly planned on a fist fight the night I met you either."

Years. It had been years since the day he had first seen Michael - at the time, he had been getting the shit kicked out of him outside of some skin club, and while Nick was all for a fair fight, there was just something tasteless about an entire group of grown men assembling so they could beat one lone man into a pulp. Nick knew the type all too well - the mindless, whiskey-fuelled, testosterone-laced jackoffs who would get their jollies from making someone else feel powerless against overwhelming odds, and then circle jerk eachother later on, recounting the curb-stomping they had engaged in.

At the time, it had been all too easy for Nick to step into the fray, it had felt a little like he was taking on some nasty, distant part of his past.

And despite it all, Michael had managed to make out alright. He had been beaten and bloody, but the guy was alive.

Nick had smiled to himself later on that night - it had been the first time he had gained a friend because he had done what he did best. After that, it had just been a matter of convincing Michael it was a one time thing, an act of sheer adrenaline that he couldn't possibly recreate. It was a fluke. He had won purely by chance, leaving five men bleeding and sobbing and apologizing on the pavement. He had convinced Mikey that he was no fighter, he was a lover, a gentleman who had no business being in the area they had been standing in, he had just taken a wrong turn and chanced upon the situation.

"But i'll get the fists ready anyways." he added.
 
From his position in the driver's seat, Michael glanced over at Nick, a faint frown denting his brow. He hadn't thought about that day in a long time, and Nick had always brushed it off as 'one of those things', nothing to get worked up over. Michael was quick to swallow it, too, because it had seemed so true. Nick hadn't demonstrated a hint of violence in the intervening years, so he accepted it without question.

Until the briefcase. With the knives and the syringes.

He fixed his eyes on the road again. "We're gonna have a good time tonight," he said. "No reason anybody ought to get hurt."

Some time later, when they were rolling into Inglewood and Michael turned off on the appropriate exit, their destination became obvious, so Michael dropped the secrecy.

"Now, I know it's not your usual kinda place," he said nervously, suddenly worried that Nick would dig his heels in and refuse to go inside. "But keep in mind that that is exactly the point."
 
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