RayK/Turnbull fic
Author: llassah
Title: Daisies on the Battlefield
Pairing: RayK/Turnbull
Rating: Nc-17
Prompt: 12. Turnbull/Kowalski - undercover at the 'Blue Oyster' in full gear - drag, leather, bike...; "Look, Fraser, if I'm gonna be wearing heels I'm gonna need an escort about a foot taller than you." from
debris_k
Word Count: 5000
Notes Thanks to eledhwenlin for dragging this fic back on track and making it betterer and gooder and my plotting, like, way incredible. Also thanks to sansets for an excellent
beta, and for almost inspiring deadpoet!/rayK rps *g*. There are no words, you are both lovely lovely people. Also for being partly responsible for this orgy investigation of Turnbull's character, I have to applaud lipstickcat- no words, my dears, no words*g*
Turnbull is wearing leather. Lots of leather. And leather … leather suits him. And damn if that isn’t just a prime fucking example of why my instinct fucking rocks. It beats the ever-loving shit out of every single hunch anyone else has had, because it is that damn good.
“Ray, are you quite alright?”
I twitch and do a little headshake, because I need to be alert for this. I look across to where Frase is looking at Turnbull, his focus on, fuck, I dunno, the type of cow the leather came from or something. See, Frase can do that; he can look at leather and admire the craftsmanship without any thought of sex entering his head. Benton Fraser, RCMP, is not susceptible to spontaneous thoughts of sex. He has them when he wants to, not when the world does. Me? Susceptible. Turnbull … I don’t know, but I’m gonna spend tonight finding out, and the signs are good.
The signs are pointing towards the slight flush on his face, the way he looks at me shyly -but - not, the way he licks his lips -
The way he keeps looking at my black vest, the vest that’s basically fucking pointless, because it’s see through, a gauzy material rubbing at my nipples with a silky slither that’s almost disturbing. Black vest and worn-out denim jeans that are tighter than anything I normally wear, and I’m glad that Frase accepted without question that these jeans just happened to be in my wardrobe - along with the eyeliner and the collar - because he happens to be like that, Frase, who accepted the excuse that Turnbull would be a better - he said ‘companion’ and I almost spat out my coffee, but I guess ‘companion’ is the polite way of putting it - than him, because he’s about a foot taller than me. Actually, I just happen to think that taking Frase to a fetish bar would make things weirder than I want.
See, policing is kinda lax in the Blue Oyster Bar. Mainly ‘cause if you say you’re from Chicago PD, you end up meeting dozens of other, uh, “police officers” who are wearing the non-standard-issue leather uniform - with the nipple rings attached as standard - and you end up dancing up real close with someone who wants to call you Mary-Beth and truss you up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
So policing is lax and some bright mafia guy notices this and decides to take advantage of it, and we get a tipoff that the bar’s getting used as a drug base. And usually, Welsh would pass this information up the ladder, but the feds don’t wanna take action until they stand to be in a position to reel in the big fishes, the ones who are running billion dollar rings. They don’t care about the small fishes who are fucking up people just the same. If they knew, they’d block any investigations until the drugs ring had grown enough to attract the big names. So he needs someone undercover to get enough information to set the ball rolling. And, well, I don’t see anyone else who’d be willing to blend into a crowd of fetishists. He’s also given me complete control of the operation. Which is…weird.
“Yeah, Frase, just peachy.”
“What do you require me to do Detective?”
I dunno how someone can be polite in what he’s wearing, but he’s still diffident and eager to please and completely unsuited to being any sort of ‘companion’. I’m half-tempted to do this alone and take my chances with the crowd. “I just need you to come with me - for all intents and purposes, we are a couple. So we’ll act like it.”
Hot flare of something in his eyes, quickly buried. Hmm ... Then back to his usual confusion, so I explain a bit more.
“I need to be able to observe everything that is going on - where the deals are happening, where the drugs are coming in from, which of the staff are in on it - and I’ll have an excuse and protection if there’s someone with me to make me look like I belong there. Also, single guys don’t do particularly well at this club.”
Feels weird to be businesslike when I’m dressed like this, but Frase is nodding thoughtfully, and I think Turnbull understands. I hope Turnbull understands.
“So you’re my…boyfriend, then?”
Christ. He blushes saying ‘boyfriend’, and gives me this goofy smile that reminds me of my face when Stella finally agreed to go out with me. I nod.
“Should I get you flowers?”
“Turnbull.”
“ Or chocolate?”
“Turnbull.”
“ Or a corsage? “
“Turnbull.”
You could pin it on your vest or something- do men wear corsages?”
“TURNBULL!” me’n’ Frase yell together, finally stopping his babbling. God, what must go on in his head. I’m hardly the poster boy for rational thinking, but it must be like a fucking fairground in there.
“You don’t need to worry about presents or anything. Act like we’re dating, you know, handholding, kissing, all that stuff.”
He sets his jaw, narrows his eyes and straightens up as if he was on sentry duty.
“I can do this. I am a Mountie,” he mutters, all zen-Mountie like. Fraser nods encouragingly. I guess dating must be in the handbook, along with licking stuff and tying knots.
He takes a step closer, puts one hand under my chin and kisses me once, gently, on my lips. Just lips touching- sweet and chaste. He moves back, eyes flicking over my face like I’m about to hit him, or say something -
I bring him down, kiss him longer, deeper, teaching him how, with a slight edge of teeth on his lower lip to test him out, see how much he’s gonna be able to do. He moans deep in his throat, presses himself flush against me and cups the back of my head in his hand. His fingers reach around so easily, could crush me if I let him. I shiver slightly, pull back. Now ain’t the time to explore powerlessness.
“Is that alright, detective?”
“Yeah. ‘Sgood.”
I square my shoulders, and try to resist the urge to say ‘to the gaybar!’ because I need something to get rid of this weird thrumming I can feel through my muscles, something to make me focus on the job -
Something to make me stop looking at Turnbull. Something to make me stop thinking about that kiss. Damn, I’m in deep, deeper than I would like. We are silent on the way to the car, me’n’ Turnbull wearing long coats, Fraser in The Uniform. I send a quick prayer up to the patron saint of fucked up schemes, then get in the car. I drop Frase off on Main Street- he’s going to an opera by some German guy about a blond chick in a weird helmet. Can’t say I blame him - this isn’t something he’s gonna be able to help us with. All Welsh wants are names and descriptions; The Lieu wants to play it quiet at the moment, so I’m there to … observe.
Turnbull flanks me as we go down the stairs to the club, and already I’m glad he’s there. It’s a fucking meat market in there - not my ideal introduction to gay culture, but it worked for me, in a weird way, when me’n’Stell were on the outs - again. I’d just gone there in ratty jeans and a t-shirt and, well, things got pretty weird pretty quickly. He puts his hand on the small of my back and steers me through the crowd, past the dancers towards the back section of the club -
My feet take root in the ground and all I can do is stare, long-forgotten sensations tingling through my skin. A man - kneeling, arms spread either side of him by ropes - is whipped, face contorted in pain, bare chest heaving but cock hard in his jeans as he just feels. Turnbull looks back at me and smiles a slow, wicked smile. “You like that?”
I nod. No point in lying- I can’t stop looking at them, can’t stop myself gripping one of my wrists with the other, mimicking the feel of ropes, of restriction. He moves on and I follow, trying to shake the thoughts out of my head. We choose a table with a good view of the whole club, then he takes one of my hands in his and keeps stroking the underside of my wrist as he looks around the club. He’s pretty smooth, I’ll give him that. We order drinks and just sit and observe, occasionally stealing a kiss, look into each other’s eyes and it’s starting to be fun - but there’s this feeling that I’m waiting for something, anticipating it. I keep my mind on the job, or try to anyway. The bar’s on the right hand side of the table, dance floor on the left. I watch the bar and Ren takes the dance floor. There’s always a crowd of people by the bar and constant circulation, but-
“See that guy over there? With the green shirt on? He’s been sat there a while, and keeps getting handed drinks by the barman without either of them talking or him paying anything.”
Turnbull nods. “Seems suspicious. There’s little conversation between them to indicate they’re friends. I’ll observe him, you look at the dance floor. We could have missed something there.”
This ain’t a pissing contest by any means, but it feels weird that Turnbull’s taking command so easily. Still, whatever gets this done. Besides, it’s not like I can see much detail. I get bored before long, and decide to rattle his cage a bit. See, I’ve seen glimpses of potential through the whole evening and would really like to…unsettle him a bit. There’s professional behavior, then there’s fun and fun’s winning out at the moment. So I trace patterns on his palm, dancing tickling patterns that have to be distracting the hell out of him. Then, I lick one finger and retrace the pattern, watching the way he bites his lip and shifts in his chair. Hands are pretty, uh, sensitive. Very sensitive- mine are hardwired to my cock and I don’t think he’s any different Just when I think he might be close to popping me one, I stop and take a sip of my drink, then look at the dancers again.
I’m close to thinking I’ve gotten away with it when he takes my hand and licks the same finger I licked, drawing it in and out of his mouth in a slow, dirty tease that makes me so hard so quickly I think the blood flowing to my cock broke the sound barrier. Then he puts my hand back on the table with this consoling little pat and goes back to watching the greenshirted man. Guess it’s my cage being rattled this time.
After about an hour and a half, he leans over the table.
“There is an exchange of packages at the bar every half-hour. The same person accepts it, but different people give the package each time. They are a variety of ages. No money is exchanged, suggesting that the drug ring is a relay of some kind. The barman always looks away when these deals are occurring.”
“Could you identify them from a photograph?”
He looks kinda insulted. “I can produce accurate representations of all of them, the -”
“Yeah yeah, the Mounties teach you drawing. Ok, we’ll do that, see if we can get names for faces. Right, well, it’s been great, but you know, things to do, places to -”
I’ve been shifting in my seat, trying to find my car keys, talking all the while, but he’s just been sitting still, looking at me. I’m about to wave a hand in front of his face, when he starts talking.
“You interrupted. That was impolite.”
I’m on the verge of making a snarky reply but something stops me. A way in, if I’m reading him right.
“You gonna punish me or something?” I ask with just the right amount of challenge. He smiles, slowly.
“Kneel.”
I kneel without a second thought, his voice is so sure, so steely, and there’s this look of vague wonder in his eyes, and fuck, if I had known he’d take to this…
Hand on my head, just resting there, nearly caressing but not quite. I know better than to turn and look up at him, so I stay focused on the ground, not knowing whether to gloat or lick his boots.
“You’ll stay here until you learn respect.”
His hand is on my head as I kneel at his feet. Soothing stroking, sending me into a trance ‘cause it’s warm and dark here, and I feel him next to me, know I don’t have to decide anything for a while. My ankles already hurt but I stay straight backed, feeling a moment of kinship with Frase, staying standing for hours on end.
Nobody even looks at me- I feel like I wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for Turnbull’s hand resting on my hair. The dance floor is a mass of bodies, some of them not even bothering to look as if they wanna dance - vertical unsupported fucking in rhythm, the slap of flesh on flesh and the occasional swish and groan of a leather whip making my mouth dry and my cock hard. This whole place smells of sex, of need -
Desperate. Despairing. The want - everything fucked away, everything forgotten. I swallow, shift slightly.
“Bored, pet?”
I shake my head a little, not much. He chuckles softly, whispers ‘liar’ in a deep, intimate whisper, then his hand tightens around my hair, pulls me back so my neck arches around his knee and his foot nudges against my ass. Unused muscles cramp and complain, but I breathe through the pain. He leans forward, leather creaking as he bends over nearly in half and kisses me, an awkward, upside-down kiss with me gasping for air, his tongue hot and demanding in my mouth, biting down on my lip so hard I know there’ll be blood-
He brings his other hand down to my throat, twists the collar so it tightens, blocking off my air, sucking out air and I can feel the edges of my vision graying and I fucking hope he knows what he’s playing at, cause I’m not sure I do any more. I keep my hands by my sides and resist clawing at him, punching him, but dying in a fetish club is not the end I had planned, no sir. Numb legs, numb fingers-
Air. God, air. I gasp in, feeling the bruises on my throat.
“Good pet.”
Stroking my hair again as if nothing had really happened, as if it was just something he felt like doing and now he’s done it there are no consequences. I wriggle my fingers a little, try to coax the blood back into them and look out into the club again. My cock’s still hard. I shift slightly, hissing as it presses against my fly and I almost move my hands to open my jeans. Almost.
We wait, frozen. Sometimes he strokes down my neck, hand lingering over my collar in a threat-promise that makes my eyes slide shut. My collar. God, it’s been a while since I wore it, but it still has the same effect on me: ownership. I’m turning into a complete fucking doormat just because of a thin band of leather round my neck, and the first thing I’m gonna do when I get home is throw it in the nearest dumpster. I can’t keep up this balancing act between being my own person and wanting to be someone else’s. If I let myself fall into that -
He never talks, never gives me any means of measuring the time I spend sat here until I have to count my heartbeats to give me some idea, and even that means nothing. My legs are numb, my cock’s aching, needy- feels like I’ve been hard for hours - days?- and it’s like hanging from the ceiling of that warehouse again -
“Stand up.”
I stumble, do this real smooth rescue maneuver and end up holding onto Turnbull for dear life, numb legs cramping, sweaty fingers slipping on black leather. He’s solid. Solid and tall, a sort of -
A sort of a refuge. Temporary, yeah - once the leather’s off, he’ll be back to being normal and stumbling, and I’ll go back to being me - but for the moment I’m content to inhale the leather of his vest like I need it to live. I moan as huge hands come down and cup my ass, as his erection presses into my stomach.
“I’m sorry, Ray.I didn’t mean to take things so far,” he says in this almost frightened voice, running his hands over every bit of me he can get to, like he’s checking for broken bones or something.
“I’m fine. It’s ok, don’t worry. I coulda stopped it any time I wanted to.”
I draw him down and kiss him until he stops shaking. It’s true- I had a choice. It’s not his fault I chose not having a choice- man, that’s weird, sorta like Godel.
“We can get a room from the bartender,” he whispers, voice low. “Do you want to?”
Do I? No. Yes. I wanna throw myself into this for the night, fuck the consequences, ‘cause being Vecchio means I never get to do that, never get to pull some of the shit I used to, after the divorce. I’d find the seediest dives I could and drink, fight, or fuck - hell, all three sometimes. Don’t know if I want it to be exactly how it was then, though. Might get me pulled into stuff I need to escape from- there’s little point in getting shot of the collar when there’s still the mindfuck.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“And…do you want me like this?”
He flinches slightly as he asks the question, a tightness around his eyes and maybe having to be like that is fucking him up as much as it’s doing to me, maybe he wants it simple. I shake my head. There’s a story there, somewhere. Guys like us, guys like Fraser, there’s always a fucking story.
“Dance with me,” I whisper, looking up at him. Flowers and dancing, maybe walk him home. Stupid. He smiles and relaxes though, and I know it’s the right thing to do. The music’s some rock song, with the singer growling over this really filthy deep dark bass line that I have to move my hips to. I grab his hands and lead him to the floor, reach up and cross my wrists loosely around his neck. As I roll my hips, grinding up against him I realize he’s actually moving to the music, moving with me and I never had him figured for a dancer -
Hmm. One of these Mounties is not like the other. He kisses my nose lightly and smiles - it jars with the rest of the scene, like he’s, I dunno, picking daisies on a battlefield. I smile back anyway. I wanna get away from here- y’know, away from the blood and the guns of this club to a - a cornfield.
“Shall we get a room?”
A nod.
He goes over to the bar, produces some money from fuck knows where and returns with a key and a look that’s half triumph, half fear. I keep my eyes down as we weave out of the bar, cigarette smoke hanging in the air. It makes my fingers twitch for my jeans pocket, even if I did quit when I restarted the undercover gig. I need a smoke, but I know Frase would take one sniff and know, and spend the rest of the day telling me about some bear trapper named Smoky Jo Robinson, who was once tracked for six days across the Yukon by a nicotine-craving wolf. I’m gonna smell seedy enough as it is. Seedier before the night is through. Seedier. Heh.
We climb some rickety stairs and I try not to notice the peeling wallpaper and damp, stained ceilings, try not to see the same clinical desperation I saw on the dance floor. I rip the collar off, throw it in the empty trashcan in the corner and look at the room.
A single bed, a bare light bulb in the ceiling, boards instead of curtains and I can see how scared he looks, how lost. Usually, he’s talking, yammering on about all sorts of crap, but he’s just silent, pale, like some sort of pillar or something.
“Look, Turnbull. Renfield. Ren. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I can give you a ride home, and we don’t need to mention it again. I don’t want to if you don’t want to.”
“Yes, Ray. I think I … I want. Do you want?”
“Yeah. I want.”
I need. I still need. All the time. By the look on his face, he needs too. I’m just so tired of sleeping alone. One night, just one night of having someone next to me will be enough for a while, enough to scratch the itch.
“Would you, uh, feel better out of those clothes?”
By the way he nods, they’re a different sort of collar to him, a different kind of control. His hands go to the zipper on his vest but I stop him, draw the zipper down myself, the snick of the teeth blending weirdly with the thumping bass from the club below. I kiss him again, trying to create our own little world in this room, like that dead poet I studied in lit kept talking about. I understand him now, didn’t at the time. So I shut everything out, feather my hands over his ribs, brush his nipples until his moan drowns out the music, wrap myself around him so my vest caresses his skin, so there’s only a thin layer of fabric separating us and he’s holding me so tight, so close it’s like I’m an extension of him, like I could lose myself in him if I wanted.
He breaks the kiss, takes a step back and I can see his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He tugs at the bottom of my vest and I raise my arms obediently, then his hands, nimbler than they should be are at my fly, each button sending me deeper. I have to force my boots off without undoing the laces so I don’t end up falling flat on my face. Then he’s pulled the jeans down to my ankles and I step out of them obediently. I couldn’t do anything else - I don’t know if he’d be able to stop now, not by the way he’s backed me into the door and -
Fuck. Kneeling, one hand grasping my hip and I clench my hands, breathing in the damp smell of the room through my nose as I clamp my lips shut. No warning, no teasing, he just fucking engulfs me and my cock’s surrounded by deep, tight heat, held still by the merciless hand on my hip so all I can do is let my head fall back onto the door and feel, feel his lips, his mouth-
A hint of teeth, pleasure and pain feeding each other, then his other hand is reaching round, a single finger entering me. That’s enough, that’s all the holding out I can do and my orgasm seems to come from my feet - all the way through me. I wanna arch off the door, tense as I come but I can’t, can’t do anything but accept what he’s doing to me and passive is all I can give - but it’s enough as I come, come apart against the rough wooden door with the broken lock.
I lean back, start sliding down the door and he lets me, then kisses me as we lean together, my hand tracing patterns on his chest as I taste myself in his mouth. I reach down to his trousers, unfasten them and Christ he must have the patience of - fuck, shouldn’t think of similes after coming - something very patient, cause he’s still hard, leaking. My hand moves on him slickly, easily. He stops me, looks at me as if he’s puzzling something out then his eyes flick to the basket on the nightstand and for a few seconds I can’t breathe for wanting.
“Yeah. Yeah. You. In me.”
He becomes all movement then, like I’ve flicked a switch and he stands, takes off his trousers, helps me up and we move to the bed. I go onto my hands and knees but he stops me.
“I want to see your face.”
I shiver at his voice, at the hunger in his eyes as he looks at me like I’m some sort of painting. If I were fifteen years younger, I’d be ready to go again, but the thrumming under my skin has moved up a notch. He gets one of the condoms and one of the packets of lube - I hadn’t even expected that much here. The scratchy blanket reminds me again exactly where I am as the music thumps through the walls. I’m relaxed; when he gently pushes one lube-drizzled finger into me, it is just another sensation as my limbs hang heavy and my eyes slide shut. Then he crooks his finger just so and I’m flying again, sparks behind my eyes. Two fingers, slight stretch but not too much, then three fingers and I’m half hard and panting -
He’s so careful. Having all this focus and attention directed at me is weird, almost frightening if I stopped to think, but thought is gone as he slides the condom on and kneels on the bed, lifting my hips into his lap. Then it’s a slow easy slide, a moment of pain and he’s buried in me, trembling with the effort of staying still. Fuck - he must be so close: nostrils flared and a rivulet of sweat running down his chest. My legs over his shoulders as he moves, thrusting off rhythm to the music, like he’s fighting it, fighting the where and the why of our fucking. One hand strokes me hard, insistently and he hits my prostate with nearly every thrust, lifting my hips to get a better angle.
All the time he’s looking deep into my eyes and I can’t even begin to read what’s there. His hand jerks to a stop on my cock, and he’s stopping, tensing, coming and I follow, arching, then folding as he slumps forward, panting. He props himself up and I’m vaguely amazed I’m that flexible - my knees are somewhere near my ears - but all I want to do is sleep. I’m dimly aware of Ren pulling out, wiping me with a tissue, then arranging us on the bed so he’s wrapped around me. And then I’m away, completely fucked out.
I don’t know what the time is when I wake up, only that the light’s still on and Ren is looking down at me with a sad sort of smile.
“Morning,” I say in a voice hoarse with sleep, then kiss him once, on his nose, because I can and the smile brightens.
“Good morning, Ray.”
I don’t know what to do. I wouldn’t even if I were awake and completely functioning. I don’t know what the right thing is, or the kind thing, or the easiest thing but I know right, kind and easy ain’t on speaking terms with this. We get up, put on our clothes. They are rags now - tacky in the morning light, and maybe Cinderella still wore her dress when she was running, maybe the buzz of the night had faded away as the clock struck twelve. Fucking pumpkin.
“You want a ride back?”
He smiles like I’ve offered him Christmas 3 months early. “Yes, I would be very grateful for a ride back. I cannot help but wonder what sort of comments my…outlandish garb would attract. I may even be recognized as a member of the RCMP…”
He babbles on as I put on my jeans and top. I’m used to it with Frase; I can usually tune out until he gets to something really important. I guess the radar’s still fine -
“You see, Ray, I not an easy person to live with, and at this stage of my career, do not wish to pursue a serious relationship of any description. I am terribly sorry if you were under the impression that this was, errm, anything other than -”
He’s going pink, getting more flustered with every word. “Look. Turnbull. Ren. It’s fine, don’t worry. We don’t have to date or nothing. I’m not ready for anything of that - that mig - meg -”
“Magnitude?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. I don’t want that. I’m not - not whole enough for that.”
He nods, gives me this smile that’s so damn sad and sweet it nearly breaks my heart, then holds the door open for me. Might-have-beens, and could-have-beens stay there in that little room. The night is over, and the morning sunshine makes me squint my eyes as I leave the club. He turns to me, puts his hands on my shoulders then kisses me on the tip of my nose and I’m halfway to a cornfield already. I can almost hear the birds over the early morning traffic, and by the look on his face, he hears them too, soaring above the city, wild and pure and out of place. The sun warms my face as we walk to the car. Soon as I see Frase, I’m gonna ask him about daisies. I figure he’d know about them.
Title: Daisies on the Battlefield
Pairing: RayK/Turnbull
Rating: Nc-17
Prompt: 12. Turnbull/Kowalski - undercover at the 'Blue Oyster' in full gear - drag, leather, bike...; "Look, Fraser, if I'm gonna be wearing heels I'm gonna need an escort about a foot taller than you." from
debris_k
Word Count: 5000
Notes Thanks to eledhwenlin for dragging this fic back on track and making it betterer and gooder and my plotting, like, way incredible. Also thanks to sansets for an excellent
beta, and for almost inspiring deadpoet!/rayK rps *g*. There are no words, you are both lovely lovely people. Also for being partly responsible for this orgy investigation of Turnbull's character, I have to applaud lipstickcat- no words, my dears, no words*g*
Turnbull is wearing leather. Lots of leather. And leather … leather suits him. And damn if that isn’t just a prime fucking example of why my instinct fucking rocks. It beats the ever-loving shit out of every single hunch anyone else has had, because it is that damn good.
“Ray, are you quite alright?”
I twitch and do a little headshake, because I need to be alert for this. I look across to where Frase is looking at Turnbull, his focus on, fuck, I dunno, the type of cow the leather came from or something. See, Frase can do that; he can look at leather and admire the craftsmanship without any thought of sex entering his head. Benton Fraser, RCMP, is not susceptible to spontaneous thoughts of sex. He has them when he wants to, not when the world does. Me? Susceptible. Turnbull … I don’t know, but I’m gonna spend tonight finding out, and the signs are good.
The signs are pointing towards the slight flush on his face, the way he looks at me shyly -but - not, the way he licks his lips -
The way he keeps looking at my black vest, the vest that’s basically fucking pointless, because it’s see through, a gauzy material rubbing at my nipples with a silky slither that’s almost disturbing. Black vest and worn-out denim jeans that are tighter than anything I normally wear, and I’m glad that Frase accepted without question that these jeans just happened to be in my wardrobe - along with the eyeliner and the collar - because he happens to be like that, Frase, who accepted the excuse that Turnbull would be a better - he said ‘companion’ and I almost spat out my coffee, but I guess ‘companion’ is the polite way of putting it - than him, because he’s about a foot taller than me. Actually, I just happen to think that taking Frase to a fetish bar would make things weirder than I want.
See, policing is kinda lax in the Blue Oyster Bar. Mainly ‘cause if you say you’re from Chicago PD, you end up meeting dozens of other, uh, “police officers” who are wearing the non-standard-issue leather uniform - with the nipple rings attached as standard - and you end up dancing up real close with someone who wants to call you Mary-Beth and truss you up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
So policing is lax and some bright mafia guy notices this and decides to take advantage of it, and we get a tipoff that the bar’s getting used as a drug base. And usually, Welsh would pass this information up the ladder, but the feds don’t wanna take action until they stand to be in a position to reel in the big fishes, the ones who are running billion dollar rings. They don’t care about the small fishes who are fucking up people just the same. If they knew, they’d block any investigations until the drugs ring had grown enough to attract the big names. So he needs someone undercover to get enough information to set the ball rolling. And, well, I don’t see anyone else who’d be willing to blend into a crowd of fetishists. He’s also given me complete control of the operation. Which is…weird.
“Yeah, Frase, just peachy.”
“What do you require me to do Detective?”
I dunno how someone can be polite in what he’s wearing, but he’s still diffident and eager to please and completely unsuited to being any sort of ‘companion’. I’m half-tempted to do this alone and take my chances with the crowd. “I just need you to come with me - for all intents and purposes, we are a couple. So we’ll act like it.”
Hot flare of something in his eyes, quickly buried. Hmm ... Then back to his usual confusion, so I explain a bit more.
“I need to be able to observe everything that is going on - where the deals are happening, where the drugs are coming in from, which of the staff are in on it - and I’ll have an excuse and protection if there’s someone with me to make me look like I belong there. Also, single guys don’t do particularly well at this club.”
Feels weird to be businesslike when I’m dressed like this, but Frase is nodding thoughtfully, and I think Turnbull understands. I hope Turnbull understands.
“So you’re my…boyfriend, then?”
Christ. He blushes saying ‘boyfriend’, and gives me this goofy smile that reminds me of my face when Stella finally agreed to go out with me. I nod.
“Should I get you flowers?”
“Turnbull.”
“ Or chocolate?”
“Turnbull.”
“ Or a corsage? “
“Turnbull.”
You could pin it on your vest or something- do men wear corsages?”
“TURNBULL!” me’n’ Frase yell together, finally stopping his babbling. God, what must go on in his head. I’m hardly the poster boy for rational thinking, but it must be like a fucking fairground in there.
“You don’t need to worry about presents or anything. Act like we’re dating, you know, handholding, kissing, all that stuff.”
He sets his jaw, narrows his eyes and straightens up as if he was on sentry duty.
“I can do this. I am a Mountie,” he mutters, all zen-Mountie like. Fraser nods encouragingly. I guess dating must be in the handbook, along with licking stuff and tying knots.
He takes a step closer, puts one hand under my chin and kisses me once, gently, on my lips. Just lips touching- sweet and chaste. He moves back, eyes flicking over my face like I’m about to hit him, or say something -
I bring him down, kiss him longer, deeper, teaching him how, with a slight edge of teeth on his lower lip to test him out, see how much he’s gonna be able to do. He moans deep in his throat, presses himself flush against me and cups the back of my head in his hand. His fingers reach around so easily, could crush me if I let him. I shiver slightly, pull back. Now ain’t the time to explore powerlessness.
“Is that alright, detective?”
“Yeah. ‘Sgood.”
I square my shoulders, and try to resist the urge to say ‘to the gaybar!’ because I need something to get rid of this weird thrumming I can feel through my muscles, something to make me focus on the job -
Something to make me stop looking at Turnbull. Something to make me stop thinking about that kiss. Damn, I’m in deep, deeper than I would like. We are silent on the way to the car, me’n’ Turnbull wearing long coats, Fraser in The Uniform. I send a quick prayer up to the patron saint of fucked up schemes, then get in the car. I drop Frase off on Main Street- he’s going to an opera by some German guy about a blond chick in a weird helmet. Can’t say I blame him - this isn’t something he’s gonna be able to help us with. All Welsh wants are names and descriptions; The Lieu wants to play it quiet at the moment, so I’m there to … observe.
Turnbull flanks me as we go down the stairs to the club, and already I’m glad he’s there. It’s a fucking meat market in there - not my ideal introduction to gay culture, but it worked for me, in a weird way, when me’n’Stell were on the outs - again. I’d just gone there in ratty jeans and a t-shirt and, well, things got pretty weird pretty quickly. He puts his hand on the small of my back and steers me through the crowd, past the dancers towards the back section of the club -
My feet take root in the ground and all I can do is stare, long-forgotten sensations tingling through my skin. A man - kneeling, arms spread either side of him by ropes - is whipped, face contorted in pain, bare chest heaving but cock hard in his jeans as he just feels. Turnbull looks back at me and smiles a slow, wicked smile. “You like that?”
I nod. No point in lying- I can’t stop looking at them, can’t stop myself gripping one of my wrists with the other, mimicking the feel of ropes, of restriction. He moves on and I follow, trying to shake the thoughts out of my head. We choose a table with a good view of the whole club, then he takes one of my hands in his and keeps stroking the underside of my wrist as he looks around the club. He’s pretty smooth, I’ll give him that. We order drinks and just sit and observe, occasionally stealing a kiss, look into each other’s eyes and it’s starting to be fun - but there’s this feeling that I’m waiting for something, anticipating it. I keep my mind on the job, or try to anyway. The bar’s on the right hand side of the table, dance floor on the left. I watch the bar and Ren takes the dance floor. There’s always a crowd of people by the bar and constant circulation, but-
“See that guy over there? With the green shirt on? He’s been sat there a while, and keeps getting handed drinks by the barman without either of them talking or him paying anything.”
Turnbull nods. “Seems suspicious. There’s little conversation between them to indicate they’re friends. I’ll observe him, you look at the dance floor. We could have missed something there.”
This ain’t a pissing contest by any means, but it feels weird that Turnbull’s taking command so easily. Still, whatever gets this done. Besides, it’s not like I can see much detail. I get bored before long, and decide to rattle his cage a bit. See, I’ve seen glimpses of potential through the whole evening and would really like to…unsettle him a bit. There’s professional behavior, then there’s fun and fun’s winning out at the moment. So I trace patterns on his palm, dancing tickling patterns that have to be distracting the hell out of him. Then, I lick one finger and retrace the pattern, watching the way he bites his lip and shifts in his chair. Hands are pretty, uh, sensitive. Very sensitive- mine are hardwired to my cock and I don’t think he’s any different Just when I think he might be close to popping me one, I stop and take a sip of my drink, then look at the dancers again.
I’m close to thinking I’ve gotten away with it when he takes my hand and licks the same finger I licked, drawing it in and out of his mouth in a slow, dirty tease that makes me so hard so quickly I think the blood flowing to my cock broke the sound barrier. Then he puts my hand back on the table with this consoling little pat and goes back to watching the greenshirted man. Guess it’s my cage being rattled this time.
After about an hour and a half, he leans over the table.
“There is an exchange of packages at the bar every half-hour. The same person accepts it, but different people give the package each time. They are a variety of ages. No money is exchanged, suggesting that the drug ring is a relay of some kind. The barman always looks away when these deals are occurring.”
“Could you identify them from a photograph?”
He looks kinda insulted. “I can produce accurate representations of all of them, the -”
“Yeah yeah, the Mounties teach you drawing. Ok, we’ll do that, see if we can get names for faces. Right, well, it’s been great, but you know, things to do, places to -”
I’ve been shifting in my seat, trying to find my car keys, talking all the while, but he’s just been sitting still, looking at me. I’m about to wave a hand in front of his face, when he starts talking.
“You interrupted. That was impolite.”
I’m on the verge of making a snarky reply but something stops me. A way in, if I’m reading him right.
“You gonna punish me or something?” I ask with just the right amount of challenge. He smiles, slowly.
“Kneel.”
I kneel without a second thought, his voice is so sure, so steely, and there’s this look of vague wonder in his eyes, and fuck, if I had known he’d take to this…
Hand on my head, just resting there, nearly caressing but not quite. I know better than to turn and look up at him, so I stay focused on the ground, not knowing whether to gloat or lick his boots.
“You’ll stay here until you learn respect.”
His hand is on my head as I kneel at his feet. Soothing stroking, sending me into a trance ‘cause it’s warm and dark here, and I feel him next to me, know I don’t have to decide anything for a while. My ankles already hurt but I stay straight backed, feeling a moment of kinship with Frase, staying standing for hours on end.
Nobody even looks at me- I feel like I wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for Turnbull’s hand resting on my hair. The dance floor is a mass of bodies, some of them not even bothering to look as if they wanna dance - vertical unsupported fucking in rhythm, the slap of flesh on flesh and the occasional swish and groan of a leather whip making my mouth dry and my cock hard. This whole place smells of sex, of need -
Desperate. Despairing. The want - everything fucked away, everything forgotten. I swallow, shift slightly.
“Bored, pet?”
I shake my head a little, not much. He chuckles softly, whispers ‘liar’ in a deep, intimate whisper, then his hand tightens around my hair, pulls me back so my neck arches around his knee and his foot nudges against my ass. Unused muscles cramp and complain, but I breathe through the pain. He leans forward, leather creaking as he bends over nearly in half and kisses me, an awkward, upside-down kiss with me gasping for air, his tongue hot and demanding in my mouth, biting down on my lip so hard I know there’ll be blood-
He brings his other hand down to my throat, twists the collar so it tightens, blocking off my air, sucking out air and I can feel the edges of my vision graying and I fucking hope he knows what he’s playing at, cause I’m not sure I do any more. I keep my hands by my sides and resist clawing at him, punching him, but dying in a fetish club is not the end I had planned, no sir. Numb legs, numb fingers-
Air. God, air. I gasp in, feeling the bruises on my throat.
“Good pet.”
Stroking my hair again as if nothing had really happened, as if it was just something he felt like doing and now he’s done it there are no consequences. I wriggle my fingers a little, try to coax the blood back into them and look out into the club again. My cock’s still hard. I shift slightly, hissing as it presses against my fly and I almost move my hands to open my jeans. Almost.
We wait, frozen. Sometimes he strokes down my neck, hand lingering over my collar in a threat-promise that makes my eyes slide shut. My collar. God, it’s been a while since I wore it, but it still has the same effect on me: ownership. I’m turning into a complete fucking doormat just because of a thin band of leather round my neck, and the first thing I’m gonna do when I get home is throw it in the nearest dumpster. I can’t keep up this balancing act between being my own person and wanting to be someone else’s. If I let myself fall into that -
He never talks, never gives me any means of measuring the time I spend sat here until I have to count my heartbeats to give me some idea, and even that means nothing. My legs are numb, my cock’s aching, needy- feels like I’ve been hard for hours - days?- and it’s like hanging from the ceiling of that warehouse again -
“Stand up.”
I stumble, do this real smooth rescue maneuver and end up holding onto Turnbull for dear life, numb legs cramping, sweaty fingers slipping on black leather. He’s solid. Solid and tall, a sort of -
A sort of a refuge. Temporary, yeah - once the leather’s off, he’ll be back to being normal and stumbling, and I’ll go back to being me - but for the moment I’m content to inhale the leather of his vest like I need it to live. I moan as huge hands come down and cup my ass, as his erection presses into my stomach.
“I’m sorry, Ray.I didn’t mean to take things so far,” he says in this almost frightened voice, running his hands over every bit of me he can get to, like he’s checking for broken bones or something.
“I’m fine. It’s ok, don’t worry. I coulda stopped it any time I wanted to.”
I draw him down and kiss him until he stops shaking. It’s true- I had a choice. It’s not his fault I chose not having a choice- man, that’s weird, sorta like Godel.
“We can get a room from the bartender,” he whispers, voice low. “Do you want to?”
Do I? No. Yes. I wanna throw myself into this for the night, fuck the consequences, ‘cause being Vecchio means I never get to do that, never get to pull some of the shit I used to, after the divorce. I’d find the seediest dives I could and drink, fight, or fuck - hell, all three sometimes. Don’t know if I want it to be exactly how it was then, though. Might get me pulled into stuff I need to escape from- there’s little point in getting shot of the collar when there’s still the mindfuck.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“And…do you want me like this?”
He flinches slightly as he asks the question, a tightness around his eyes and maybe having to be like that is fucking him up as much as it’s doing to me, maybe he wants it simple. I shake my head. There’s a story there, somewhere. Guys like us, guys like Fraser, there’s always a fucking story.
“Dance with me,” I whisper, looking up at him. Flowers and dancing, maybe walk him home. Stupid. He smiles and relaxes though, and I know it’s the right thing to do. The music’s some rock song, with the singer growling over this really filthy deep dark bass line that I have to move my hips to. I grab his hands and lead him to the floor, reach up and cross my wrists loosely around his neck. As I roll my hips, grinding up against him I realize he’s actually moving to the music, moving with me and I never had him figured for a dancer -
Hmm. One of these Mounties is not like the other. He kisses my nose lightly and smiles - it jars with the rest of the scene, like he’s, I dunno, picking daisies on a battlefield. I smile back anyway. I wanna get away from here- y’know, away from the blood and the guns of this club to a - a cornfield.
“Shall we get a room?”
A nod.
He goes over to the bar, produces some money from fuck knows where and returns with a key and a look that’s half triumph, half fear. I keep my eyes down as we weave out of the bar, cigarette smoke hanging in the air. It makes my fingers twitch for my jeans pocket, even if I did quit when I restarted the undercover gig. I need a smoke, but I know Frase would take one sniff and know, and spend the rest of the day telling me about some bear trapper named Smoky Jo Robinson, who was once tracked for six days across the Yukon by a nicotine-craving wolf. I’m gonna smell seedy enough as it is. Seedier before the night is through. Seedier. Heh.
We climb some rickety stairs and I try not to notice the peeling wallpaper and damp, stained ceilings, try not to see the same clinical desperation I saw on the dance floor. I rip the collar off, throw it in the empty trashcan in the corner and look at the room.
A single bed, a bare light bulb in the ceiling, boards instead of curtains and I can see how scared he looks, how lost. Usually, he’s talking, yammering on about all sorts of crap, but he’s just silent, pale, like some sort of pillar or something.
“Look, Turnbull. Renfield. Ren. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I can give you a ride home, and we don’t need to mention it again. I don’t want to if you don’t want to.”
“Yes, Ray. I think I … I want. Do you want?”
“Yeah. I want.”
I need. I still need. All the time. By the look on his face, he needs too. I’m just so tired of sleeping alone. One night, just one night of having someone next to me will be enough for a while, enough to scratch the itch.
“Would you, uh, feel better out of those clothes?”
By the way he nods, they’re a different sort of collar to him, a different kind of control. His hands go to the zipper on his vest but I stop him, draw the zipper down myself, the snick of the teeth blending weirdly with the thumping bass from the club below. I kiss him again, trying to create our own little world in this room, like that dead poet I studied in lit kept talking about. I understand him now, didn’t at the time. So I shut everything out, feather my hands over his ribs, brush his nipples until his moan drowns out the music, wrap myself around him so my vest caresses his skin, so there’s only a thin layer of fabric separating us and he’s holding me so tight, so close it’s like I’m an extension of him, like I could lose myself in him if I wanted.
He breaks the kiss, takes a step back and I can see his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He tugs at the bottom of my vest and I raise my arms obediently, then his hands, nimbler than they should be are at my fly, each button sending me deeper. I have to force my boots off without undoing the laces so I don’t end up falling flat on my face. Then he’s pulled the jeans down to my ankles and I step out of them obediently. I couldn’t do anything else - I don’t know if he’d be able to stop now, not by the way he’s backed me into the door and -
Fuck. Kneeling, one hand grasping my hip and I clench my hands, breathing in the damp smell of the room through my nose as I clamp my lips shut. No warning, no teasing, he just fucking engulfs me and my cock’s surrounded by deep, tight heat, held still by the merciless hand on my hip so all I can do is let my head fall back onto the door and feel, feel his lips, his mouth-
A hint of teeth, pleasure and pain feeding each other, then his other hand is reaching round, a single finger entering me. That’s enough, that’s all the holding out I can do and my orgasm seems to come from my feet - all the way through me. I wanna arch off the door, tense as I come but I can’t, can’t do anything but accept what he’s doing to me and passive is all I can give - but it’s enough as I come, come apart against the rough wooden door with the broken lock.
I lean back, start sliding down the door and he lets me, then kisses me as we lean together, my hand tracing patterns on his chest as I taste myself in his mouth. I reach down to his trousers, unfasten them and Christ he must have the patience of - fuck, shouldn’t think of similes after coming - something very patient, cause he’s still hard, leaking. My hand moves on him slickly, easily. He stops me, looks at me as if he’s puzzling something out then his eyes flick to the basket on the nightstand and for a few seconds I can’t breathe for wanting.
“Yeah. Yeah. You. In me.”
He becomes all movement then, like I’ve flicked a switch and he stands, takes off his trousers, helps me up and we move to the bed. I go onto my hands and knees but he stops me.
“I want to see your face.”
I shiver at his voice, at the hunger in his eyes as he looks at me like I’m some sort of painting. If I were fifteen years younger, I’d be ready to go again, but the thrumming under my skin has moved up a notch. He gets one of the condoms and one of the packets of lube - I hadn’t even expected that much here. The scratchy blanket reminds me again exactly where I am as the music thumps through the walls. I’m relaxed; when he gently pushes one lube-drizzled finger into me, it is just another sensation as my limbs hang heavy and my eyes slide shut. Then he crooks his finger just so and I’m flying again, sparks behind my eyes. Two fingers, slight stretch but not too much, then three fingers and I’m half hard and panting -
He’s so careful. Having all this focus and attention directed at me is weird, almost frightening if I stopped to think, but thought is gone as he slides the condom on and kneels on the bed, lifting my hips into his lap. Then it’s a slow easy slide, a moment of pain and he’s buried in me, trembling with the effort of staying still. Fuck - he must be so close: nostrils flared and a rivulet of sweat running down his chest. My legs over his shoulders as he moves, thrusting off rhythm to the music, like he’s fighting it, fighting the where and the why of our fucking. One hand strokes me hard, insistently and he hits my prostate with nearly every thrust, lifting my hips to get a better angle.
All the time he’s looking deep into my eyes and I can’t even begin to read what’s there. His hand jerks to a stop on my cock, and he’s stopping, tensing, coming and I follow, arching, then folding as he slumps forward, panting. He props himself up and I’m vaguely amazed I’m that flexible - my knees are somewhere near my ears - but all I want to do is sleep. I’m dimly aware of Ren pulling out, wiping me with a tissue, then arranging us on the bed so he’s wrapped around me. And then I’m away, completely fucked out.
I don’t know what the time is when I wake up, only that the light’s still on and Ren is looking down at me with a sad sort of smile.
“Morning,” I say in a voice hoarse with sleep, then kiss him once, on his nose, because I can and the smile brightens.
“Good morning, Ray.”
I don’t know what to do. I wouldn’t even if I were awake and completely functioning. I don’t know what the right thing is, or the kind thing, or the easiest thing but I know right, kind and easy ain’t on speaking terms with this. We get up, put on our clothes. They are rags now - tacky in the morning light, and maybe Cinderella still wore her dress when she was running, maybe the buzz of the night had faded away as the clock struck twelve. Fucking pumpkin.
“You want a ride back?”
He smiles like I’ve offered him Christmas 3 months early. “Yes, I would be very grateful for a ride back. I cannot help but wonder what sort of comments my…outlandish garb would attract. I may even be recognized as a member of the RCMP…”
He babbles on as I put on my jeans and top. I’m used to it with Frase; I can usually tune out until he gets to something really important. I guess the radar’s still fine -
“You see, Ray, I not an easy person to live with, and at this stage of my career, do not wish to pursue a serious relationship of any description. I am terribly sorry if you were under the impression that this was, errm, anything other than -”
He’s going pink, getting more flustered with every word. “Look. Turnbull. Ren. It’s fine, don’t worry. We don’t have to date or nothing. I’m not ready for anything of that - that mig - meg -”
“Magnitude?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. I don’t want that. I’m not - not whole enough for that.”
He nods, gives me this smile that’s so damn sad and sweet it nearly breaks my heart, then holds the door open for me. Might-have-beens, and could-have-beens stay there in that little room. The night is over, and the morning sunshine makes me squint my eyes as I leave the club. He turns to me, puts his hands on my shoulders then kisses me on the tip of my nose and I’m halfway to a cornfield already. I can almost hear the birds over the early morning traffic, and by the look on his face, he hears them too, soaring above the city, wild and pure and out of place. The sun warms my face as we walk to the car. Soon as I see Frase, I’m gonna ask him about daisies. I figure he’d know about them.