Oz Graffixation #10
Artist:
aletter2elise
Chains by torolulu
Title: Chains
Author: torolulu
Characters: Beecher/Keller
Rating: PG
Warning: Some references to alcohol abuse
Word Count: 1639
Summary: Toby finds his relationship with Chris to be even more strained in the real world than it was in Oz; to cope with that-and with the many other constraints that life on the lam places on him-Toby falls back on old habits.
Chris knows a guy.
Chris knows a lot of guys, actually; Toby imagines that he must hoard them, these guys-to-know, stashing them evenly across the state-maybe even the country-like an animal might stash emergency caches of food before the winter. They let Toby sleep on their sofas. They let Chris sleep in their bathtubs.
Sometimes they offer to take the sofa themselves, and let Toby and Chris sleep in their bed; Toby says nothing as Chris makes a big show of explaining how they'll be sleeping head-to-toe, obviously-in fact, maybe he'll even end up on the floor if things are too cozy. “Oh, but better keep the door closed-I snore, and you gotta get up in the morning, right?” Chris needs his rituals, his secret codes; Toby wonders why he even bothered escaping from prison.
Sometimes Toby hears the bedroom door open and close in the middle of the night, and the next day Chris tells him that he's taking him to a motel: king-size bed, cable TV, continental fucking breakfast-some real classy shit.
Toby has figured out all of the things that that's code for.
*
The first guy Chris knew was some kind of locksmith. Well, that's what Chris told Toby. “Locksmith.”
Sure. He'll buy it. Most of Chris's associates of probably locksmiths, of a kind.
Snap, clang. Snap, clang. Snap, clang. Snap, clang. Does Chris look a little disappointed as their broken chains drop from their wrists to the floor? Toby is probably imagining it: “It's just that, you know, if the fucking things weren't so conspicuous, we'd probably be visiting a welder instead, right?”
Chris looks offended, but Toby knows better; because locksmith-guy offers Toby another beer, and Chris doesn't object when he takes it.
*
Chris knew a guy who worked as some kind of big-shot scientist on one of those shady government projects-he's talking really fucking classified, need-to-know shit. Guy was a chemist or something.
Chris met the guy back when he was just a graduate student looking for a way to pay back his student loans and Chris was just a guy looking to score some quality meth.
Of course, Chris says, by now the guy has expanded his business.
Chris tells Toby about this guy the night that they stay at locksmith-guy's house; it's part of the story of how Chris slayed not just the mighty Schillinger, but his many Nazi minions to win back the fair Toby's heart-at least, that's how Chris seems to see it.
“You're like a tomcat,” Toby says, “leaving dead rats on my doorstep as gifts. You can't just fucking kill your way back into my life.”
“Hey, say what you want, pal,” Chris says. “But I sure don't remember you putting up much of a fight when I grabbed you wrist and dragged you out of that shithole.”
“You put me in that shithole!” Toby wants to scream and stomp his feet, but what's the fucking point? He'll always come when Chris calls, whether he wants to or not. Chris couldn't face the rest of his life in there without Toby? Shit, when it came down to it, Toby decided he'd rather not face even ten years in there without Chris.
“Fuck,” Toby says, because he's exhausted, and can't think of anything else to say. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Fuck.”
Chris steps up behind him and rubs his shoulder. “It's OK,” he says. “It's OK.”
Toby gives up for the night. He leans back into Chris's hands and pretends that Chris is right.
*
Some of the guys Chris knows aren't guys.
This one chick, he says, Starla? Yeah, yeah, Starla: she always lets him crash, and she's got a real sweet place, loaded with food. “She probably makes more in one night of tips,” he says, “than you ever did in a fucking week.” Toby doubts that.
The place where Starla allegedly raked in a few grand in ones every night is a cozy little hole-in-the-wall called The Crystal Palace. “A gentleman's club,” the sign insists. And under that: “LIVE NUDE GIRLS!!!” Some real classy shit.
The girls, it turns out, aren't really nude: most of them are wearing thongs and high heels, at least. Toby is relieved: that means they serve booze. Chris struts into the place like he's trying to turn the patrons' heads away from the stage-brilliant job staying under the radar, Toby thinks, but no one really pays the two of them any attention anyway.
The woman on the stage appears to be in her thirties, but she's wearing a schoolgirl skirt. She's dancing a little too slow for the upbeat synth-pop music playing in the club, like there's a jazz standard playing in her head. There are tiny tattoos of stars dotted above her bare breasts like a miniature milky way. Starla is smiling but there's a vacancy in her eyes that Toby recognizes from the mirror. (She's got it bad, and that ain't good.) She turns around and wraps her leg up around the pole in the middle of the stage; her skirt rises enough to reveal another star tattoo, larger than the others, on her left ass cheek. Toby feels his dick twitch a little at the sight of her bare ass, and he looks down at the floor, ashamed.
There are wolf-whistles and cat-calls-a couple of them from the seat next to his. Toby keeps his eyes down and tries to figure out how it is that a place with a sign saying “LIVE NUDE GIRLS!!!” could feel more like Oz than anywhere else that he's been since he left. With nothing to look at he becomes preoccupied with placing the Crystal Palace's distinct smell-The gym? The bathroom? No: Schillinger's pod, late in the night.
He can't think about that, though. Better to focus on Chris, sitting here beside him, looking for all the world like there's no place he'd rather be. Is he really enjoying this? Toby wonders if the show is giving Chris an erection and suddenly Chris's dick is all he can think about; he starts to get hard, uncomfortably so, but he can't stop it.
“You like that, huh?” Oh god, breathed right into his ear. Toby should have known he would notice. But Chris leans back and looks back at the stage. “Told you she was something special.”
“Oh. Starla. Yeah.” Toby stands up. “I'm gonna grab something from the bar.”
“Lemme know if you want a free lap-dance, man,” Chris shouts as he walks away. “I can hook you up.”
*
Some of the guys have girlfriends; some of the guys have wives. They don't always introduce themselves. Sometimes Toby only finds out when he wakes up in their tiny living rooms covered in a blanket that wasn't there when he fell asleep.
A few of these guys have children. They're usually sleeping when Toby and Chris arrive. Sometimes they're just hiding in their bedrooms. Their mothers always apologize, embarrassed when they refuse to come out: “They're just shy.” Toby tells them that it's OK, that kids should be afraid of strangers-and sometimes, after a couple of drinks, he tells them why.
There have been mornings when he's woken up to find these shy children staring curiously at the strange man sleeping on their living room couch. Once it was a little boy, standing in front of an east-facing window, the bright sunlight behind him obscuring his face but lighting up his blond hair like a halo. (Toby poured some whiskey into his coffee that morning.) Once it was a pair of red-headed girls, and he screamed when he saw them. (He gave his mug a double-shot that day.)
None of it hurts as badly as seeing how Chris is with these kids. They flinch away from Toby because they can tell that he's afraid of them-but, boy, do they love Chris. Chris watches cartoons with them; Chris does card tricks and pulls coins out of their ears; Chris sneaks them candy before breakfast. Toby knows that they only love Chris because they think that he's cool and because he leaves before he can get boring; and Chris only loves them because they're easy to impress and because he leaves before they start to get annoying. Chris would probably be a terrible father, all things considered.
But seeing him with them-it fucks with his head: makes him start thinking things that don't make any sense.
It's just so terrifyingly close to everything he really wants.
He can't stand to look at it.
*
Once they cross state lines, Chris's contacts start getting progressively sparser and less reliable. Toby realizes that their way of living isn't working any more. They need their own vehicle. And a way to make money. And a place to stay.
Chris takes them to a guy who fences stolen cars that have been fixed up with clean plates. He agrees to hook them up at a sizable discount, because, well, it's Chris-the two of them, of course, go way back. The guy even knew Ronnie Barlog, much to Toby's surprise, and they trade stories of that poor fucker for a while before getting down to business.
The guy recommends a two-door silver Nissan, a 1999 model: drivable, but not conspicuous.
“We'll take it,” Chris says. He hands over an envelope of cash and the guy hands over the keys.
*
“So.” Toby pulls out of the lot and starts driving toward the highway. “Where to now?”
“I don't know,” Chris says. He reclines his seat and stretches one leg up on the dash. “Wherever you really want to go, I guess.”