Fic: Psychically Yours. Used, Bert/Quinn, NC-17, 8300 words.
Psychically Yours
The Used, Bert/Quinn, NC-17, 8300 words
Quinn really doesn't want to work for the Psychic Agents Division, but that's before he meets his fellow employees. For evocatory in the usedfic exchange. Beta work by thesamefire and T. Any remaining mistakes are because I ignored their sound advice.
Warning: This could be read as having dub-con elements. Please feel free to contact me in the comments or by LJ message if you need more specific warnings.
---
It's not hard for a Mover to get a job with the government. It's not really much of a choice.
"You want the job?" the agent repeats. He nudges Quinn's temple with the nose of his gun. The man's badge -- Official Representative, Psychic Ability Division -- reflects the sunlight shining through the ragged hole in the wall. Quinn squints at it, but he can't make out the agent's name.
The other agent has wandered across the room. Apparently he's bored by life-or-death situations. Quinn doesn't blame him; he would wander away if he could. The half-finished room they're in is scattered with construction shrapnel, and it's freezing cold. Pain sparks up from his kneecaps and flares into his hips. His arms are getting tired, too. He shifts his hands from the back of his head to the top of it, and lets the weight of his arms rest on his skull. The man doesn't move the gun; Quinn's wrist brushes against it. It's as cold as the concrete under his knees.
No one's gotten the drop on Quinn in five years. Five years is a long time, Quinn reasons, and a nice round number. Quinn's made a name for himself, even, just by not dying or getting drafted. The only reason they got to him this time is because the government finally got their hands on a goddamn Damper.
"Jesus Christ," the agent with the gun snaps. He nudges Quinn's head a little harder. "Do you want the job or don't you?"
"Just kill him already," the other agent says.
Quinn closes his eyes, but the gun doesn’t go off. There's a scuffling sound from the other agent, and something falls over, clanking on the concrete. Quinn opens his eyes again. The gun leans into his temple, like the agent's arm is getting tired, too. Quinn rests his head against it.
"Can I get dental?" Quinn asks.
The other agent giggles. The agent with the gun says, "Jesus. Yeah, you can get dental."
"Are you sure?" Quinn says. "My teeth are really fucked up."
"I'm sure," the agent says.
Quinn waits a little bit longer. "Okay," he says, finally, when he can't drag it out anymore. "I'll take the job."
The agent smiles. "Took you long enough," he says. He doesn't holster his gun, but he drops it, at least.
"You really don't need the gun," Quinn tells him. "I can't do shit around a Damper."
The agent shrugs. He says, "You could punch me in the face." He looks over Quinn's head, then, to the other end of the room. "Yo, bitch," he calls, and gestures at the other man with the hand holding the gun.
"Yo," says the other man. "Yo yo yo."
The agent rolls his eyes. "Just do it already," he says.
The other agent walks over. Quinn watches him approach, thinks he looks like a demon, maybe. Like a hot demon. He doesn't realize what's going to happen, not until the guy's already got a handful of his hair. Quinn leans into it, trying to lessen the pressure. "Pow pow," the other agent mouths, softer than a whisper. Quinn's vision does the backstroke, and--
--and he opens his eyes to white.
Quinn blinks rapidly, and the white haze sharpens into a shadowed surface, textured with bumps and scratches. There's a brown stain on the ceiling, to his left. It looks like -- Quinn turns his head slightly and squints -- it looks like an antelope.
"Your head is like a warehouse," he hears.
Quinn automatically tries to sit up, and nearly chokes himself on the metal guard around his neck. His wrists move a few inches and then stop. His powers are clamped in with him, somehow. Quinn sighs, and turns his head.
The man who spoke is the other agent, the one who grabbed Quinn's hair. He's sitting on a bed, feet swinging a foot above the floor. He's still wearing a PAD uniform, but it's unbuttoned at the throat and there's a smear of something yellow on his trouser leg. He looks too dirty to work for the government.
"Who are you?" Quinn asks.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" the man says, ignoring Quinn's question. Quinn shrugs, as much as he can in the restraints, and the man pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Do you want one?" the man asks.
"No thank you," Quinn says politely.
The man lights his cigarette and inhales deeply, then breathes out twin plumes of smoke from his nose. "I'm Bert McCracken," he says.
"Quinn Allman," Quinn says.
"I know," Bert says. "It took me forever to find, though. You really need to reorganize up there." He taps the side of his head with the hand holding his cigarette.
Quinn looks back up at the ceiling. He doesn't want to think about that. Bert could still be in his head, listening in. Quinn follows the outline of the stain on the ceiling with his eyes, instead. It could be an antelope.
"So you're a pouter," Bert says. Quinn doesn't respond. "I've run into a couple of types of people," Bert continues. "I thought you would be a ranter. You seem like you're being a pouter, though."
"I suggest talking first, then digging around in my head after," Quinn says harshly. "I'd be more likely to talk to you if you hadn't just pranced through my brain uninvited."
There's a short silence. "Sorry," Bert offers.
"Whatever," Quinn mutters. There isn't much he can do about it, though, so he finally adds, "It's fine."
Bert takes another long drag. "If you're not pouting," he says slowly, "Maybe you're being the strong silent type?"
Bert is just going to keep talking, Quinn thinks. They might as well have a conversation. "Hey," he says, "does this stain on the ceiling look like an antelope to you?"
There's a long silence, then a thump and a squeak. Bert's face lunges into Quinn's view of the ceiling. "Hmm," Bert says. "I think it looks like a naked woman."
"Yeah right," Quinn says. "It's a fucking antelope."
"Maybe it's a naked lady antelope."
Quinn considers this. "Maybe," he allows. "I could see that."
"A naked lady antelope with big teats," Bert says.
"Do antelopes have teats?" Quinn asks. He considers the concept and adds, "They do eat grass, I guess."
Bert folds his arms on the edge of Quinn's bed, and rests his chin on Quinn's shoulder. He doesn't answer. Quinn keeps staring at the naked antelope, for lack of anything better to do.
"I like you," Bert says.
Quinn twists his head awkwardly. Bert's eyes are way too close to his. Quinn blinks, resisting the urge to close his eyes and pucker up. "Already?" he asks. "It's only our second date."
Bert says, "I like your brain."
"Even though it's like a warehouse?" Quinn says. Bert nods, pressing his chin down into Quinn's shoulder. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway?"
"What, the warehouse thing?" Bert asks. Quinn nods. "I don't know. It's just how your brain is. It's all big space and high windows and filing cabinets."
"What's in the cabinets?" Quinn asks.
"You," Bert says simply. "But your filing system is for shit."
Quinn contemplates this for a long moment. The guys he used to squat with told him he was too intense. Actually, Dave had said, "The only time I can deal with you is when you're high." Quinn remembers it with perfect clarity. It seems odd that someone who's too intense, who can remember a four year-old slight with perfect clarity, would have a disorganized warehouse for a brain. Quinn won't ask now, though. He files it away for later.
"Would you suck on an antelope's titties?" he asks.
"Depends on whether she's hot or not," Bert says promptly.
---
Half an hour's worth of bestiality later, Bert tells Quinn to sit tight while he talks to someone. "What else would I do?" Quinn inquires, but Bert is already leaving the room. Quinn looks back up at the ceiling. He waits.
"Jesus fucking Christ," someone eventually says. It's not Bert. It's a short man with platinum-blond hair and a weak chin. Quinn tries to think of a witty opening line, but he can't. The man saves him by saying, "Bert always forgets to let them up."
"He was supposed to let me up?" Quinn says stupidly.
The man just goes to the panel by the door. "My name's Feldmann," he says, as he types in some sort of code, "It's nice to meet you." The restraints holding Quinn to the bed snap open. Quinn cautiously sits up. He reaches out with his powers and touches all the surfaces in the room, just to get his bearings. When he's done, he looks at Feldmann.
"Follow me," Feldmann commands, and leaves the room at a brisk walk.
Quinn reaches out with his mind automatically, and just catches the door before it swings closed. He slides himself off of the edge of the cot. His legs are a little wobbly, but he manages to make it to the door. Feldmann is almost all the way down the hall already. "Wait," Quinn calls. Feldmann turns left at the end of the hall. He doesn't stop. Quinn breaks into a slow jog, feeling the strain in his stiff calves.
He rounds the corner just as Feldmann is disappearing into a room. Quinn holds the door open, so he can see where he's supposed to be going.
When he comes in, Feldmann is facing the doorway. He throws a pen at Quinn. Quinn lets the door fall shut behind him and bats the pen away with his hand. "What the fuck," Quinn says.
Feldman just scribbles something on his clipboard with another pen. "Good," he says, turns around, and takes a seat behind the desk in the room. "Have a seat." Quinn sits, looking warily at Feldmann. Feldmann doesn't look up at him. He stares down at his clipboard and reads, "The Psychic Abilities Division, hereafter referred to as 'PAD,' is pleased to have you as a volunteer." Quinn snorts. Feldmann's expression doesn't even twitch. "You have given us your personal information, and have successfully passed the psychological evaluation--"
"When?" Quinn interrupts.
Feldmann looks very slightly pained. "Bert," he explains. "Your psychological capability and stress response have been rated as the highest possible level."
"Bert's a fucking whackjob," Quinn says. "He goes poking around in my head without my permission, and he's supposed to judge my mental state?"
Feldmann makes no sign that he's heard Quinn at all. He says, "If you pass this examination and your training period, you will be asked to join team 57U, headed by Agent J. Howard. Agent Howard acts as a neuropathic and neurokinetic inhibiting specialist, also known as a class 3. Inhibiting specialists are able to inhibit the abilities of other specialists temporarily, hence--"
"Oh! He's a Damper," Quinn interrupts.
There is a pause.
"Insults are unwelcome at PAD," Feldmann says. "Agent Howard is an inhibiting specialist."
"Damper," Quinn mutters.
Feldmann's lips press into a line for a moment, but he doesn't rise to the bait. "Agent R. McCracken is the second in command on 57U--"
"Bert?"
"Yes, Bert," Feldmann says impatiently. "Agent McCracken is talented in neuropathics--"
"A fucking whacko Mental," Quinn says.
"A neuropathic specialist," Feldmann corrects firmly. He takes a deep breath, then continues reading, "As a neurokinetic specialist, you will serve as a valuable asset to this team. Please describe your powers. Your response will be recorded." He stops, scoots his chair back, and digs in a drawer for a moment before taking out a tape recorder. He sets the tape recorder on the table, clicks a button, and sits back.
Quinn leans forward. "I'm a Mover," he says distinctly.
Feldmann raises one eyebrow and huffs an irritated breath. "I'm a Mover too, you know," he says.
"I'm so glad you shared that with me."
Feldmann picks up a pen in his right hand. "What I’m saying," he begins. The pen disappears from his hand and reappears in his left. "Is that there are different types of Movers."
That makes Quinn blink. He's never thought about it that way. When he's fighting someone, it doesn't really matter that they have a different type of power. The only difference between a thirty-eight and a forty-five aimed at someone's head is the size of the splatter, after all. The only time that Quinn ever notices a difference in someone's power is about two seconds after he takes advantage of the difference. Maybe the government gives a shit, though; they don't have anything better to do. Quinn says, "It feels like an extension of my body, but it's not shaped like my body."
"Are you able to reach through matter?" Feldmann asks.
"No," Quinn says. "I can punch through it, though."
"I'm sure," Feldmann murmurs. Quinn makes a face, but he stops as soon as Feldmann looks up again. Feldmann asks, "What age were you when you first demonstrated your powers?"
"I don't know," Quinn says. "Maybe-- I don't know, thirteen? I pantsed a guy." After a beat, Quinn clarifies, "He was being a dick." Quinn had actually had a massive fucking crush on the guy, and was feeling wounded because the guy was hitting on Sarah, Quinn's best friend at the time. He figures Feldmann doesn't need to know that, though.
Feldmann doesn't ask, anyway. He says, "Number of years rogue?"
"Wait, like," Quinn says. "Does faking out the tests in school count?"
"No," Feldmann says. "Just the years out of the system entirely."
"Oh," Quinn says. "I left school when I was fifteen, so five years."
Feldmann's pen pauses over the paper. Quinn looks away so he can avoid seeing the look of pity Feldmann will be giving him. Quinn fucking hates that look.
When he looks back, Feldmann's head is bent back to the paper. "That's actually all of it," he admits. "Do you have any questions?"
"Yeah," Quinn says. "The guy who volunteered me said I would get dental. Will I get dental?"
Feldmann looks startled. "Yes," he says.
"I have another question," Quinn says. "Have you ever sucked dick for money?"
The chair dematerializes from underneath him. Quinn lands on his ass with a squawk. Feldmann stands up from his chair. "Yes," he says primly. "Now follow me."
"Really?" Quinn says, but Feldmann's already walking out. Quinn scrambles to his feet and follows. Feldmann seems to have a habit of not waiting, though; he's already down the hall and turning the corner when Quinn pokes his head out of the doorway. Quinn runs after him, giving up all pretense of cool. Feldmann doesn't look at him, even when Quinn catches up and asks, "How much money?"
They march through a series of identical drab hallways, until Feldmann comes to a stop at a featureless door. "Here we are," Feldmann says.
Quinn waits, but Feldmann doesn't bother to open the door. "Okay then," Quinn says, and opens it himself. The room behind the door is extraordinarily similar to the one they were just in, except that this one is completely empty. Quinn walks into the room and sees that there's a plexiglass booth in one of the corners by the door. Feldmann brushes past him and climbs up into the booth. He presses a button and leans in to what is apparently a microphone. "This is a physical evaluation," he says. The speaker crackles. "For the first exercise, please store the objects in their appropriate receptacles."
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Quinn grouses. Feldmann doesn't answer. A red ball pops into existence in the middle of the room, and, after a beat, a blue plastic bucket. Quinn sighs, but he runs to get the ball.
He doesn’t even bother with his power for the first five rounds. It’s all kiddie games, and it's just easier not to strain his powers. Still, by the end of the fifth round Quinn’s starting to drip sweat on the concrete.
"Can I take my shirt off?" Quinn asks.
The speaker clicks on, and Feldmann's "Agent Howard took his tests in the nude," comes through with a dry hiss of static.
"Awesome," Quinn says. He strips off his shirt, and then takes off his shoes and socks as well.
Feldmann intones "Please incapacitate your opponent," while Quinn is kicking his discarded clothing into a pile by the door.
"Finally," Quinn sighs.
"Shut up," Feldmann says patiently.
The first guy doesn't do much to make the process more interesting. He's a Screamer, but he doesn't give Quinn anything more than an earache. He looks astonished when Quinn punches him in the mouth, and crumples obediently to the floor.
"You're supposed to use your powers," Feldmann tells Quinn, after he's popped the kid back out of the room.
Quinn rolls his eyes. He's starting to feel a little underappreciated. "Make me," he says.
Feldmann doesn't, at least not for the next three rounds. Quinn punches another Screamer, kicks a Shifter in the head, and hogties a fellow Mover with his own shirt.
During the fifth round, against a skinny thirty-something Shifter, Quinn realizes what the problem is. The Shifter is trying to become a tiger, but Quinn's got him in a good chokehold. The guy has no idea how to break it, and he hasn't even thought to go for Quinn's balls. "None of them are mean enough," Quinn says. The Shifter finally passes out, and Quinn lets him thump onto the floor.
Feldmann looks up from his papers. He mouths something, then looks irritated and clicks on the microphone. "What?" he repeats.
"You heard me," Quinn says. "I bet all of these people were trained here, weren't they?"
Feldmann has the courtesy to look a little pained. "Yes," he admits.
"No wonder," Quinn says. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "That guy didn't even try to kick me in the balls."
"You want to get kicked in the balls?" Feldman says.
"I want it to be interesting," Quinn says.
Feldmann smiles. Quinn grins back. "Okay," Feldmann says.
Quinn turns around and backs up. "C'mon number six," he murmurs.
Number six is a teenage girl. She is wearing black raver pants that pinch her waist, and three black t-shirts. Her hair is the sickly green of a home dye job. She has a lot of acne.
"This is interesting?" Quinn asks, and looks at Feldmann. Rookie mistake. She rewards him for this boneheaded move by covering him in writhing, hungry maggots.
"Shit on me," Quinn says. He wastes a few precious seconds slapping at the maggots, but he can't shake them. "Fucking shit on me," Quinn reiterates.
She smiles and lights his hair on fire.
The maggots are churning across his skin, digging into the rotting flesh on his arms and on his torso. It hurts only distantly, like peeling a scab, but the sound of their bodies rubbing together while they feed is nauseating. His burning scalp is a simpler feeling: it's just pure excruciating pain. He can feel the tender skin blistering and peeling away from his skull. His nose fills with the stench of rotting flesh and burning hair.
Quinn closes his eyes. He brings his hands up. He feels for where she's standing in the room, tries to get her shape in his mind.
Quinn's father says, "I'm so disappointed in you," from behind him. Quinn hasn't seen his father in five years, not since he ran away. He wants to turn around to see him.
Except his father would never say that. It's not him. This isn't real.
Quinn slams into the soft part of her cheek, rocking her back on her heels. His hair extinguishes with a hiss when she stumbles. "My dad usually told me I was screwing the pooch when I fucked up," Quinn tells her. He takes a step forward. "Try that, maybe I'll believe it this time."
She gets to her feet. "Kill yourself," she says. Quinn's throat squeezes shut obediently, but he manages to wheeze in a breath before it does. All he needs is the space of a breath, really.
He comes in and up, ramming into her chin and snapping her head back. The maggots blink out of existence, and she weaves on her feet. Quinn hits her in the gut then, hard enough to make her fall to her knees. He hits her in the head again, a swift punch to the back of her head, and she folds to the floor. Quinn's throat opens, and he sucks in a grateful gasp. He takes a few more deep breaths, and then walks over to her side.
She's sweating a little. Her concentration isn't that great; she's still young, still a little inexperienced. Vicious as hell, though. Quinn smiles down at her. She's almost cute when she's passed out.
Quinn looks up at the booth. "Much better," he tells Feldmann.
The girl vanishes from the room. Feldmann raises an eyebrow and makes a notation on the paper in front of him.
"Can you tell her that she was awesome?" Quinn asks. "The thing with my dad's voice tipped me off, though."
Feldman looks constipated at Quinn's request. He apparently obliges, though, because he says, "She'd like you to know that you can go fuck yourself."
Quinn laughs, delighted. "Yeah, I want more like her."
---
Fifteen rounds of "more like her" later, Quinn's vision is blurry. He feels like someone's used a rake on both the inside and the outside of his head. His powers are-- well, for lack of a better word, they're floppy. He stops and braces his hands on his knees. Feldmann, happily, doesn't bring anyone new into the room while Quinn is trying not to throw up. Quinn counts it as a kindness.
Quinn lifts his head and says, "Can I have a break? I need a juice box."
Feldmann actually smiles at him. He opens the door to the booth and leans out of it. "I think it's time for you to quit for the day," he says.
"I could kiss you," Quinn says.
"Or not," Feldmann says blandly. "C'mon, I think they have eggplant parm at the cafeteria."
Dinner is pretty decent, at least for cafeteria food. The bed Feldmann shows Quinn to after dinner is even better. Quinn dimly registers hitting the covers face first. After that, there's nothing.
---
A gang of rogue Shifters is chasing Quinn through his hometown. They want his unfinished history paper, but Quinn's not going to give it to them; he wants a C in this class, has to get one if he wants to stay at his parents' house any longer.
Quinn takes a look back over his shoulder to check their progress and smacks right into something. Quinn grunts with the impact, twists away, and then somehow runs into the something again. It's not just a something, either; it's a someone, and they're grabbing his arm. Quinn struggles, but the person gets a tight grip on his forearm.
"They're coming!" Quinn shouts, prying at the person's fingers.
"No they're not," the person says.
Which is true, Quinn realizes. The Shifters are nowhere to be seen. "I thought--" Quinn says stupidly. He gestures with his history paper. "I have to finish this," he tells the person. Now that he's not running for his life, Quinn realizes that the person is Bert. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
Bert finally releases his arm and takes a seat on the asphalt. He lights a cigarette and then answers, "I'm waking you up."
"I'm asleep," Quinn says. It starts off as a question, but rapidly loses its lilt. He can feel himself lying in bed, even though he's still standing on the pavement in front of Bert. "Oh," Quinn adds, dumbly. He thinks about falling back asleep, even though he was having a nightmare.
"Pick waking up," Bert interjects. He blows out cigarette smoke dramatically. "I'll just keep bothering you."
Quinn opens his eyes.
Bert isn't in the room with him. Quinn drags his feet off of the end of the bed and uses the momentum to pull himself upright. He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He can't feel Bert in his head anymore, but that doesn't mean anything. A Mental once hid out in Quinn's head for three days, with nearly no sign at all. Quinn does what he did then: thinks of a series of the most annoying sounds in the world.
After a beat, the door to his room opens. "I'm not in there, you know," Bert says conversationally. "But you're projecting like a bitch."
Quinn stops considering the noise of skin dragged against cling wrap. "I had to make sure you'd gotten out," he says awkwardly. "You know, of my head."
Bert has the nerve to look hurt. Quinn feels like he ought to apologize, but for what? He keeps his mouth shut, stubbornly. Bert doesn't say anything about it, anyway. He gently kicks the bottom of the doorway and says, "You want breakfast?"
"Shit, I must have slept for a while," Quinn says. He gets to his feet and follows Bert out.
---
Quinn expects that Bert will take him back to Feldmann after breakfast. He drags his feet when he leaves the cafeteria, dreading another endless day. The door Bert stops at, however, is not the same door as yesterday. There's a crude line-drawing of a man with a giant head on it, for one. For another, there's a cluster of sad-looking plastic daisies sitting in a pot nearby. Bert opens the door, sails into the room, and flops down on the couch in the room. Quinn stalls out in the doorway and gawks.
It's a sparsely furnished room, but it's completely trashed; Quinn can barely make out the carpet under all the crap. The couch that Bert and another guy are sitting on looks like they got it off a street corner. "How long have you lived here?" Quinn asks. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the moaning from the hentai on the battered TV.
Bert looks over, pausing in the act of lighting a cigarette. "At the Center? Like, forever." He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. "Two years?"
"Yeah, two years," the other man says. He doesn't look away from the TV. Bert nods and lights his cigarette. The guy adds, "But we've been in this room for about a week."
"Maybe two weeks," Bert says.
"Okay," the guy agrees easily. It's the same man that 'volunteered' Quinn, or at least Quinn thinks he's the same man. Quinn edges a few inches into the room, just to check him for a gun. He doesn't seem to have it on him. However, he does have a hard-on. Quinn looks away.
Bert laughs, abruptly. "Scared by a boner?" he hoots.
The man looks at Quinn, finally. He's definitely the Damper from before. He looks stoned, this time. "Whoops," he says. "Sorry about that." He turns off the television, and the room goes quiet.
"I'm Jepha," the guy says. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"You recruited me," Quinn says.
"Oh, right," Jepha says.
Bert and Jepha both stare at Quinn. Quinn prides himself on rolling with the punches -- five years without the government catching him, he's got to be pretty good at thinking on his feet -- but this is just awkward.
"Is it baby's first day of school?" Bert says.
"Fuck off," Quinn says automatically.
Bert cocks his head, considering Quinn, and then smiles. His eyes close. He looks stoned, too, Quinn thinks. Actually, Quinn's starting to feel stoned, just from being around these two.
"So--" he starts, and then has no idea how to finish the sentence.
"Your room's over there," Bert says, and points to the right-hand wall. He turns back to the blank television and takes a drag off of his cigarette.
"Great," Quinn says.
The room is surprisingly neat, after the chaos of the main room. It's already furnished, with two bureaus, two beds, two bedside tables, and one uncomfortable chair. Quinn sits on the edge of his bed, and then gets back up. "Hey, who's my roommate?" he asks, leaning out into the main room again.
"No one yet," Bert says, tipping his head back so that he's speaking to the ceiling.
Quinn ducks back inside the room. He hears the television clicks back on. "Oh yeah," Bert says, loudly enough that his voice carries into Quinn's room. "Feed me that calamari, baby. C'mon, Quinn, get in on this. Jepha's boner won't bite."
Quinn doesn't think about it; he just reaches out through the door, across the room, and turns off the television.
"Real cute," Bert says.
Quinn doesn't feel Bert pushing against his mental blocks; he's just suddenly there, in Quinn's head, making Quinn's skin prickle and twist. Quinn yanks on Bert's balls in retaliation, pulling a little too hard because he's panicking. Bert promptly makes Quinn feel like he's got a garter snake wriggling around in his asscrack. Quinn's begun pulling Bert's hair out strand by strand when everything just-- stops.
It's possible for a person with powers to choose not to use them. It's probably the smart way out; hiding is about the only way a person with powers can have a halfway decent life expectancy. If Quinn thinks about it rationally, objectively, he probably should have kept his powers to himself. It isn't something rational, though. Once Quinn had discovered his powers, they were always right there, waiting for him to give in and use them.
If there had been a Damper around him, though, Quinn might have been able to resist. It isn't like his powers are muted or tied up; it's like they're not there at all.
Bert is chanting, "Unfair, unfair, unfair, unfair, unfair," in the next room, his voice a steady drone. Quinn gets up off of the bed and goes to the doorway.
"Quit whining," Jepha says, "And quit pulling Quinn's pigtails."
Bert stops chanting to huff, "I'm welcoming him."
Quinn sticks his index and pinky fingers into his mouth. He walks across the room, and, aided by Bert's inability to read his mind, successfully sticks his index fingers into Bert's ears and his pinkies up Bert's nostrils.
"I feel very welcomed," Quinn announces, over Bert's obscenities. "And your porn is really gross," he adds.
"Thanks," Jepha says, after a beat. He stops damping, then, and turns back to the television. Bert launches himself over the back of the couch, and he and Quinn go tumbling to the floor.
Bert's a wriggly little fuck, and he's persistent, but Quinn has height and reach on him. He gets Bert into a headlock pretty quickly, and pulls just tight enough to keep him still. "Say uncle," he says.
"No way," Bert says, and kicks Quinn directly in the balls.
Quinn's vision goes sparkly. He curls up, cradling his suddenly heaving stomach and cupping his balls with his other hand. "Jesus fuck," he grits out.
"What did you do?" he hears Jepha ask. "Did you kick him in the junk?"
"Only a little bit," Bert whines.
"You can't kick someone in the junk 'a little bit,'" Jepha points out.
As soon as Quinn's testicles stop trying to crawl up into his body, he's going to choke Bert to death. "Don't be mad," Quinn hears, and then Bert's inches away from his face, breathing on him. He slides into Quinn's mind, so easily that it's almost like he was already there. "I'll fix it, I can just--"
"Get out!" Quinn shouts. He squeezes his eyes shut and says, "Keep out of my head, asshole."
"I'm already out," Bert snaps, "I don't know what the fuck your problem is--"
"Give me a goddamn second," Quinn grits out. He's not going to choke Bert to death, not really, but he is pretty sure he's going to punch him if he keeps talking.
Once Quinn's balls have finally stopped throbbing and his stomach has calmed down, though, Quinn feels like maybe he's overreacting.
"Everyone's like that when someone nails their junk," Bert offers.
Quinn opens his eyes. "Could you just wait until I actually say something?" he asks. He sits up. He's acutely aware of Jepha watching them over the back of the couch.
"Stop thinking so loud, then," Bert mutters.
"It's--" Quinn starts.
"I'm not trying to get in," Bert says defensively. "I'm sorry, but-- it's easy. I don't even know I'm doing it."
Quinn darts a look over at Jepha, who scrunches his nose up. "If he says he'll try to stop, he'll try," Jepha offers.
"Okay," Quinn says. "I mean, it's not-- it's not like it's horrible, or something. It's not bad, I get that that's what you do, I just. I don't know, there's like that moment, when you're in my head, and it's like--" He gestures, groping for the feeling of someone being so completely integrated in his mind that he doesn't feel them there. "It's not bad, right, but it's scary." He stops, frustrated. "I'm not making any sense."
"But that's the problem," Bert says. He smiles, sort of, and says, "I know exactly what you mean."
There's a long and profoundly uncomfortable pause. Jepha breaks the silence by asking, "How long have you known each other?"
"We met the same day you met him," Bert says.
"And when did you start dating?" Jepha asks. He sounds genuinely curious.
"Fuck yourself," Quinn tells him, and flops back onto a pile of dirty clothes.
It's his first day on his brand new government psychic squad. As it turns out, it's a pretty good introduction.
---
They settle into a routine over the next couple of days. Quinn doesn't ask questions, since he's happy to be left to his own devices. That plan is thrown out of whack one morning, though, when Bert announces at lunch that they have a mission the next day.
"A mission," Quinn repeats.
Quinn's visions of rappelling down a skyscraper dressed all in black are quickly dashed. "We have to go to the mall and catch this guy," Bert explains. "He can go invisible, and he's been perving on girls and shit."
"We're catching a peeping Blinker," Quinn says.
Jepha grins at him. "No one said it was glamorous."
"I think he does electric shocks, too? Nothing major," Bert says. "Might get a little tricky with the invisibility, but it should be a good warm-up for you."
---
It turns out to be a terrible, terrible warm-up.
Quinn turns hard at the corner of the Gap, catching the edge of the window display and careening through a gaggle of teenage boys. He doesn't bother returning their insults, just keeps running. He's catching up.
Bert is up ahead. He's thinking through the crowd; they docilely move out of his way. Quinn isn't nearly so persuasive. He just pushes out in front of himself and ignores the yelps and swearing. He's managing to move faster than Bert, even with the clumsy technique. Quinn sprints a little harder, shoves a little faster, and finally reaches the edge of Bert's wake through the crowd. Quinn puts his head down and shoulders through to the empty space just behind Bert. He has to slow down to match his pace to Bert's.
"Where is he?" he says, surprised by how out of breath he sounds.
"Herding him," Bert gasps back. "I can't-- keep track-- and run--"
"Get in my head, then," Quinn says. Bert slants him a look, and Quinn says, "Yes, I fucking mean it." He speeds up, letting his legs stretch, matching his footfalls to his breath.
Change of heart? Bert asks.
Fuck you, Quinn thinks, as loud as he can.
Turn it down, moron, I'm right here, Bert shoots back. And turn left at Orange Julius.
Quinn takes the left and relaxes into sprinting. He feels his brand-new PAD uniform rubbing at the skin of his armpits and groin, the shock of his feet hitting the tiled floor, the burn of his breath in his lungs, but he doesn't think about them. Bert settles into it, too; he doesn't give Quinn directions, just fires the processes to make him turn.
Bert only interrupts after Quinn's sprinted most of the length of the mall. Jepha's up ahead, just keep running, he offers. Quinn doesn't bother responding; Bert knows that he's heard him. It's going to feel good to stop fucking running, but Quinn realizes with a start that he kind of likes having Bert in his head.
Quinn has to stumble to a stop, though, when the target suddenly sheds his invisibility. The man turns around, planting his feet and raising his palms toward Quinn. He's not as athletic as Quinn expected him to be. That's nearly all Quinn has time to think before blue light arcs out of the man's palms; that, and Get out Bert get--
The problem with non-lethal electrocution, Quinn discovers, is that he's conscious for the experience. He isn't conscious of much, though, beyond the painful tingling just under his skin and the rapid patter of his overworked heart. Quinn's breath is getting short. He goes to his knees, trying to think past the pain so he can fight back. It doesn't let up, that's the problem; the guy is unloading on him now, and Quinn doesn't think he can make it, he can't.
But then Quinn is not in the mall. He looks around, slowly, trying to understand how he got to be in a big empty room.
"Help me," Bert says. Quinn blinks and looks at him, trying to figure out what he's doing here.
"What--"
"No time," Bert says. He points to a pile of paper in the corner that, Quinn realizes, is rapidly building. The stack looks like it's going to topple. "Fifteen minutes. Where do you keep your grudges? I thought it was under childhood, but--"
Quinn's almost protests that he doesn't know what Bert's talking about, except that somehow he does. He points to a drawer in a cabinet that stands over by the wall. Bert runs to it, muttering, and digs into it. "Good, okay, go back," he yells at Quinn. "Go on, go back, I'm done with you here."
Pain arcs through Quinn's body, making him arch his back and then crumple in on himself against his will. Quinn plants his hands on the floor and thinks about giving up, going back to the warehouse and going to sleep.
Something makes him drag his head up.
Mrs. DeRiel never thought Quinn would amount to anything. Quinn hated Mrs. DeRiel, with her red fucking face and her obnoxious fucking laugh. Quinn was eight, eight, and she had told him that he wouldn't amount to anything.
Quinn pushes himself back up to his knees. He gets one leg up, his left foot on the floor. He fucking hates Mrs. DeRiel, and that's enough, just enough, to get him on his feet again. He sways there, twitching and jerking from the electrocution.
Mrs. DeRiel reminds him of Ms. Penn, his fifth grade teacher, the one who had laughed at him when he peed his pants during a school trip. She had dug her nails into his shoulder as she steered him to the bathroom to clean himself up, and she had been laughing at him. Quinn staggers forward, dredging up his powers from under all the pain and throwing them blindly forward, shoving as hard as he can.
Laughing. Tom had laughed at him, too. Fucking Tom had laughed at Quinn's stupid fucking declaration of love. Bastard, Quinn thinks, and pushes as hard as he can. The target skids backward, his heels squeaking on the tile, screaming something that Quinn doesn't care enough to hear. He cuts the electricity, making Quinn stagger and nearly retch on the floor, and goes invisible. Quinn's got a grip on him now, though. He can feel the space the man is taking up, and now Quinn's focused and can keep pushing him back.
Tom hadn't been there to help Quinn, the first time Quinn was driven out of a squat. The hopped-up asshole that Quinn had been crashing with had freaked out, and forced Quinn to stumble out into the freezing street. Quinn'd had to leave his dog behind. Quinn pushes harder. The guy reappears and tries to electrocute Quinn again, but Quinn breaks his fingers and punches him in the head. He can feel the guy sagging in his grip. Quinn keeps pushing.
Ten more feet, Bert murmurs.
Quinn nearly stumbles again when he remembers why he got the dog in the first place. He was lonely, when he first ran away from home. Quinn remembers his mother's face when she walked into his room to find him twirling his pencil in mid-air. He remembers his parents' whispered arguments when the school had called them in for yet another meeting.
Quinn finally pushes the man into Jepha's range. The man wails when his powers give out, flailing wildly. Quinn rushes to close the distance. His own powers abruptly give out, as well, but Quinn manages to fall on top of the guy. He clumsily pins him to the ground and punches him once across the face. It's just enough to knock the target out.
Quinn rises to his knees, still straddling the target, swaying with exhaustion. He bursts into tears.
---
An hour later, after a chocolate milkshake, processing by a guy in a suit, and Bert somehow muting his memories again, Quinn manages to stop crying.
"Let's never, ever do that again," he says hoarsely. He sniffles, and blows his nose on the crumpled tissue in his hand.
"Let's say you dodge streams of electricity that are headed for your chest," Bert snaps. Jepha rolls his eyes and slurps at the end of his vanilla milkshake.
"You were in there too," Quinn points out, "you could have dodged it for me."
"What," Bert starts, but Quinn keeps talking.
"And you were the one who brought up all that bullshit at the end. I was repressing that for a reason, asshole."
"Oh, so sorry for not letting you die," Bert spits, suddenly venomous. "Jesus fuck." He gets up from the food court table and stomps away.
"Where is he going?" Quinn asks Jepha.
Jepha shrugs. "Walking off the rage," he says, and takes another noisy slurp of milkshake. "He'll be better when he gets back."
"I'm going to follow him," Quinn decides.
Jepha laughs. Quinn looks at him, and he holds up his hands. "Hey, I'm not going to stop you," he says. Quinn just flips him off and shuffles after Bert.
He catches sight of Bert heading for the restrooms. He's still stomping angrily. Quinn ought to run after him, but he honestly doesn't have the energy. He speed walks, at least, though it makes his legs feel like they're going to fall apart. He chants Bert's name in his head, until Bert finally snaps back What?
I'm sorry, Quinn thinks. Bert doesn't respond. Quinn shoulders into the restroom. Bert isn't at any of the urinals, but Quinn didn't really expect that. He bends over and shuffles alongside the stalls, looking for Bert's battered Vans. He finds them at the end of the row. Let me in, Quinn thinks, and slaps his hand on the outside of the stall. After a beat, the door lock clicks open.
If anyone notices that Quinn's joining another man in the bathroom stall, they don't let on. Quinn only has a moment to appreciate the laissez-faire attitude of men's bathrooms before he's yanked inside. He locks the stall door behind him automatically. Bert fists his hands in the neck of Quinn's uniform and stares in Quinn's face. Learn to fucking dodge, Bert thinks, and kisses him.
It's an angry kiss. Bert's lips smash up against his. Their teeth click and slide painfully together. Quinn freezes in place. He thinks Bert will pull back and deck him next, but it doesn't happen; Bert loosens his grip on Quinn's shirt, instead, and looks down like he's going to apologize. Quinn catches the sides of Bert's head, keeping his eyes up, and leans in to kiss him. This kiss is gentler, and under Quinn's mouth Bert softens. I'm sorry, Quinn thinks. He pulls back and sinks to his knees, pressing the side of his face into Bert's stomach. Bert fists his hands in Quinn's hair, and he tilts Quinn's head back so that Quinn has to meet his eyes. Bert's expression is fierce. Quinn half-expects him to speak, to break the strained silence between them, but he doesn't.
Quinn tentatively touches the waist of Bert's pants. When Bert doesn't stop him, he undoes his fly. Bert bites his lip, and his fingers tighten painfully in Quinn's hair. Quinn leans forward, opens his mouth and breathes out over the shape of Bert's cock through the fabric of his underwear. Bert abruptly lets go of his hair. Quinn's head rocks back on his neck, and his mouth drops open. Bert shoves his underwear and his pants down around his thighs so he can pull out his cock. Bert strokes himself, guiding Quinn's head forward to nudge the head of his cock into Quinn's open mouth. Quinn relaxes, letting Bert do the work. Suck, Bert thinks, and Quinn complies.
Can I-- Bert starts, and Quinn thinks Yes, whatever, yes. Bert slides into his mind, and suddenly every aching muscle in Quinn's body is strung tight with pleasure. Quinn whimpers at the feeling, and Bert shoves roughly into his mouth. Quinn lets him, takes it, swallowing around the head of Bert's cock and sucking hard.
Bert leans forward, bracing himself on the inside of the stall with one hand. He digs the fingers of his other hand into the back of Quinn's neck, going unerringly for the spot that makes Quinn arch helplessly. He thrusts into Quinn's mouth, holding him in place and using him to get off. Quinn's jaw slowly starts to ache, and drool creeps down his chin, but he can't bring himself to care. He wants to come. He's desperate, pleading mentally for Bert to push him over the edge, but it only seems to ratchet impossibly higher.
When Bert's hips stutter, Quinn is mindless, twisting and slack-mouthed, barely holding back his groans around Bert's cock. Bert pulls Quinn's head in tight, pressing Quinn's nose against his stomach, and finally tips Quinn over the edge. Quinn comes, thrusting helplessly. His moans are only slightly muffled by Bert's cock in his throat. His hands twitch against Bert's thighs.
He's still shuddering when Bert pulls back. His breath is rasping in his throat. Too much noise, Quinn thinks, and sorry.
"No one can hear us," Bert tells him. "I'm making them think someone's taking an explosive shit in here." His voice is raspy. He gives Quinn a sex-stupid grin, and Quinn grins back at him, finally letting himself pant as hard as he wants. "Jesus fuck," Bert says appreciatively.
"Shut up," Quinn says. "My pants are sticky. I hate you."
"Sure you do," Bert says smugly. He drops to his knees, too, awkward in his undone pants, wedging in between Quinn and the toilet. He cups the side of Quinn's head. Please don't die, he thinks. There's still a worried edge to his mental voice, one that Quinn wishes he could take away.
I'll try, Quinn promises. It's all he can offer. After a beat, he adds, Jepha probably thinks you killed me.
No, he thinks we're fucking, Bert says. He says hi.
That's the point when Quinn starts giggling. Bert starts to giggle, too, resting his forehead against Quinn's and his hands on Quinn's shoulders.
---
Quinn doesn't have his wallet, so he has to commandeer a new pair of pants from Old Navy. Bert flirts with the clerk who's manning the dressing room while Quinn gets changed, and Quinn swans out of the place with no hassle at all.
Jepha holds up his hands when he sees them. He's cleaned up their food, but there's a folder sitting in the middle of the table. "I don't want any more details unless you're going to let me watch," he says. Quinn's about to try discussing it with Bert, but then Jepha continues, "And we have a mission in a couple of days."
"Can we not?" Quinn says plaintively. He drops down on the bench next to Jepha. Bert sits down across from him and opens the folder.
"It's a Shifter," Jepha says. "Daniel Whitehouse, or Whiteplains. White-something."
"Whitesides," Bert says absently. He flips through a few more pages. "Do you think he'll join the team?" he asks, and he and Jepha share an unreadable look.
Quinn only feels left out for a heartbeat. No one should work for the government forever, Bert murmurs to him. And it's easier to get out if you work as a team.
Oh, Quinn thinks. He slides the folder over and takes a look at the picture of the guy. "He looks like a frog," he observes, and slides the folder back.
"A naked lady frog," Bert says. "With big fucking teats."
"Now that's just weird," Quinn says. "Frogs don't eat grass."
"That's true," Jepha says. He slides the folder away from Bert and peers down at the photograph. "Welcome to the family, Quinn. Put up your feet and stay awhile."
"Don't mind if I do," Quinn says. For the first time in a long time, he feels safe sticking around to see what comes next.
---
END
---
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback of all kinds (including criticism) is very much welcome.
The Used, Bert/Quinn, NC-17, 8300 words
Quinn really doesn't want to work for the Psychic Agents Division, but that's before he meets his fellow employees. For evocatory in the usedfic exchange. Beta work by thesamefire and T. Any remaining mistakes are because I ignored their sound advice.
Warning: This could be read as having dub-con elements. Please feel free to contact me in the comments or by LJ message if you need more specific warnings.
---
It's not hard for a Mover to get a job with the government. It's not really much of a choice.
"You want the job?" the agent repeats. He nudges Quinn's temple with the nose of his gun. The man's badge -- Official Representative, Psychic Ability Division -- reflects the sunlight shining through the ragged hole in the wall. Quinn squints at it, but he can't make out the agent's name.
The other agent has wandered across the room. Apparently he's bored by life-or-death situations. Quinn doesn't blame him; he would wander away if he could. The half-finished room they're in is scattered with construction shrapnel, and it's freezing cold. Pain sparks up from his kneecaps and flares into his hips. His arms are getting tired, too. He shifts his hands from the back of his head to the top of it, and lets the weight of his arms rest on his skull. The man doesn't move the gun; Quinn's wrist brushes against it. It's as cold as the concrete under his knees.
No one's gotten the drop on Quinn in five years. Five years is a long time, Quinn reasons, and a nice round number. Quinn's made a name for himself, even, just by not dying or getting drafted. The only reason they got to him this time is because the government finally got their hands on a goddamn Damper.
"Jesus Christ," the agent with the gun snaps. He nudges Quinn's head a little harder. "Do you want the job or don't you?"
"Just kill him already," the other agent says.
Quinn closes his eyes, but the gun doesn’t go off. There's a scuffling sound from the other agent, and something falls over, clanking on the concrete. Quinn opens his eyes again. The gun leans into his temple, like the agent's arm is getting tired, too. Quinn rests his head against it.
"Can I get dental?" Quinn asks.
The other agent giggles. The agent with the gun says, "Jesus. Yeah, you can get dental."
"Are you sure?" Quinn says. "My teeth are really fucked up."
"I'm sure," the agent says.
Quinn waits a little bit longer. "Okay," he says, finally, when he can't drag it out anymore. "I'll take the job."
The agent smiles. "Took you long enough," he says. He doesn't holster his gun, but he drops it, at least.
"You really don't need the gun," Quinn tells him. "I can't do shit around a Damper."
The agent shrugs. He says, "You could punch me in the face." He looks over Quinn's head, then, to the other end of the room. "Yo, bitch," he calls, and gestures at the other man with the hand holding the gun.
"Yo," says the other man. "Yo yo yo."
The agent rolls his eyes. "Just do it already," he says.
The other agent walks over. Quinn watches him approach, thinks he looks like a demon, maybe. Like a hot demon. He doesn't realize what's going to happen, not until the guy's already got a handful of his hair. Quinn leans into it, trying to lessen the pressure. "Pow pow," the other agent mouths, softer than a whisper. Quinn's vision does the backstroke, and--
--and he opens his eyes to white.
Quinn blinks rapidly, and the white haze sharpens into a shadowed surface, textured with bumps and scratches. There's a brown stain on the ceiling, to his left. It looks like -- Quinn turns his head slightly and squints -- it looks like an antelope.
"Your head is like a warehouse," he hears.
Quinn automatically tries to sit up, and nearly chokes himself on the metal guard around his neck. His wrists move a few inches and then stop. His powers are clamped in with him, somehow. Quinn sighs, and turns his head.
The man who spoke is the other agent, the one who grabbed Quinn's hair. He's sitting on a bed, feet swinging a foot above the floor. He's still wearing a PAD uniform, but it's unbuttoned at the throat and there's a smear of something yellow on his trouser leg. He looks too dirty to work for the government.
"Who are you?" Quinn asks.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" the man says, ignoring Quinn's question. Quinn shrugs, as much as he can in the restraints, and the man pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Do you want one?" the man asks.
"No thank you," Quinn says politely.
The man lights his cigarette and inhales deeply, then breathes out twin plumes of smoke from his nose. "I'm Bert McCracken," he says.
"Quinn Allman," Quinn says.
"I know," Bert says. "It took me forever to find, though. You really need to reorganize up there." He taps the side of his head with the hand holding his cigarette.
Quinn looks back up at the ceiling. He doesn't want to think about that. Bert could still be in his head, listening in. Quinn follows the outline of the stain on the ceiling with his eyes, instead. It could be an antelope.
"So you're a pouter," Bert says. Quinn doesn't respond. "I've run into a couple of types of people," Bert continues. "I thought you would be a ranter. You seem like you're being a pouter, though."
"I suggest talking first, then digging around in my head after," Quinn says harshly. "I'd be more likely to talk to you if you hadn't just pranced through my brain uninvited."
There's a short silence. "Sorry," Bert offers.
"Whatever," Quinn mutters. There isn't much he can do about it, though, so he finally adds, "It's fine."
Bert takes another long drag. "If you're not pouting," he says slowly, "Maybe you're being the strong silent type?"
Bert is just going to keep talking, Quinn thinks. They might as well have a conversation. "Hey," he says, "does this stain on the ceiling look like an antelope to you?"
There's a long silence, then a thump and a squeak. Bert's face lunges into Quinn's view of the ceiling. "Hmm," Bert says. "I think it looks like a naked woman."
"Yeah right," Quinn says. "It's a fucking antelope."
"Maybe it's a naked lady antelope."
Quinn considers this. "Maybe," he allows. "I could see that."
"A naked lady antelope with big teats," Bert says.
"Do antelopes have teats?" Quinn asks. He considers the concept and adds, "They do eat grass, I guess."
Bert folds his arms on the edge of Quinn's bed, and rests his chin on Quinn's shoulder. He doesn't answer. Quinn keeps staring at the naked antelope, for lack of anything better to do.
"I like you," Bert says.
Quinn twists his head awkwardly. Bert's eyes are way too close to his. Quinn blinks, resisting the urge to close his eyes and pucker up. "Already?" he asks. "It's only our second date."
Bert says, "I like your brain."
"Even though it's like a warehouse?" Quinn says. Bert nods, pressing his chin down into Quinn's shoulder. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway?"
"What, the warehouse thing?" Bert asks. Quinn nods. "I don't know. It's just how your brain is. It's all big space and high windows and filing cabinets."
"What's in the cabinets?" Quinn asks.
"You," Bert says simply. "But your filing system is for shit."
Quinn contemplates this for a long moment. The guys he used to squat with told him he was too intense. Actually, Dave had said, "The only time I can deal with you is when you're high." Quinn remembers it with perfect clarity. It seems odd that someone who's too intense, who can remember a four year-old slight with perfect clarity, would have a disorganized warehouse for a brain. Quinn won't ask now, though. He files it away for later.
"Would you suck on an antelope's titties?" he asks.
"Depends on whether she's hot or not," Bert says promptly.
---
Half an hour's worth of bestiality later, Bert tells Quinn to sit tight while he talks to someone. "What else would I do?" Quinn inquires, but Bert is already leaving the room. Quinn looks back up at the ceiling. He waits.
"Jesus fucking Christ," someone eventually says. It's not Bert. It's a short man with platinum-blond hair and a weak chin. Quinn tries to think of a witty opening line, but he can't. The man saves him by saying, "Bert always forgets to let them up."
"He was supposed to let me up?" Quinn says stupidly.
The man just goes to the panel by the door. "My name's Feldmann," he says, as he types in some sort of code, "It's nice to meet you." The restraints holding Quinn to the bed snap open. Quinn cautiously sits up. He reaches out with his powers and touches all the surfaces in the room, just to get his bearings. When he's done, he looks at Feldmann.
"Follow me," Feldmann commands, and leaves the room at a brisk walk.
Quinn reaches out with his mind automatically, and just catches the door before it swings closed. He slides himself off of the edge of the cot. His legs are a little wobbly, but he manages to make it to the door. Feldmann is almost all the way down the hall already. "Wait," Quinn calls. Feldmann turns left at the end of the hall. He doesn't stop. Quinn breaks into a slow jog, feeling the strain in his stiff calves.
He rounds the corner just as Feldmann is disappearing into a room. Quinn holds the door open, so he can see where he's supposed to be going.
When he comes in, Feldmann is facing the doorway. He throws a pen at Quinn. Quinn lets the door fall shut behind him and bats the pen away with his hand. "What the fuck," Quinn says.
Feldman just scribbles something on his clipboard with another pen. "Good," he says, turns around, and takes a seat behind the desk in the room. "Have a seat." Quinn sits, looking warily at Feldmann. Feldmann doesn't look up at him. He stares down at his clipboard and reads, "The Psychic Abilities Division, hereafter referred to as 'PAD,' is pleased to have you as a volunteer." Quinn snorts. Feldmann's expression doesn't even twitch. "You have given us your personal information, and have successfully passed the psychological evaluation--"
"When?" Quinn interrupts.
Feldmann looks very slightly pained. "Bert," he explains. "Your psychological capability and stress response have been rated as the highest possible level."
"Bert's a fucking whackjob," Quinn says. "He goes poking around in my head without my permission, and he's supposed to judge my mental state?"
Feldmann makes no sign that he's heard Quinn at all. He says, "If you pass this examination and your training period, you will be asked to join team 57U, headed by Agent J. Howard. Agent Howard acts as a neuropathic and neurokinetic inhibiting specialist, also known as a class 3. Inhibiting specialists are able to inhibit the abilities of other specialists temporarily, hence--"
"Oh! He's a Damper," Quinn interrupts.
There is a pause.
"Insults are unwelcome at PAD," Feldmann says. "Agent Howard is an inhibiting specialist."
"Damper," Quinn mutters.
Feldmann's lips press into a line for a moment, but he doesn't rise to the bait. "Agent R. McCracken is the second in command on 57U--"
"Bert?"
"Yes, Bert," Feldmann says impatiently. "Agent McCracken is talented in neuropathics--"
"A fucking whacko Mental," Quinn says.
"A neuropathic specialist," Feldmann corrects firmly. He takes a deep breath, then continues reading, "As a neurokinetic specialist, you will serve as a valuable asset to this team. Please describe your powers. Your response will be recorded." He stops, scoots his chair back, and digs in a drawer for a moment before taking out a tape recorder. He sets the tape recorder on the table, clicks a button, and sits back.
Quinn leans forward. "I'm a Mover," he says distinctly.
Feldmann raises one eyebrow and huffs an irritated breath. "I'm a Mover too, you know," he says.
"I'm so glad you shared that with me."
Feldmann picks up a pen in his right hand. "What I’m saying," he begins. The pen disappears from his hand and reappears in his left. "Is that there are different types of Movers."
That makes Quinn blink. He's never thought about it that way. When he's fighting someone, it doesn't really matter that they have a different type of power. The only difference between a thirty-eight and a forty-five aimed at someone's head is the size of the splatter, after all. The only time that Quinn ever notices a difference in someone's power is about two seconds after he takes advantage of the difference. Maybe the government gives a shit, though; they don't have anything better to do. Quinn says, "It feels like an extension of my body, but it's not shaped like my body."
"Are you able to reach through matter?" Feldmann asks.
"No," Quinn says. "I can punch through it, though."
"I'm sure," Feldmann murmurs. Quinn makes a face, but he stops as soon as Feldmann looks up again. Feldmann asks, "What age were you when you first demonstrated your powers?"
"I don't know," Quinn says. "Maybe-- I don't know, thirteen? I pantsed a guy." After a beat, Quinn clarifies, "He was being a dick." Quinn had actually had a massive fucking crush on the guy, and was feeling wounded because the guy was hitting on Sarah, Quinn's best friend at the time. He figures Feldmann doesn't need to know that, though.
Feldmann doesn't ask, anyway. He says, "Number of years rogue?"
"Wait, like," Quinn says. "Does faking out the tests in school count?"
"No," Feldmann says. "Just the years out of the system entirely."
"Oh," Quinn says. "I left school when I was fifteen, so five years."
Feldmann's pen pauses over the paper. Quinn looks away so he can avoid seeing the look of pity Feldmann will be giving him. Quinn fucking hates that look.
When he looks back, Feldmann's head is bent back to the paper. "That's actually all of it," he admits. "Do you have any questions?"
"Yeah," Quinn says. "The guy who volunteered me said I would get dental. Will I get dental?"
Feldmann looks startled. "Yes," he says.
"I have another question," Quinn says. "Have you ever sucked dick for money?"
The chair dematerializes from underneath him. Quinn lands on his ass with a squawk. Feldmann stands up from his chair. "Yes," he says primly. "Now follow me."
"Really?" Quinn says, but Feldmann's already walking out. Quinn scrambles to his feet and follows. Feldmann seems to have a habit of not waiting, though; he's already down the hall and turning the corner when Quinn pokes his head out of the doorway. Quinn runs after him, giving up all pretense of cool. Feldmann doesn't look at him, even when Quinn catches up and asks, "How much money?"
They march through a series of identical drab hallways, until Feldmann comes to a stop at a featureless door. "Here we are," Feldmann says.
Quinn waits, but Feldmann doesn't bother to open the door. "Okay then," Quinn says, and opens it himself. The room behind the door is extraordinarily similar to the one they were just in, except that this one is completely empty. Quinn walks into the room and sees that there's a plexiglass booth in one of the corners by the door. Feldmann brushes past him and climbs up into the booth. He presses a button and leans in to what is apparently a microphone. "This is a physical evaluation," he says. The speaker crackles. "For the first exercise, please store the objects in their appropriate receptacles."
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Quinn grouses. Feldmann doesn't answer. A red ball pops into existence in the middle of the room, and, after a beat, a blue plastic bucket. Quinn sighs, but he runs to get the ball.
He doesn’t even bother with his power for the first five rounds. It’s all kiddie games, and it's just easier not to strain his powers. Still, by the end of the fifth round Quinn’s starting to drip sweat on the concrete.
"Can I take my shirt off?" Quinn asks.
The speaker clicks on, and Feldmann's "Agent Howard took his tests in the nude," comes through with a dry hiss of static.
"Awesome," Quinn says. He strips off his shirt, and then takes off his shoes and socks as well.
Feldmann intones "Please incapacitate your opponent," while Quinn is kicking his discarded clothing into a pile by the door.
"Finally," Quinn sighs.
"Shut up," Feldmann says patiently.
The first guy doesn't do much to make the process more interesting. He's a Screamer, but he doesn't give Quinn anything more than an earache. He looks astonished when Quinn punches him in the mouth, and crumples obediently to the floor.
"You're supposed to use your powers," Feldmann tells Quinn, after he's popped the kid back out of the room.
Quinn rolls his eyes. He's starting to feel a little underappreciated. "Make me," he says.
Feldmann doesn't, at least not for the next three rounds. Quinn punches another Screamer, kicks a Shifter in the head, and hogties a fellow Mover with his own shirt.
During the fifth round, against a skinny thirty-something Shifter, Quinn realizes what the problem is. The Shifter is trying to become a tiger, but Quinn's got him in a good chokehold. The guy has no idea how to break it, and he hasn't even thought to go for Quinn's balls. "None of them are mean enough," Quinn says. The Shifter finally passes out, and Quinn lets him thump onto the floor.
Feldmann looks up from his papers. He mouths something, then looks irritated and clicks on the microphone. "What?" he repeats.
"You heard me," Quinn says. "I bet all of these people were trained here, weren't they?"
Feldmann has the courtesy to look a little pained. "Yes," he admits.
"No wonder," Quinn says. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "That guy didn't even try to kick me in the balls."
"You want to get kicked in the balls?" Feldman says.
"I want it to be interesting," Quinn says.
Feldmann smiles. Quinn grins back. "Okay," Feldmann says.
Quinn turns around and backs up. "C'mon number six," he murmurs.
Number six is a teenage girl. She is wearing black raver pants that pinch her waist, and three black t-shirts. Her hair is the sickly green of a home dye job. She has a lot of acne.
"This is interesting?" Quinn asks, and looks at Feldmann. Rookie mistake. She rewards him for this boneheaded move by covering him in writhing, hungry maggots.
"Shit on me," Quinn says. He wastes a few precious seconds slapping at the maggots, but he can't shake them. "Fucking shit on me," Quinn reiterates.
She smiles and lights his hair on fire.
The maggots are churning across his skin, digging into the rotting flesh on his arms and on his torso. It hurts only distantly, like peeling a scab, but the sound of their bodies rubbing together while they feed is nauseating. His burning scalp is a simpler feeling: it's just pure excruciating pain. He can feel the tender skin blistering and peeling away from his skull. His nose fills with the stench of rotting flesh and burning hair.
Quinn closes his eyes. He brings his hands up. He feels for where she's standing in the room, tries to get her shape in his mind.
Quinn's father says, "I'm so disappointed in you," from behind him. Quinn hasn't seen his father in five years, not since he ran away. He wants to turn around to see him.
Except his father would never say that. It's not him. This isn't real.
Quinn slams into the soft part of her cheek, rocking her back on her heels. His hair extinguishes with a hiss when she stumbles. "My dad usually told me I was screwing the pooch when I fucked up," Quinn tells her. He takes a step forward. "Try that, maybe I'll believe it this time."
She gets to her feet. "Kill yourself," she says. Quinn's throat squeezes shut obediently, but he manages to wheeze in a breath before it does. All he needs is the space of a breath, really.
He comes in and up, ramming into her chin and snapping her head back. The maggots blink out of existence, and she weaves on her feet. Quinn hits her in the gut then, hard enough to make her fall to her knees. He hits her in the head again, a swift punch to the back of her head, and she folds to the floor. Quinn's throat opens, and he sucks in a grateful gasp. He takes a few more deep breaths, and then walks over to her side.
She's sweating a little. Her concentration isn't that great; she's still young, still a little inexperienced. Vicious as hell, though. Quinn smiles down at her. She's almost cute when she's passed out.
Quinn looks up at the booth. "Much better," he tells Feldmann.
The girl vanishes from the room. Feldmann raises an eyebrow and makes a notation on the paper in front of him.
"Can you tell her that she was awesome?" Quinn asks. "The thing with my dad's voice tipped me off, though."
Feldman looks constipated at Quinn's request. He apparently obliges, though, because he says, "She'd like you to know that you can go fuck yourself."
Quinn laughs, delighted. "Yeah, I want more like her."
---
Fifteen rounds of "more like her" later, Quinn's vision is blurry. He feels like someone's used a rake on both the inside and the outside of his head. His powers are-- well, for lack of a better word, they're floppy. He stops and braces his hands on his knees. Feldmann, happily, doesn't bring anyone new into the room while Quinn is trying not to throw up. Quinn counts it as a kindness.
Quinn lifts his head and says, "Can I have a break? I need a juice box."
Feldmann actually smiles at him. He opens the door to the booth and leans out of it. "I think it's time for you to quit for the day," he says.
"I could kiss you," Quinn says.
"Or not," Feldmann says blandly. "C'mon, I think they have eggplant parm at the cafeteria."
Dinner is pretty decent, at least for cafeteria food. The bed Feldmann shows Quinn to after dinner is even better. Quinn dimly registers hitting the covers face first. After that, there's nothing.
---
A gang of rogue Shifters is chasing Quinn through his hometown. They want his unfinished history paper, but Quinn's not going to give it to them; he wants a C in this class, has to get one if he wants to stay at his parents' house any longer.
Quinn takes a look back over his shoulder to check their progress and smacks right into something. Quinn grunts with the impact, twists away, and then somehow runs into the something again. It's not just a something, either; it's a someone, and they're grabbing his arm. Quinn struggles, but the person gets a tight grip on his forearm.
"They're coming!" Quinn shouts, prying at the person's fingers.
"No they're not," the person says.
Which is true, Quinn realizes. The Shifters are nowhere to be seen. "I thought--" Quinn says stupidly. He gestures with his history paper. "I have to finish this," he tells the person. Now that he's not running for his life, Quinn realizes that the person is Bert. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
Bert finally releases his arm and takes a seat on the asphalt. He lights a cigarette and then answers, "I'm waking you up."
"I'm asleep," Quinn says. It starts off as a question, but rapidly loses its lilt. He can feel himself lying in bed, even though he's still standing on the pavement in front of Bert. "Oh," Quinn adds, dumbly. He thinks about falling back asleep, even though he was having a nightmare.
"Pick waking up," Bert interjects. He blows out cigarette smoke dramatically. "I'll just keep bothering you."
Quinn opens his eyes.
Bert isn't in the room with him. Quinn drags his feet off of the end of the bed and uses the momentum to pull himself upright. He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He can't feel Bert in his head anymore, but that doesn't mean anything. A Mental once hid out in Quinn's head for three days, with nearly no sign at all. Quinn does what he did then: thinks of a series of the most annoying sounds in the world.
After a beat, the door to his room opens. "I'm not in there, you know," Bert says conversationally. "But you're projecting like a bitch."
Quinn stops considering the noise of skin dragged against cling wrap. "I had to make sure you'd gotten out," he says awkwardly. "You know, of my head."
Bert has the nerve to look hurt. Quinn feels like he ought to apologize, but for what? He keeps his mouth shut, stubbornly. Bert doesn't say anything about it, anyway. He gently kicks the bottom of the doorway and says, "You want breakfast?"
"Shit, I must have slept for a while," Quinn says. He gets to his feet and follows Bert out.
---
Quinn expects that Bert will take him back to Feldmann after breakfast. He drags his feet when he leaves the cafeteria, dreading another endless day. The door Bert stops at, however, is not the same door as yesterday. There's a crude line-drawing of a man with a giant head on it, for one. For another, there's a cluster of sad-looking plastic daisies sitting in a pot nearby. Bert opens the door, sails into the room, and flops down on the couch in the room. Quinn stalls out in the doorway and gawks.
It's a sparsely furnished room, but it's completely trashed; Quinn can barely make out the carpet under all the crap. The couch that Bert and another guy are sitting on looks like they got it off a street corner. "How long have you lived here?" Quinn asks. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the moaning from the hentai on the battered TV.
Bert looks over, pausing in the act of lighting a cigarette. "At the Center? Like, forever." He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. "Two years?"
"Yeah, two years," the other man says. He doesn't look away from the TV. Bert nods and lights his cigarette. The guy adds, "But we've been in this room for about a week."
"Maybe two weeks," Bert says.
"Okay," the guy agrees easily. It's the same man that 'volunteered' Quinn, or at least Quinn thinks he's the same man. Quinn edges a few inches into the room, just to check him for a gun. He doesn't seem to have it on him. However, he does have a hard-on. Quinn looks away.
Bert laughs, abruptly. "Scared by a boner?" he hoots.
The man looks at Quinn, finally. He's definitely the Damper from before. He looks stoned, this time. "Whoops," he says. "Sorry about that." He turns off the television, and the room goes quiet.
"I'm Jepha," the guy says. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"You recruited me," Quinn says.
"Oh, right," Jepha says.
Bert and Jepha both stare at Quinn. Quinn prides himself on rolling with the punches -- five years without the government catching him, he's got to be pretty good at thinking on his feet -- but this is just awkward.
"Is it baby's first day of school?" Bert says.
"Fuck off," Quinn says automatically.
Bert cocks his head, considering Quinn, and then smiles. His eyes close. He looks stoned, too, Quinn thinks. Actually, Quinn's starting to feel stoned, just from being around these two.
"So--" he starts, and then has no idea how to finish the sentence.
"Your room's over there," Bert says, and points to the right-hand wall. He turns back to the blank television and takes a drag off of his cigarette.
"Great," Quinn says.
The room is surprisingly neat, after the chaos of the main room. It's already furnished, with two bureaus, two beds, two bedside tables, and one uncomfortable chair. Quinn sits on the edge of his bed, and then gets back up. "Hey, who's my roommate?" he asks, leaning out into the main room again.
"No one yet," Bert says, tipping his head back so that he's speaking to the ceiling.
Quinn ducks back inside the room. He hears the television clicks back on. "Oh yeah," Bert says, loudly enough that his voice carries into Quinn's room. "Feed me that calamari, baby. C'mon, Quinn, get in on this. Jepha's boner won't bite."
Quinn doesn't think about it; he just reaches out through the door, across the room, and turns off the television.
"Real cute," Bert says.
Quinn doesn't feel Bert pushing against his mental blocks; he's just suddenly there, in Quinn's head, making Quinn's skin prickle and twist. Quinn yanks on Bert's balls in retaliation, pulling a little too hard because he's panicking. Bert promptly makes Quinn feel like he's got a garter snake wriggling around in his asscrack. Quinn's begun pulling Bert's hair out strand by strand when everything just-- stops.
It's possible for a person with powers to choose not to use them. It's probably the smart way out; hiding is about the only way a person with powers can have a halfway decent life expectancy. If Quinn thinks about it rationally, objectively, he probably should have kept his powers to himself. It isn't something rational, though. Once Quinn had discovered his powers, they were always right there, waiting for him to give in and use them.
If there had been a Damper around him, though, Quinn might have been able to resist. It isn't like his powers are muted or tied up; it's like they're not there at all.
Bert is chanting, "Unfair, unfair, unfair, unfair, unfair," in the next room, his voice a steady drone. Quinn gets up off of the bed and goes to the doorway.
"Quit whining," Jepha says, "And quit pulling Quinn's pigtails."
Bert stops chanting to huff, "I'm welcoming him."
Quinn sticks his index and pinky fingers into his mouth. He walks across the room, and, aided by Bert's inability to read his mind, successfully sticks his index fingers into Bert's ears and his pinkies up Bert's nostrils.
"I feel very welcomed," Quinn announces, over Bert's obscenities. "And your porn is really gross," he adds.
"Thanks," Jepha says, after a beat. He stops damping, then, and turns back to the television. Bert launches himself over the back of the couch, and he and Quinn go tumbling to the floor.
Bert's a wriggly little fuck, and he's persistent, but Quinn has height and reach on him. He gets Bert into a headlock pretty quickly, and pulls just tight enough to keep him still. "Say uncle," he says.
"No way," Bert says, and kicks Quinn directly in the balls.
Quinn's vision goes sparkly. He curls up, cradling his suddenly heaving stomach and cupping his balls with his other hand. "Jesus fuck," he grits out.
"What did you do?" he hears Jepha ask. "Did you kick him in the junk?"
"Only a little bit," Bert whines.
"You can't kick someone in the junk 'a little bit,'" Jepha points out.
As soon as Quinn's testicles stop trying to crawl up into his body, he's going to choke Bert to death. "Don't be mad," Quinn hears, and then Bert's inches away from his face, breathing on him. He slides into Quinn's mind, so easily that it's almost like he was already there. "I'll fix it, I can just--"
"Get out!" Quinn shouts. He squeezes his eyes shut and says, "Keep out of my head, asshole."
"I'm already out," Bert snaps, "I don't know what the fuck your problem is--"
"Give me a goddamn second," Quinn grits out. He's not going to choke Bert to death, not really, but he is pretty sure he's going to punch him if he keeps talking.
Once Quinn's balls have finally stopped throbbing and his stomach has calmed down, though, Quinn feels like maybe he's overreacting.
"Everyone's like that when someone nails their junk," Bert offers.
Quinn opens his eyes. "Could you just wait until I actually say something?" he asks. He sits up. He's acutely aware of Jepha watching them over the back of the couch.
"Stop thinking so loud, then," Bert mutters.
"It's--" Quinn starts.
"I'm not trying to get in," Bert says defensively. "I'm sorry, but-- it's easy. I don't even know I'm doing it."
Quinn darts a look over at Jepha, who scrunches his nose up. "If he says he'll try to stop, he'll try," Jepha offers.
"Okay," Quinn says. "I mean, it's not-- it's not like it's horrible, or something. It's not bad, I get that that's what you do, I just. I don't know, there's like that moment, when you're in my head, and it's like--" He gestures, groping for the feeling of someone being so completely integrated in his mind that he doesn't feel them there. "It's not bad, right, but it's scary." He stops, frustrated. "I'm not making any sense."
"But that's the problem," Bert says. He smiles, sort of, and says, "I know exactly what you mean."
There's a long and profoundly uncomfortable pause. Jepha breaks the silence by asking, "How long have you known each other?"
"We met the same day you met him," Bert says.
"And when did you start dating?" Jepha asks. He sounds genuinely curious.
"Fuck yourself," Quinn tells him, and flops back onto a pile of dirty clothes.
It's his first day on his brand new government psychic squad. As it turns out, it's a pretty good introduction.
---
They settle into a routine over the next couple of days. Quinn doesn't ask questions, since he's happy to be left to his own devices. That plan is thrown out of whack one morning, though, when Bert announces at lunch that they have a mission the next day.
"A mission," Quinn repeats.
Quinn's visions of rappelling down a skyscraper dressed all in black are quickly dashed. "We have to go to the mall and catch this guy," Bert explains. "He can go invisible, and he's been perving on girls and shit."
"We're catching a peeping Blinker," Quinn says.
Jepha grins at him. "No one said it was glamorous."
"I think he does electric shocks, too? Nothing major," Bert says. "Might get a little tricky with the invisibility, but it should be a good warm-up for you."
---
It turns out to be a terrible, terrible warm-up.
Quinn turns hard at the corner of the Gap, catching the edge of the window display and careening through a gaggle of teenage boys. He doesn't bother returning their insults, just keeps running. He's catching up.
Bert is up ahead. He's thinking through the crowd; they docilely move out of his way. Quinn isn't nearly so persuasive. He just pushes out in front of himself and ignores the yelps and swearing. He's managing to move faster than Bert, even with the clumsy technique. Quinn sprints a little harder, shoves a little faster, and finally reaches the edge of Bert's wake through the crowd. Quinn puts his head down and shoulders through to the empty space just behind Bert. He has to slow down to match his pace to Bert's.
"Where is he?" he says, surprised by how out of breath he sounds.
"Herding him," Bert gasps back. "I can't-- keep track-- and run--"
"Get in my head, then," Quinn says. Bert slants him a look, and Quinn says, "Yes, I fucking mean it." He speeds up, letting his legs stretch, matching his footfalls to his breath.
Change of heart? Bert asks.
Fuck you, Quinn thinks, as loud as he can.
Turn it down, moron, I'm right here, Bert shoots back. And turn left at Orange Julius.
Quinn takes the left and relaxes into sprinting. He feels his brand-new PAD uniform rubbing at the skin of his armpits and groin, the shock of his feet hitting the tiled floor, the burn of his breath in his lungs, but he doesn't think about them. Bert settles into it, too; he doesn't give Quinn directions, just fires the processes to make him turn.
Bert only interrupts after Quinn's sprinted most of the length of the mall. Jepha's up ahead, just keep running, he offers. Quinn doesn't bother responding; Bert knows that he's heard him. It's going to feel good to stop fucking running, but Quinn realizes with a start that he kind of likes having Bert in his head.
Quinn has to stumble to a stop, though, when the target suddenly sheds his invisibility. The man turns around, planting his feet and raising his palms toward Quinn. He's not as athletic as Quinn expected him to be. That's nearly all Quinn has time to think before blue light arcs out of the man's palms; that, and Get out Bert get--
The problem with non-lethal electrocution, Quinn discovers, is that he's conscious for the experience. He isn't conscious of much, though, beyond the painful tingling just under his skin and the rapid patter of his overworked heart. Quinn's breath is getting short. He goes to his knees, trying to think past the pain so he can fight back. It doesn't let up, that's the problem; the guy is unloading on him now, and Quinn doesn't think he can make it, he can't.
But then Quinn is not in the mall. He looks around, slowly, trying to understand how he got to be in a big empty room.
"Help me," Bert says. Quinn blinks and looks at him, trying to figure out what he's doing here.
"What--"
"No time," Bert says. He points to a pile of paper in the corner that, Quinn realizes, is rapidly building. The stack looks like it's going to topple. "Fifteen minutes. Where do you keep your grudges? I thought it was under childhood, but--"
Quinn's almost protests that he doesn't know what Bert's talking about, except that somehow he does. He points to a drawer in a cabinet that stands over by the wall. Bert runs to it, muttering, and digs into it. "Good, okay, go back," he yells at Quinn. "Go on, go back, I'm done with you here."
Pain arcs through Quinn's body, making him arch his back and then crumple in on himself against his will. Quinn plants his hands on the floor and thinks about giving up, going back to the warehouse and going to sleep.
Something makes him drag his head up.
Mrs. DeRiel never thought Quinn would amount to anything. Quinn hated Mrs. DeRiel, with her red fucking face and her obnoxious fucking laugh. Quinn was eight, eight, and she had told him that he wouldn't amount to anything.
Quinn pushes himself back up to his knees. He gets one leg up, his left foot on the floor. He fucking hates Mrs. DeRiel, and that's enough, just enough, to get him on his feet again. He sways there, twitching and jerking from the electrocution.
Mrs. DeRiel reminds him of Ms. Penn, his fifth grade teacher, the one who had laughed at him when he peed his pants during a school trip. She had dug her nails into his shoulder as she steered him to the bathroom to clean himself up, and she had been laughing at him. Quinn staggers forward, dredging up his powers from under all the pain and throwing them blindly forward, shoving as hard as he can.
Laughing. Tom had laughed at him, too. Fucking Tom had laughed at Quinn's stupid fucking declaration of love. Bastard, Quinn thinks, and pushes as hard as he can. The target skids backward, his heels squeaking on the tile, screaming something that Quinn doesn't care enough to hear. He cuts the electricity, making Quinn stagger and nearly retch on the floor, and goes invisible. Quinn's got a grip on him now, though. He can feel the space the man is taking up, and now Quinn's focused and can keep pushing him back.
Tom hadn't been there to help Quinn, the first time Quinn was driven out of a squat. The hopped-up asshole that Quinn had been crashing with had freaked out, and forced Quinn to stumble out into the freezing street. Quinn'd had to leave his dog behind. Quinn pushes harder. The guy reappears and tries to electrocute Quinn again, but Quinn breaks his fingers and punches him in the head. He can feel the guy sagging in his grip. Quinn keeps pushing.
Ten more feet, Bert murmurs.
Quinn nearly stumbles again when he remembers why he got the dog in the first place. He was lonely, when he first ran away from home. Quinn remembers his mother's face when she walked into his room to find him twirling his pencil in mid-air. He remembers his parents' whispered arguments when the school had called them in for yet another meeting.
Quinn finally pushes the man into Jepha's range. The man wails when his powers give out, flailing wildly. Quinn rushes to close the distance. His own powers abruptly give out, as well, but Quinn manages to fall on top of the guy. He clumsily pins him to the ground and punches him once across the face. It's just enough to knock the target out.
Quinn rises to his knees, still straddling the target, swaying with exhaustion. He bursts into tears.
---
An hour later, after a chocolate milkshake, processing by a guy in a suit, and Bert somehow muting his memories again, Quinn manages to stop crying.
"Let's never, ever do that again," he says hoarsely. He sniffles, and blows his nose on the crumpled tissue in his hand.
"Let's say you dodge streams of electricity that are headed for your chest," Bert snaps. Jepha rolls his eyes and slurps at the end of his vanilla milkshake.
"You were in there too," Quinn points out, "you could have dodged it for me."
"What," Bert starts, but Quinn keeps talking.
"And you were the one who brought up all that bullshit at the end. I was repressing that for a reason, asshole."
"Oh, so sorry for not letting you die," Bert spits, suddenly venomous. "Jesus fuck." He gets up from the food court table and stomps away.
"Where is he going?" Quinn asks Jepha.
Jepha shrugs. "Walking off the rage," he says, and takes another noisy slurp of milkshake. "He'll be better when he gets back."
"I'm going to follow him," Quinn decides.
Jepha laughs. Quinn looks at him, and he holds up his hands. "Hey, I'm not going to stop you," he says. Quinn just flips him off and shuffles after Bert.
He catches sight of Bert heading for the restrooms. He's still stomping angrily. Quinn ought to run after him, but he honestly doesn't have the energy. He speed walks, at least, though it makes his legs feel like they're going to fall apart. He chants Bert's name in his head, until Bert finally snaps back What?
I'm sorry, Quinn thinks. Bert doesn't respond. Quinn shoulders into the restroom. Bert isn't at any of the urinals, but Quinn didn't really expect that. He bends over and shuffles alongside the stalls, looking for Bert's battered Vans. He finds them at the end of the row. Let me in, Quinn thinks, and slaps his hand on the outside of the stall. After a beat, the door lock clicks open.
If anyone notices that Quinn's joining another man in the bathroom stall, they don't let on. Quinn only has a moment to appreciate the laissez-faire attitude of men's bathrooms before he's yanked inside. He locks the stall door behind him automatically. Bert fists his hands in the neck of Quinn's uniform and stares in Quinn's face. Learn to fucking dodge, Bert thinks, and kisses him.
It's an angry kiss. Bert's lips smash up against his. Their teeth click and slide painfully together. Quinn freezes in place. He thinks Bert will pull back and deck him next, but it doesn't happen; Bert loosens his grip on Quinn's shirt, instead, and looks down like he's going to apologize. Quinn catches the sides of Bert's head, keeping his eyes up, and leans in to kiss him. This kiss is gentler, and under Quinn's mouth Bert softens. I'm sorry, Quinn thinks. He pulls back and sinks to his knees, pressing the side of his face into Bert's stomach. Bert fists his hands in Quinn's hair, and he tilts Quinn's head back so that Quinn has to meet his eyes. Bert's expression is fierce. Quinn half-expects him to speak, to break the strained silence between them, but he doesn't.
Quinn tentatively touches the waist of Bert's pants. When Bert doesn't stop him, he undoes his fly. Bert bites his lip, and his fingers tighten painfully in Quinn's hair. Quinn leans forward, opens his mouth and breathes out over the shape of Bert's cock through the fabric of his underwear. Bert abruptly lets go of his hair. Quinn's head rocks back on his neck, and his mouth drops open. Bert shoves his underwear and his pants down around his thighs so he can pull out his cock. Bert strokes himself, guiding Quinn's head forward to nudge the head of his cock into Quinn's open mouth. Quinn relaxes, letting Bert do the work. Suck, Bert thinks, and Quinn complies.
Can I-- Bert starts, and Quinn thinks Yes, whatever, yes. Bert slides into his mind, and suddenly every aching muscle in Quinn's body is strung tight with pleasure. Quinn whimpers at the feeling, and Bert shoves roughly into his mouth. Quinn lets him, takes it, swallowing around the head of Bert's cock and sucking hard.
Bert leans forward, bracing himself on the inside of the stall with one hand. He digs the fingers of his other hand into the back of Quinn's neck, going unerringly for the spot that makes Quinn arch helplessly. He thrusts into Quinn's mouth, holding him in place and using him to get off. Quinn's jaw slowly starts to ache, and drool creeps down his chin, but he can't bring himself to care. He wants to come. He's desperate, pleading mentally for Bert to push him over the edge, but it only seems to ratchet impossibly higher.
When Bert's hips stutter, Quinn is mindless, twisting and slack-mouthed, barely holding back his groans around Bert's cock. Bert pulls Quinn's head in tight, pressing Quinn's nose against his stomach, and finally tips Quinn over the edge. Quinn comes, thrusting helplessly. His moans are only slightly muffled by Bert's cock in his throat. His hands twitch against Bert's thighs.
He's still shuddering when Bert pulls back. His breath is rasping in his throat. Too much noise, Quinn thinks, and sorry.
"No one can hear us," Bert tells him. "I'm making them think someone's taking an explosive shit in here." His voice is raspy. He gives Quinn a sex-stupid grin, and Quinn grins back at him, finally letting himself pant as hard as he wants. "Jesus fuck," Bert says appreciatively.
"Shut up," Quinn says. "My pants are sticky. I hate you."
"Sure you do," Bert says smugly. He drops to his knees, too, awkward in his undone pants, wedging in between Quinn and the toilet. He cups the side of Quinn's head. Please don't die, he thinks. There's still a worried edge to his mental voice, one that Quinn wishes he could take away.
I'll try, Quinn promises. It's all he can offer. After a beat, he adds, Jepha probably thinks you killed me.
No, he thinks we're fucking, Bert says. He says hi.
That's the point when Quinn starts giggling. Bert starts to giggle, too, resting his forehead against Quinn's and his hands on Quinn's shoulders.
---
Quinn doesn't have his wallet, so he has to commandeer a new pair of pants from Old Navy. Bert flirts with the clerk who's manning the dressing room while Quinn gets changed, and Quinn swans out of the place with no hassle at all.
Jepha holds up his hands when he sees them. He's cleaned up their food, but there's a folder sitting in the middle of the table. "I don't want any more details unless you're going to let me watch," he says. Quinn's about to try discussing it with Bert, but then Jepha continues, "And we have a mission in a couple of days."
"Can we not?" Quinn says plaintively. He drops down on the bench next to Jepha. Bert sits down across from him and opens the folder.
"It's a Shifter," Jepha says. "Daniel Whitehouse, or Whiteplains. White-something."
"Whitesides," Bert says absently. He flips through a few more pages. "Do you think he'll join the team?" he asks, and he and Jepha share an unreadable look.
Quinn only feels left out for a heartbeat. No one should work for the government forever, Bert murmurs to him. And it's easier to get out if you work as a team.
Oh, Quinn thinks. He slides the folder over and takes a look at the picture of the guy. "He looks like a frog," he observes, and slides the folder back.
"A naked lady frog," Bert says. "With big fucking teats."
"Now that's just weird," Quinn says. "Frogs don't eat grass."
"That's true," Jepha says. He slides the folder away from Bert and peers down at the photograph. "Welcome to the family, Quinn. Put up your feet and stay awhile."
"Don't mind if I do," Quinn says. For the first time in a long time, he feels safe sticking around to see what comes next.
---
END
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Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback of all kinds (including criticism) is very much welcome.