Choosing One's Battles
Title: Choosing One's Battles
Rating: R for violence
Pairing: None. Billy stars, along with OMCs.
Warnings: AU, violence, blood. This is a flashback within my BTS universe. Stands alone, if you like, but better as part of the whole.
Feedback: don't make me come over there.
Summary: The first rule of fight club is that you do not talk about fight club.
A/N: Apparently, seeing Wanted last night was enough inspiration to throw down 1300 words of a little scene I've wanted to get out for ages. Again, note my warnings and inspirations? This is not the Lounge Singer Romeo you're looking for.
A/N the 2nd: Christ, do you know how good it feels to sit down and write something brand-fucking-new in one go and be happy with it?
Edinburgh, Scotland
1986
…Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty…
Oily rainwater slicked his grip on the girder rail, dripping from his limp, shaggy hair and off the end of his nose. The shadowy shapes of men milled about below the rail bridge, more coming out of the blackness of the city. A train blared its leaving announcement into the sulphurous glow. The muscles in his arms and shoulders burned as he pulled up his weight.
… thirty-three… thirty-four… thirty five…
“Odds on you are 24 to 1, Boyd.”
…forty-two…forty-three…
“I’ve fifty down on your brass bollocks, ya crazy bastard.”
Billy breathed out, pulling his chin over the girder …forty-nine… breathed in… fifty.
Dropping from the bar and shaking the unrelenting rain from his hair and eyes, Billy turned to the man who’d last spoken, “Fifty? Shite, I’ve only got twenty-five on me, against that.” He peeled off his sodden t-shirt and jumper, skin already steaming under the frigid October downpour. The air was icy, hanging visibly from his mouth.
"Aye, and don’t you dare fucking lose, or I’ll finish you off myself."
"You'll try," another man laughed.
Billy wasn't listening. He eyed his opponent, a barrel-chested Irish brute called Kelly. The man leered in his direction with overshadowed eyes and the fierce over-seriousness that recalled those staged wrestling tournaments he’d seen on the telly. Insults and jeers flew from the man’s supporters, several more than Billy had in his corner. Still, he breathed the fetid air, rank with the stench of sewage and grease. The blood ran hot beneath his skin, an excitement held in check behind gritted molars. He shook out his arms, shoulders loose and free, and approached the rapidly forming circle.
A curt glance and nod from the moneyman and he stepped into its center, immediately ducking a blow. He darted round and drove a fierce left hook into the Irishman’s kidneys, swooping again to land a heel to the back of a knee. Kelly shouted in pain as the moneyman called out first strike to Billy’s side. His supporters howled and spat insults at the others, growing rowdier by the second.
Billy danced away on the balls of his bare feet as the Irishman spun to find him, and grinned sweetly when he did.
Kelly spat on the ground, fists at the ready and slowly circled. Billy sized him up now, smart enough not to make the same mistake twice as many others before him had, big enough still to be too slow to make up for it, old enough to be well beyond his prime. Billy cracked his neck and tipped his chin up in a defiant come-on.
Kelly lunged, swinging wide and Billy ducked, landing a sharp hit just below the man’s sternum before swinging round behind him. Feeling cocky, he invited the crowd to shout his name louder with a beckoning gesture of his hands.
The world went spangling with color as Kelly's fist hit him in the ear from behind, and suddenly he was on the ground with a knee on the back of his neck, grinding his face into the gravel.
“Easy pot, little fucking fag,” Kelly growled close, spit dripping down onto Billy’s cheek. Billy threw his head back, a thwack as the round of his skull collided with the other man’s head, distracting him for the second Billy needed to grab his near ankle and yank him off balance. Skittering out from under, he was on his feet in a tick, aiming a vicious kick to the slower Kelly’s ribs.
“Get up, fucking cunt! Now!” Billy bellowed while Kelly moved, striking lightning-fast blows at the bigger man’s back and sides. Eventually Kelly managed to block and dealt Billy a sound backhand across the jaw. Barely keeping his feet, Billy sidestepped away from another blow and around, taking stock of the blood in his mouth and throb on his jaw. He wiped a gritty knuckle across his chin, feeling a gaping cut there. His eyes found Kelly’s big hands, a glint of metal on the right one.
Rage boiled through him, coursing through his veins as he spat the blood from his mouth and circled the Irishman. It pushed away the pain, the dizziness, and any lingering trace of fear there may have been. The jeers and taunts of the crowd melted away, leaving only the sound of the rain pelting down on the muddy ground, the rhythm of the blood in his ears.
Billy glared from under his brows, bloody teeth bared to growl lowly at his enemy, “That’s a nice ring.”
“Aye,” Kelly guffawed, showing it to him with an obscene gesture, “Was me dad’s.”
Billy seethed, dancing and waiting for an opening, finished with fucking around and now ready to bring this to a swift end. Kelly lunged with a shout and swung the be-ringed fist at him once more. Billy took the punch on his shoulder and got one ferocious hit to the Irishman’s windpipe. He hooked an ankle between Kelly’s legs and an elbow to the gut had the massive man on his back in the next heartbeat, coughing and spluttering in the rainwater. Straddling the man’s ribs, Billy pummeled both fists into that face, again, and again, and again, the berserk roar resounding through the air ripping from his own lungs.
“St-“ Kelly gasped.
Billy’s fist hesitated, cocked back in the air and he bent low to the bloody mess under him, teeth clenched in savage restraint caging his words, “What’s that, daddy’s boy?”
“Stop,” Kelly gurgled.
His fist came down one final time, triumph ringing in the crunch of bone and splatter of blood and water, the copper taste of it in Billy’s mouth and running in watery rivulets down his shoulders and chest.
The shouts and push of the crowd were secondary to the satisfaction of grabbing Kelly’s limp wrist and wrenching that ring from his finger, holding it up where the beaten man could see it shine in the hellish light. “Ought to fetch me fifty quid, this. Ta.”
Billy rose, shoving the ring onto his thumb and pushing his way through the dwindling crowd to the moneyman for his winnings, basking in the glow of how some of them clapped him on the back, and how others backed out of his way. Sirens rang in the air, sounding close and getting closer. The crowd scattered, a couple of them hoisting the Irishman up and dragging him away over their shoulders.
Billy pocketed his cash, grabbed his jumper from where it hung on the girder, hastily pulling the freezing cotton on over his head, and shoving his feet into his trainers. Up and over a chain-link fence, down a long alley and around the two buildings to avoid the police, he drew up the hood of his jumper and hurried into the train station, his pace matching that of the other patrons. Head down, he darted behind a security guard’s back and across the wide entrance to the lockers. Digging a key from his damp pockets, he retrieved his rucksack from the locker he’d stowed it in earlier and ducked into the men’s.
A perfunctory shower and a dry change of clothes later, he poked at the fresh cut on his chin in the shower room’s mirror, only oozing a little now, as with the other scrapes on the side of his face. His neck and shoulder would join the ache in his jaw and ear tomorrow.
Digging the wad of sodden cash from the jeans, he wrung them out and stuffed them into the bottom of the bag. He pushed two-thirds of the cash flat against the insides his old trainers with his feet, and tucked the rest into his pocket.
The ring was gold, possibly twenty-four carat with three white chips he only hoped were diamonds given the size of the gash he was sporting. Grinning, he took it off his thumb and pushed it deep into the corner of his pocket for a visit to a pawn shop later. This fight would last him a good three months, if he was careful.
The adrenaline lulled in his veins, his head aching dully from the come down. Zipping all his pockets, Billy shouldered the bag, moved back out into the terminal and up to a free ticket desk. Scanning the board, he picked out the cheapest fare: Stirling, one way.
It was time to move on.
Rating: R for violence
Pairing: None. Billy stars, along with OMCs.
Warnings: AU, violence, blood. This is a flashback within my BTS universe. Stands alone, if you like, but better as part of the whole.
Feedback: don't make me come over there.
Summary: The first rule of fight club is that you do not talk about fight club.
A/N: Apparently, seeing Wanted last night was enough inspiration to throw down 1300 words of a little scene I've wanted to get out for ages. Again, note my warnings and inspirations? This is not the Lounge Singer Romeo you're looking for.
A/N the 2nd: Christ, do you know how good it feels to sit down and write something brand-fucking-new in one go and be happy with it?
Edinburgh, Scotland
1986
…Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty…
Oily rainwater slicked his grip on the girder rail, dripping from his limp, shaggy hair and off the end of his nose. The shadowy shapes of men milled about below the rail bridge, more coming out of the blackness of the city. A train blared its leaving announcement into the sulphurous glow. The muscles in his arms and shoulders burned as he pulled up his weight.
… thirty-three… thirty-four… thirty five…
“Odds on you are 24 to 1, Boyd.”
…forty-two…forty-three…
“I’ve fifty down on your brass bollocks, ya crazy bastard.”
Billy breathed out, pulling his chin over the girder …forty-nine… breathed in… fifty.
Dropping from the bar and shaking the unrelenting rain from his hair and eyes, Billy turned to the man who’d last spoken, “Fifty? Shite, I’ve only got twenty-five on me, against that.” He peeled off his sodden t-shirt and jumper, skin already steaming under the frigid October downpour. The air was icy, hanging visibly from his mouth.
"Aye, and don’t you dare fucking lose, or I’ll finish you off myself."
"You'll try," another man laughed.
Billy wasn't listening. He eyed his opponent, a barrel-chested Irish brute called Kelly. The man leered in his direction with overshadowed eyes and the fierce over-seriousness that recalled those staged wrestling tournaments he’d seen on the telly. Insults and jeers flew from the man’s supporters, several more than Billy had in his corner. Still, he breathed the fetid air, rank with the stench of sewage and grease. The blood ran hot beneath his skin, an excitement held in check behind gritted molars. He shook out his arms, shoulders loose and free, and approached the rapidly forming circle.
A curt glance and nod from the moneyman and he stepped into its center, immediately ducking a blow. He darted round and drove a fierce left hook into the Irishman’s kidneys, swooping again to land a heel to the back of a knee. Kelly shouted in pain as the moneyman called out first strike to Billy’s side. His supporters howled and spat insults at the others, growing rowdier by the second.
Billy danced away on the balls of his bare feet as the Irishman spun to find him, and grinned sweetly when he did.
Kelly spat on the ground, fists at the ready and slowly circled. Billy sized him up now, smart enough not to make the same mistake twice as many others before him had, big enough still to be too slow to make up for it, old enough to be well beyond his prime. Billy cracked his neck and tipped his chin up in a defiant come-on.
Kelly lunged, swinging wide and Billy ducked, landing a sharp hit just below the man’s sternum before swinging round behind him. Feeling cocky, he invited the crowd to shout his name louder with a beckoning gesture of his hands.
The world went spangling with color as Kelly's fist hit him in the ear from behind, and suddenly he was on the ground with a knee on the back of his neck, grinding his face into the gravel.
“Easy pot, little fucking fag,” Kelly growled close, spit dripping down onto Billy’s cheek. Billy threw his head back, a thwack as the round of his skull collided with the other man’s head, distracting him for the second Billy needed to grab his near ankle and yank him off balance. Skittering out from under, he was on his feet in a tick, aiming a vicious kick to the slower Kelly’s ribs.
“Get up, fucking cunt! Now!” Billy bellowed while Kelly moved, striking lightning-fast blows at the bigger man’s back and sides. Eventually Kelly managed to block and dealt Billy a sound backhand across the jaw. Barely keeping his feet, Billy sidestepped away from another blow and around, taking stock of the blood in his mouth and throb on his jaw. He wiped a gritty knuckle across his chin, feeling a gaping cut there. His eyes found Kelly’s big hands, a glint of metal on the right one.
Rage boiled through him, coursing through his veins as he spat the blood from his mouth and circled the Irishman. It pushed away the pain, the dizziness, and any lingering trace of fear there may have been. The jeers and taunts of the crowd melted away, leaving only the sound of the rain pelting down on the muddy ground, the rhythm of the blood in his ears.
Billy glared from under his brows, bloody teeth bared to growl lowly at his enemy, “That’s a nice ring.”
“Aye,” Kelly guffawed, showing it to him with an obscene gesture, “Was me dad’s.”
Billy seethed, dancing and waiting for an opening, finished with fucking around and now ready to bring this to a swift end. Kelly lunged with a shout and swung the be-ringed fist at him once more. Billy took the punch on his shoulder and got one ferocious hit to the Irishman’s windpipe. He hooked an ankle between Kelly’s legs and an elbow to the gut had the massive man on his back in the next heartbeat, coughing and spluttering in the rainwater. Straddling the man’s ribs, Billy pummeled both fists into that face, again, and again, and again, the berserk roar resounding through the air ripping from his own lungs.
“St-“ Kelly gasped.
Billy’s fist hesitated, cocked back in the air and he bent low to the bloody mess under him, teeth clenched in savage restraint caging his words, “What’s that, daddy’s boy?”
“Stop,” Kelly gurgled.
His fist came down one final time, triumph ringing in the crunch of bone and splatter of blood and water, the copper taste of it in Billy’s mouth and running in watery rivulets down his shoulders and chest.
The shouts and push of the crowd were secondary to the satisfaction of grabbing Kelly’s limp wrist and wrenching that ring from his finger, holding it up where the beaten man could see it shine in the hellish light. “Ought to fetch me fifty quid, this. Ta.”
Billy rose, shoving the ring onto his thumb and pushing his way through the dwindling crowd to the moneyman for his winnings, basking in the glow of how some of them clapped him on the back, and how others backed out of his way. Sirens rang in the air, sounding close and getting closer. The crowd scattered, a couple of them hoisting the Irishman up and dragging him away over their shoulders.
Billy pocketed his cash, grabbed his jumper from where it hung on the girder, hastily pulling the freezing cotton on over his head, and shoving his feet into his trainers. Up and over a chain-link fence, down a long alley and around the two buildings to avoid the police, he drew up the hood of his jumper and hurried into the train station, his pace matching that of the other patrons. Head down, he darted behind a security guard’s back and across the wide entrance to the lockers. Digging a key from his damp pockets, he retrieved his rucksack from the locker he’d stowed it in earlier and ducked into the men’s.
A perfunctory shower and a dry change of clothes later, he poked at the fresh cut on his chin in the shower room’s mirror, only oozing a little now, as with the other scrapes on the side of his face. His neck and shoulder would join the ache in his jaw and ear tomorrow.
Digging the wad of sodden cash from the jeans, he wrung them out and stuffed them into the bottom of the bag. He pushed two-thirds of the cash flat against the insides his old trainers with his feet, and tucked the rest into his pocket.
The ring was gold, possibly twenty-four carat with three white chips he only hoped were diamonds given the size of the gash he was sporting. Grinning, he took it off his thumb and pushed it deep into the corner of his pocket for a visit to a pawn shop later. This fight would last him a good three months, if he was careful.
The adrenaline lulled in his veins, his head aching dully from the come down. Zipping all his pockets, Billy shouldered the bag, moved back out into the terminal and up to a free ticket desk. Scanning the board, he picked out the cheapest fare: Stirling, one way.
It was time to move on.