Dollhouse fic: Fighter; PG-13
Title: Fighter
Warning/Rating: PG-13/NC-17 (depends on how you rate violence) for violence, language
Disclaimer: The show or the characters are not mine; no copyright infringement intended
Characters: Laurence Dominic, Adelle DeWitt, Boyd Langton, Clyde Randolph, several OC's strewn around for my amusement; ensemble
Words: 5, 208
Summary: "Violence is man re-creating himself." -- Frantz Fanon
Notes: This has been sitting in my WIP folder for too long. A fic inspired by this manip + an episode of The Unit. Also, a Dollhouse Sports AU of sorts for my au_bingo card. Four-five parts at the most (I'm sure of this). Looked over by just_drifting_6 and leanstein. Thank you guys.
I'm curious to see the reaction to this. If ever there's any reaction to it. lol.
“I write about violence as naturally as Jane Austen wrote about manners. Violence shapes and obsesses our society, and if we do not stop being violent we have no future.”
-- Edward Bond
“Violence is man re-creating himself.”
-- Frantz Fanon
He doesn’t hear the thunderous roar echoing around him, nor the chanting and goading of the crowd. He doesn’t see the faces of the spectators or the money being passed and exchanged around. He doesn’t see or hear any of it.
Sweat drips from his brows. It mixes with his blood as it trails down the side of his face.
What he can hear is the sound of his heart beating against his chest; he can hear the sound of each ragged breath he makes. What he can see is the six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound, orange-haired man with a bloody nose in front him; what he can see is the moves this man will make before he makes them. What he can see is that this man is blocking his way to the door.
His stupidity landed him in this hellhole. His fists will get him out of here.
The man lunges towards him, an action he simply evades.
He curls his hands tightly into a ball. At that instant, Laurence Dominic strikes.
~*~
It cannot be denied that everybody is capable of violence. It is second nature for human beings, a part of the psyche. It’s raw, it’s powerful, and when combined with fear or rage, it’s unstoppable
~*~
“Enzo, you win like that more, you’ll be free of debt in no time.”
His body groans in agony as he takes the cash. Laurence can feel the man’s eyes on him as he counts the money. He hasn’t let his guard down one bit. Alejandro’s a decent businessman - the type who actually keeps his word - but he’s also a slimeball. A douchebag slimeball who smokes too many cigars.
He got 300 bucks in their currency. Great. That’ll get him far. He’ll be lucky if he gets out of this damn country after fifteen fights.
“You know,” Alejandro starts, puffing on his tobacco and filling the little pen with smoke, “You got a lot in you. Talent. If luck is on your side, some hotshot might get you out of here.”
He hasn’t had a lot of luck ever since he arrived in this godforsaken place six months back. “Yeah,” he says, putting his money in his pocket. “Right.” Opening his mouth just to speak makes his face hurt.
“No, no, no,” Alejandro says before making a flurry of hand gestures. “Hotshots, for the fighting… what do you call them? The ones you see on TV,” he adds. “Like boxing but without the big gloves.”
“MMA?” he asks. He doesn’t think what they’re doing can be considered mixed martial arts; the referees aren’t helpful, people throw coins at them when they lose (or win. Either way, they lose money after betting on the wrong person) and they don’t receive medical attention afterwards.
“Yes. That one.”
Laurence watches silently as the pudgy man with too much pomade in his hair talks. He doesn’t turn his back on him.
“I have people coming here, asking questions about the fighters, videotaping some fights, eh.” He takes another puff. “When they really like you, they take you, make your debt go away and give me a little something- el agradecimiento.”
He leans back on the crate. Pain shoots up on his side. “And that doesn’t piss off the drug dealers who bet on your fighters?”
Alejandro makes a pained expression and brushes off his comment. He then begins to drone on and on about this dangerous part of the country being the breeding ground of great fighters, and though Laurence would like a distraction from his pain, he really doesn’t want to be around Alejandro.
The man’s got his passport, the man smells funny and he doesn’t like being a recipient of second-hand smoke. He’d rather be with his open, bleeding wounds than be near him.
After enduring a one-sided conversation about bunions, Alejandro leaves his enclosure with rings of smoke trailing behind him.
Laurence checks his things, something he does after every fight and at the end of the day. He unfolds his shirt where the things are packed in and lays them out on the makeshift bed-nothing more than wooden boxes put together with a thin piece of cloth thrown over it.
He doesn’t stay in the same enclosure every fight (Alejandro made these improvised rooms by stacking crates atop the other to function as walls… it makes him feel like he’s in a dark, dank farm with all the hay sticking out of them). He’s seen guys who win their fights beaten up in the pen to make sure they lose the following matches. He fucking swore he wouldn’t be one of them.
He suddenly grimaces. The adrenaline has worn off and he feels like he was run over by a truck. He’ll consider himself lucky if he gets out of this alive with no lasting damage to his body (fat chance, though).
He sits on top of the crate. He can hear a few people loitering around. The day has ended in Alejandro’s fighting cage. Everybody’s going home, except for him.
Well, at least he has some money to buy some (horrible) whiskey to clean his wounds with and ice to put on his bruise. Maybe he can charm a local girl to let him stay for the night (he’ll introduce himself as Enzo. They like that here, an American with a native nickname) or point him to the nearest doctor. Because frankly, that’s the best he can do right now.
~*~
He gets beaten up Tuesdays and Fridays. So far, he hasn’t lost a match.
Most of the fighters in Alejandro’s roster are disproportionate to his size; it will either be he’s a giant compared to them or he’ll be put in a disadvantageous position (where does Alejandro get these guys, anyway?). He’s stronger against the small guys while he’s quicker against the big ones. Most of the time, however, they don’t think, which is tremendously helpful to him.
There is one fighter who almost brought him down, though. A powerful guy with a few good inches on him, who has a mean right hook and smart. The only reason why he won that match was because he knew how to grapple effectively. He made the guy pass out and he received a lot more jeering and coins to the head that night (the man has fans, apparently).
He was lucky. But he’s not going to tempt fate by wanting to fight that man again. The man’s fucking dangerous. He’s fighting because he wants to get enough money to get out of here, not to get killed.
Laurence ducks inside the crude arena, the hood of his sweater covering his head. The mix of dry air, sweat, mud, piss and blood makes for a pungent smell and he avoids going in the crowd because it would smell even worse.
He hovers just outside the throng of shouting people, watching the man who almost beat him trade punches with a guy as large as him. He can’t see very well - his right eye is swollen shut - but since the other fighter’s an idiot everybody knows who the winner’s going to be.
Everybody calls the guy El Tigre because of his Halloween-themed hair. Laurence thinks they should have called him The Mighty Bear. It’s what he is in the cage. A fucking bear.
He looks around. There’s a second level, where the VIPs watch (they still use this place for cockfighting during Sundays). They’re usually hiding behind their bodyguards and a thick cloud of smoke.
He then notices someone going around with a videocam, recording the fight.
El Tigre’s opponent falls to the ground and the crowd goes wild. He turns his attention back to the ruckus. He can’t see what’s going on, but he’s sure someone is being pounded on mercilessly.
It suddenly occurs to him that the people recording the fight might be one of the ‘hotshots’ Alejandro’s talking about- the ones scouting for new blood. He doesn’t watch UFC or any of that kind on TV (it’s pay-per-view… he’s a cheapskate) so he’s not really sure how new fighters are found. But if Alejandro’s telling the truth and the guy recording this fight is the real deal, then El Tigre’s one lucky bastard.
The man with orange hair stands up with both hands in the air and cries out in triumph, which the crowd laps up. At that moment, he’s not the Tiger; he is the Bear.
Laurence puts his hands inside the pockets of his sweater and walks out the arena.
On the other side of the world, Adelle DeWitt arrives at the family home with all the lights in the house seemingly switched on. This bemuses her, as Bruce is very mindful about the conservation of electricity ( “As your father once said, this family is rich but it doesn’t mean that its members should waste electricity. Or water, for that matter. And also food.”)
It is only when she notices the three cars by the driveway does she realize that her brother is home from New York. And he has a few guests.
She quietly lets herself in using her key and stands in the middle of the foyer. She listens to her brother’s voice booming out from one of the rooms as she puts her coat on the rack and her purse on top of the table.
Her heels click on the floor as she walks towards the study. The door is open, so she takes a peek. She sees her brother standing in front of the fireplace, holding a glass of… something (bourbon, most probably). He’s having an animated conversation with two men sitting on the settee.
Ever since she could remember, Marcus Christopher DeWitt has always been the most convivial member of the family.
“Addie!” he exclaims when he sees her. He puts down his glass and rushes to her. “You’re home!”
The grin on his face makes her smile and she can’t help but laugh when he pulls her into a rowdy embrace
“My dear, sweet little sister,” he whispers so that only she can hear it. “I have missed you.”
Marcus is a tall, burly man who projects a warm air. His size is intimidating, but his rather boyish grin effaces the initial impression.
“I’ve missed you too, Marcus,” she replies softly, leaning on him without care in the world. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed him until now.
He pulls away, his hands grasping her shoulders. He takes a look at her, as what he customarily does every time they see each other after a few months.
“Have you gotten thinner the last time we saw each other?” he asks. The statement is slightly rhetorical and should not be considered a compliment.
She responds to him with a sigh and a roll of the eyes.
“Well, your hair’s definitely longer,” he says, gently tugging a fistful of her locks (it’s a childish act that he can’t seem to let go). Marcus then slips his left arm around her shoulder (while she slips her arm around his waist) and turns to his guests - their guests, this is her house too, after all - whose presence she had momentarily forgotten.
Adelle sees Clyde Randolph - Marcus’ godfather - and her business partner of six years, Boyd Langton. They both have a drink in their hands.
“We were actually waiting for you,” Marcus states. “Langton here needs your input.”
“My input?”
Langton, a tall African-American with a deep voice, runs a talent management agency. His company represents several sports stars, all of whom are very talented and bankable, and he has expanded his business into discovering new talent, especially for the sport of mixed martial arts.
“Romeo found a potential fighter whom we can groom for Ballard’s weight class,” Langton starts and takes out a CD case from his coat pocket. “You said you want a hands-on approach with this one.”
She tugs away from her brother and takes the CD case before glancing at Clyde. “Do you want to watch this with us, Uncle Clyde?” she asks. The sight of the two men beating each other to a bloody pulp doesn’t faze her or Marcus, but it might not be the case for the older man.
“My dear, it’s the reason why I’m still here,” he answers cheerily. Clyde Randolph was a very close friend of their father, and she and Marcus have known him since they were children. He is very much like the eccentric (and he truly is eccentric) uncle to them. “I’m a big fan of this sport, if you must know.”
An astonished laugh escapes her and she looks at Clyde, who grins at her like a child. It’s almost the way Marcus does when he’s excited. She doesn’t know why this revelation surprises her.
She turns her attention back to Langton, and waits to hear the background on his pick.
“He’s called El Tigre. 26-years-old, stands at six-foot-three, 187 pounds.” Langton dictates the statistic’s from memory. She goes to the other side of the room to switch on the television and the DVD player. “He’s got a nice track record -18 wins so far, with only one loss.”
She goes to the entertainment system Marcus installed in the study several months ago. He always liked having noise wherever he works. She opens a panel on the wall, which reveals a flat screen TV and a DVD player.
“Do you want a glass of anything, little sister?”
She shakes her head. “No, thank you,” she says, starting up the system. She glances at Langton. “Where did you find him?”
Langton smiles wryly, “In a country where it isn’t safe to drink the water from the faucet.”
“Unfortunately, there are still a lot of countries with that problem,” Marcus starts. “The fact is-” She gives her brother a sharp look and he shakes his head. “I’ll tell it later.”
The video starts. The resolution is all right and the audio is crisp. She can hear people hurling various obscenities at the fighters. With one hand on her hip and the remote control in the other, she starts watching.
Marcus, Clyde and Langton gather around her as a large man with fiery orange hair and black streaks appears on the television.
“The Tiger, I assume?” she asks Langton. The man nods his head.
“Nice hair,” Marcus remarks.
“Very colourful,” Clyde adds.
The video jumps from one fight to another; the only indication that they’re watching a new match is an abrupt flicker of the screen.
The fights are quick. El Tigre knows how to immobilize his opponents. He seems like a one-dimensional fighter, though.
The screen blanks out again, the third fight over in a matter of seconds. When the video starts again, the orange-haired man is now fighting a blond man. And in this segment, the crowd is louder, their raucous worst than the first two matches.
The Tiger doesn’t rush headlong, as he did with the first three matches. There’s something different with this challenger. The Tiger is cautious this time around.
She tilts her head to the right, curious. The other man’s smaller (as compared to El Tigre) but he carries himself differently from the previous opponents.
She watches as he gets pummeled to the ground. But he doesn’t stay down for long. He is resilient, quick on his feet and, best of all, he thinks. Every punch is deliberate; every tackle is precise; every dodge, calculated. His movements are fluid- there’s something almost graceful about him.
When she’s picking winners, she had always favored tough, smart fighters.
He throws a blow that catches the Tiger squarely on the nose. Blood spurts out in the arena. The crowd cheers even louder.
“How very gladiator-esque,” Marcus says.
Adelle pauses the video and looks at Langton. “I want him,” she says and gestures to El Tigre’s challenger.
Langton raises a brow. “In Ballard’s weight class?”
“Of course not.” Her lips quirk upwards in amusement. “If you play your hand right, that man will be the new middleweight champion,” she says, “And I don’t have to finish watching this to know that this is the Tigre’s first loss.”
“It is?” Clyde asks.
She presses play.
The fight goes on for several more minutes. The man falls down hard twice, but after the second fall, he tackles El Tigre to floor and finishes the match with an ingenious choke hold. There are angry jeers from the crowd.
Adelle stops the video and flashes a pleased glance at Langton, who receives a friendly slap at the back from Marcus.
Clyde starts chuckling, “I shouldn’t have been surprised. Your father took gambling advice from you since you were a five-year-old in pinafores.”
“I’d follow her suggestion, if I were you,” Marcus adds and sips his drink. “The last time I didn’t listen to her, I lost fifty million in your currency.”
She makes her way to the sofa and sits down. Langton doesn’t move from where he’s standing, mulling over his choices. Marcus sits beside her.
“Are you sure that you don’t want my guy?” Langton asks, finally.
She can see what Langton sees in El Tigre. He’s a smart fighter and his orange hair will make it easier for Langton to promote him. And true, the sport needs new blood to get a larger audience. However, she isn’t too keen on the idea to find another athlete for the middleweight class. There are far too many fighters in that weight group and Langton’s managing the current champion-Paul Ballard.
And even if Ballard has been sidelined because of an injury, she doubts that it’s going to ruin his career or his marketability.
She leans back on the settee and crosses her legs. “No,” she answers with certainty.
He doesn’t ask the question again.
“I’ll call Romeo.”
There’s a gaping gash on his knuckles that’s stinging, his entire torso’s screaming and he can feel the cuts all over his face throbbing.
He keeps on moving, trying to sustain the adrenaline in his body. He’s going to win at least one more today, if he wants to have enough money to get his ass home.
Laurence checks his things. His body buzzes with tension as he starts arranging his gear-his flask (which is currently filled with really bad whiskey), his empty wallet, his dirty handkerchief and his knife.
Since it will be difficult to wash off the blood, he folds his shirt and tosses it in the corner. He then uncaps the flask, takes one gulp of whiskey before pouring some of it on his knuckles and face.
Pain digs into his skin, knocking the air out of him. He clenches his jaw as his eyes water from the harsh sensation.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. If he keeps this up, he’ll die in this country. He probably should let his body recover, even for just a week.
Suddenly, his skin prickles. He’s not alone in this enclosure.
Quickly, he grabs his knife and whirls around, pointing its tip to the intruder. He shouldn’t even be turning his back against the opening of this pig sty.
But instead of a group of men as he’s (always) expecting, it’s Alejandro.
“Enzo,” Alejandro says, staring at the tip of his knife. “It’s just me, man.”
He lowers his weapon. “What are you doing here, Alejandro?” he asks. The man never lets the cage out of his sight when there’s a match.
“These people want to meet you.”
He notices two people by the entrance of the pen-a man and a woman. The man is bald with piercing eyes and sporting a five o’clock shadow. They have the same build, but the bald guy’s taller than him. The woman with him is Asian and tiny.
“This is Mr. Romeo and his associate, Ms. Pound.”
“Laurence Dominic?” The bald guy, Romeo, speaks first.
He puts the knife on the bed. “That would be me.”
Romeo looks at Alejandro, who immediately makes himself scarce.
“Nice name,” Pound speaks. Her voice doesn’t exactly match her size. “Enzo.” She puts a stress on the second syllable. She’s already starting to sound like an abrasive woman.
He sits down on the crate. The alcohol on his face is making an unpleasant sensation and it’s making his eye twitch in pain, “What do you want?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of him.
They’re both looking at him intently, as if trying to determine whether or not he really is Laurence Dominic.
“How do you feel about fighting professionally?” Romeo asks at last, “Going legit?”
He assesses them from head to foot. They look more like bounty hunters than talent scouts. “You’re the hotshots Alejandro’s talking about?” he asks. They also seem the type who will leave the moment they see a hint of hesitation.
They don’t answer. He lifts his chin up. “What kind of deal am I being offered with, anyway?”
“A big one,” Pound answers bluntly. “Our boss thinks you’re champion material.”
He doesn’t have a reason to trust them. For all he knows, this is just some elaborate ruse by the high-rolling, drug dealing gamblers who want him out of the picture. But, thinking about it, drug dealers like to get their point across as simple as possible.
“Do you need time to decide on the matter, Mr. Dominic?” Romeo asks.
There’s the temptation to say no, just to see what they would do (they wouldn’t leave right away; they answer to a higher authority), but a larger part of him wants to try it. He’s thirty-two- which is old in the standards of this arena, but he’s been fighting twice a week for more than a month and he hasn’t lost a match.
But… his mind trails off. His life before this wasn’t as interesting. He’s fighting to get out of this place and out of this country, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do after that.
“Why the hell not?” he answers, finally. “Your boss thinks I’m good enough professionally. I can go with that.”
“Good.” Romeo looks at Pound. “I’ll talk to Alejandro,” he says and steps out.
Pound turns to him. “Put a shirt on, Enzo. We’re outta here,” she says, motioning him to follow her out of the enclosure. “C’mon.”
He puts on his shirt and makes sure that his knife is safely inside its sheath before putting it in his pants pocket, among his other belongings. He then follows Pound out, his aching body struggling to catch up to her.
They leave the boisterous sounds of the arena and out into the heat and dust.
“Get in the car,” she barks, jerking her head to the black sedan that just pulled up in front of them.
He does what she told him to do and gets in the backseat while she sits at front.
“Where’s Romeo?” he asks when the car screeches away from the arena.
“Getting back your passport,” she replies. Paying his debt is what she’s actually saying. “Aww, don’t worry about him. He’s gonna be just fine,” she says with a saccharine tone.
She’s getting on his nerves. He smells like he fell on a tub of whiskey. And, thanks to the quick shift from dry heat to the cool blast of the air condition in the car, he now has a headache.
His body has been through worse these past few weeks, but this is the first time he actually feels like throwing up. The bumpy road isn’t helping either.
“Where are we going?” he asks after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence.
“When I said we’re outta here, I mean it,” she answers. “Hope you’re not holding some poor girl’s heart in your hands, Enzo.”
“Stop calling me that.” He scowls. He’s never liked the nickname and he’s sure as hell that he doesn’t want to be called that ever again. He only acquiesced to it because he wanted to be on Alejandro’s good side.
Pound looks at him from the passenger’s side. “It’s a nice name.” A somewhat insincere smile blooms on her face. “I think it suits your personality.” She looks back to the road. “Enzo.”
He looks away in irritation. They speed through the market, the town hall and out to the dry, hot countryside.
She didn’t say where they’re going, but she did say they’re getting out of here. That’s all he needs to know.
~*~
They pull into a hangar in an airstrip an hour-and-a-half away from the town. Inside the hangar is a white jet. The car parks next to it.
Pound throws a glance at him. “The boss will be inside.”
“The jet?”
“Where else, Enzo?” Pound answers. “Look alive, future champ.” She opens her side of the door and he does the same.
He trails behind the tiny woman, avoiding making unnecessary movements when he starts moving up the plane’s stairs.
“Mr. Dominic,” someone greets when he steps inside. He glances towards the direction of the voice and sees a man sitting in the middle of the cabin. He’s an older man, black, with shortly-cropped hair and a serious expression on his face. “Have a seat.”
Laurence walks through the aisle, looking around him. The cabin is spacious, with off-white walls and leather seats, “Nice ride,” he remarks as he slowly sits down across the man.
“Would you like anything to drink? Water, tea, whiskey?”
“No, thanks.” He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
A bout of awkward silence follows. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. Should he thank the man for getting him out of that hellhole? Probably, but then, he had more or less agreed to stay in the hellhole’s way of life, albeit living it more comfortably.
“The name’s Boyd Langton, by the way,” the man says, finally introducing himself.
“Laurence Dominic,” he replies, though the man already knows that.
He sees a small smile form on Langton’s face.
“So, what is it that you do exactly?” he asks, leaning back on his chair.
Langton rests his elbows on the armrests and clasps his hands together. “I manage athletes,” he answers. “My company manages athletes, teams even. Simply put, you do your thing and we make sure you get money for what you're doing. The better you are, the more money you get-if you’re management’s good, that is.”
“You mean the better I am, the more money you get.”
“I’m not pretending that’s not part of the set-up.” Langton shrugs. “Frankly speaking, you aren’t my first choice. You weren’t even in my radar. But someone noticed you and said that you’re champion material.”
He frowns and raises a brow “And that was good enough for you?” That doesn’t sound like a good business move. “Sounds like you're gambling.”
A somewhat ironic smile appears on the older man’s face. “When the DeWitts give you gambling advice, you take it.”
His frown grows deeper. DeWitts? The name is familiar, but he can’t remember what it is they do. Right now, he’s thinking mafia, but he’s pretty sure that’s not going to be it.
Langton’s attention switches away from him. “Good, you’re here.” He extends his arm and takes something from the person behind him.
He doesn’t even attempt to look behind him.
“I believe this is yours,” Langton says and gives it to him, something blue with a glint of gold. He takes it and looks at it. His passport. “Tell the pilot we’re ready to go,” he orders.
“Where are we going?” he asks
Langton shrugs, “A country with decent healthcare. We need to make sure you’re not slowly dying from head trauma.”
“That sounds…” Laurence trails off, “reasonable.”
“I want the best for my athletes.”
~*~
The plane ride to the next country, as it turns out, is shorter than the trip from the arena to the airstrip. And the moment the jet touches down, they whisk him off to the hospital.
Various doctors check on him. They made him go through tests, examined on various parts of his body, and had him go through an MRI and an x-ray.
He’s given stern warnings about the dangers of underground fight clubs and advice on how to take care of his wounds and bruises (he has bruises on bruises, apparently-nothing too serious). He’s also given something for the pain, but other than that, the doctors give him a clean bill of health.
Langton then brings him to the Regency, the hotel where they’ll stay for a few days. He is told that he can order room service anytime he wants and that he can buy clothes in the hotel boutique if the need arises (charge them to your room, Langton says).
His room is up in the seventeenth floor. It’s very spacious, with large windows and a large bed in the middle. The bathroom is one-fourth the room’s size and has both a bath and a shower stall.
Laurence doesn’t care about those things right now. All he wants to do is take a hot shower and sleep.
He takes out the things in his pocket - his knife, his drink flask, his wallet, his handkerchief and the painkillers the hospital gave him - puts them on top of the bathroom counter, and takes off his clothes (he realizes for the first time that these are the only clothes he have).
He turns on the shower and bows under the hot spray of water. He audibly groans in relief. This is the most decent shower he’s had this past few months. If he could embrace these drops of water, he would have done it the moment they dropped on his head.
He opens a pack of soap and starts scrubbing his body clean as steam fills the bathroom, feeling like he’s washing off layers and layers of grime and dirt from his skin.
A few minutes later, he steps out of the stall. He grabs a towel and dries himself, before grabbing a smaller towel to wipe off the steam in the mirror.
He doesn’t recognize the person standing in front of him. He looks terrible. It’s a good thing he rarely saw his face when he was in that blasted country. He would have forgotten what he really looked like.
Laurence picks up his clothes and neatly folds them. He puts them on top of a chair inside his room.
He takes a deep breath and sits on top of the bed. He suddenly feels the exhaustion catching up with him, as if the bed had sucked out the vestiges of his strength.
His eyelids start to droop and before he dozes off while sitting down, he stands up and pulls the covers from the bed. He tosses the towel on the chair and climbs in, not really concerned that housekeeping might come in tomorrow morning and see him naked on the bed.
He’s fast asleep before his head even hits the pillows.
1/4 prrrrrrobably
Warning/Rating: PG-13/NC-17 (depends on how you rate violence) for violence, language
Disclaimer: The show or the characters are not mine; no copyright infringement intended
Characters: Laurence Dominic, Adelle DeWitt, Boyd Langton, Clyde Randolph, several OC's strewn around for my amusement; ensemble
Words: 5, 208
Summary: "Violence is man re-creating himself." -- Frantz Fanon
Notes: This has been sitting in my WIP folder for too long. A fic inspired by this manip + an episode of The Unit. Also, a Dollhouse Sports AU of sorts for my au_bingo card. Four-five parts at the most (I'm sure of this). Looked over by just_drifting_6 and leanstein. Thank you guys.
I'm curious to see the reaction to this. If ever there's any reaction to it. lol.
“I write about violence as naturally as Jane Austen wrote about manners. Violence shapes and obsesses our society, and if we do not stop being violent we have no future.”
-- Edward Bond
“Violence is man re-creating himself.”
-- Frantz Fanon
He doesn’t hear the thunderous roar echoing around him, nor the chanting and goading of the crowd. He doesn’t see the faces of the spectators or the money being passed and exchanged around. He doesn’t see or hear any of it.
Sweat drips from his brows. It mixes with his blood as it trails down the side of his face.
What he can hear is the sound of his heart beating against his chest; he can hear the sound of each ragged breath he makes. What he can see is the six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound, orange-haired man with a bloody nose in front him; what he can see is the moves this man will make before he makes them. What he can see is that this man is blocking his way to the door.
His stupidity landed him in this hellhole. His fists will get him out of here.
The man lunges towards him, an action he simply evades.
He curls his hands tightly into a ball. At that instant, Laurence Dominic strikes.
~*~
It cannot be denied that everybody is capable of violence. It is second nature for human beings, a part of the psyche. It’s raw, it’s powerful, and when combined with fear or rage, it’s unstoppable
~*~
“Enzo, you win like that more, you’ll be free of debt in no time.”
His body groans in agony as he takes the cash. Laurence can feel the man’s eyes on him as he counts the money. He hasn’t let his guard down one bit. Alejandro’s a decent businessman - the type who actually keeps his word - but he’s also a slimeball. A douchebag slimeball who smokes too many cigars.
He got 300 bucks in their currency. Great. That’ll get him far. He’ll be lucky if he gets out of this damn country after fifteen fights.
“You know,” Alejandro starts, puffing on his tobacco and filling the little pen with smoke, “You got a lot in you. Talent. If luck is on your side, some hotshot might get you out of here.”
He hasn’t had a lot of luck ever since he arrived in this godforsaken place six months back. “Yeah,” he says, putting his money in his pocket. “Right.” Opening his mouth just to speak makes his face hurt.
“No, no, no,” Alejandro says before making a flurry of hand gestures. “Hotshots, for the fighting… what do you call them? The ones you see on TV,” he adds. “Like boxing but without the big gloves.”
“MMA?” he asks. He doesn’t think what they’re doing can be considered mixed martial arts; the referees aren’t helpful, people throw coins at them when they lose (or win. Either way, they lose money after betting on the wrong person) and they don’t receive medical attention afterwards.
“Yes. That one.”
Laurence watches silently as the pudgy man with too much pomade in his hair talks. He doesn’t turn his back on him.
“I have people coming here, asking questions about the fighters, videotaping some fights, eh.” He takes another puff. “When they really like you, they take you, make your debt go away and give me a little something- el agradecimiento.”
He leans back on the crate. Pain shoots up on his side. “And that doesn’t piss off the drug dealers who bet on your fighters?”
Alejandro makes a pained expression and brushes off his comment. He then begins to drone on and on about this dangerous part of the country being the breeding ground of great fighters, and though Laurence would like a distraction from his pain, he really doesn’t want to be around Alejandro.
The man’s got his passport, the man smells funny and he doesn’t like being a recipient of second-hand smoke. He’d rather be with his open, bleeding wounds than be near him.
After enduring a one-sided conversation about bunions, Alejandro leaves his enclosure with rings of smoke trailing behind him.
Laurence checks his things, something he does after every fight and at the end of the day. He unfolds his shirt where the things are packed in and lays them out on the makeshift bed-nothing more than wooden boxes put together with a thin piece of cloth thrown over it.
He doesn’t stay in the same enclosure every fight (Alejandro made these improvised rooms by stacking crates atop the other to function as walls… it makes him feel like he’s in a dark, dank farm with all the hay sticking out of them). He’s seen guys who win their fights beaten up in the pen to make sure they lose the following matches. He fucking swore he wouldn’t be one of them.
He suddenly grimaces. The adrenaline has worn off and he feels like he was run over by a truck. He’ll consider himself lucky if he gets out of this alive with no lasting damage to his body (fat chance, though).
He sits on top of the crate. He can hear a few people loitering around. The day has ended in Alejandro’s fighting cage. Everybody’s going home, except for him.
Well, at least he has some money to buy some (horrible) whiskey to clean his wounds with and ice to put on his bruise. Maybe he can charm a local girl to let him stay for the night (he’ll introduce himself as Enzo. They like that here, an American with a native nickname) or point him to the nearest doctor. Because frankly, that’s the best he can do right now.
~*~
He gets beaten up Tuesdays and Fridays. So far, he hasn’t lost a match.
Most of the fighters in Alejandro’s roster are disproportionate to his size; it will either be he’s a giant compared to them or he’ll be put in a disadvantageous position (where does Alejandro get these guys, anyway?). He’s stronger against the small guys while he’s quicker against the big ones. Most of the time, however, they don’t think, which is tremendously helpful to him.
There is one fighter who almost brought him down, though. A powerful guy with a few good inches on him, who has a mean right hook and smart. The only reason why he won that match was because he knew how to grapple effectively. He made the guy pass out and he received a lot more jeering and coins to the head that night (the man has fans, apparently).
He was lucky. But he’s not going to tempt fate by wanting to fight that man again. The man’s fucking dangerous. He’s fighting because he wants to get enough money to get out of here, not to get killed.
Laurence ducks inside the crude arena, the hood of his sweater covering his head. The mix of dry air, sweat, mud, piss and blood makes for a pungent smell and he avoids going in the crowd because it would smell even worse.
He hovers just outside the throng of shouting people, watching the man who almost beat him trade punches with a guy as large as him. He can’t see very well - his right eye is swollen shut - but since the other fighter’s an idiot everybody knows who the winner’s going to be.
Everybody calls the guy El Tigre because of his Halloween-themed hair. Laurence thinks they should have called him The Mighty Bear. It’s what he is in the cage. A fucking bear.
He looks around. There’s a second level, where the VIPs watch (they still use this place for cockfighting during Sundays). They’re usually hiding behind their bodyguards and a thick cloud of smoke.
He then notices someone going around with a videocam, recording the fight.
El Tigre’s opponent falls to the ground and the crowd goes wild. He turns his attention back to the ruckus. He can’t see what’s going on, but he’s sure someone is being pounded on mercilessly.
It suddenly occurs to him that the people recording the fight might be one of the ‘hotshots’ Alejandro’s talking about- the ones scouting for new blood. He doesn’t watch UFC or any of that kind on TV (it’s pay-per-view… he’s a cheapskate) so he’s not really sure how new fighters are found. But if Alejandro’s telling the truth and the guy recording this fight is the real deal, then El Tigre’s one lucky bastard.
The man with orange hair stands up with both hands in the air and cries out in triumph, which the crowd laps up. At that moment, he’s not the Tiger; he is the Bear.
Laurence puts his hands inside the pockets of his sweater and walks out the arena.
On the other side of the world, Adelle DeWitt arrives at the family home with all the lights in the house seemingly switched on. This bemuses her, as Bruce is very mindful about the conservation of electricity ( “As your father once said, this family is rich but it doesn’t mean that its members should waste electricity. Or water, for that matter. And also food.”)
It is only when she notices the three cars by the driveway does she realize that her brother is home from New York. And he has a few guests.
She quietly lets herself in using her key and stands in the middle of the foyer. She listens to her brother’s voice booming out from one of the rooms as she puts her coat on the rack and her purse on top of the table.
Her heels click on the floor as she walks towards the study. The door is open, so she takes a peek. She sees her brother standing in front of the fireplace, holding a glass of… something (bourbon, most probably). He’s having an animated conversation with two men sitting on the settee.
Ever since she could remember, Marcus Christopher DeWitt has always been the most convivial member of the family.
“Addie!” he exclaims when he sees her. He puts down his glass and rushes to her. “You’re home!”
The grin on his face makes her smile and she can’t help but laugh when he pulls her into a rowdy embrace
“My dear, sweet little sister,” he whispers so that only she can hear it. “I have missed you.”
Marcus is a tall, burly man who projects a warm air. His size is intimidating, but his rather boyish grin effaces the initial impression.
“I’ve missed you too, Marcus,” she replies softly, leaning on him without care in the world. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed him until now.
He pulls away, his hands grasping her shoulders. He takes a look at her, as what he customarily does every time they see each other after a few months.
“Have you gotten thinner the last time we saw each other?” he asks. The statement is slightly rhetorical and should not be considered a compliment.
She responds to him with a sigh and a roll of the eyes.
“Well, your hair’s definitely longer,” he says, gently tugging a fistful of her locks (it’s a childish act that he can’t seem to let go). Marcus then slips his left arm around her shoulder (while she slips her arm around his waist) and turns to his guests - their guests, this is her house too, after all - whose presence she had momentarily forgotten.
Adelle sees Clyde Randolph - Marcus’ godfather - and her business partner of six years, Boyd Langton. They both have a drink in their hands.
“We were actually waiting for you,” Marcus states. “Langton here needs your input.”
“My input?”
Langton, a tall African-American with a deep voice, runs a talent management agency. His company represents several sports stars, all of whom are very talented and bankable, and he has expanded his business into discovering new talent, especially for the sport of mixed martial arts.
“Romeo found a potential fighter whom we can groom for Ballard’s weight class,” Langton starts and takes out a CD case from his coat pocket. “You said you want a hands-on approach with this one.”
She tugs away from her brother and takes the CD case before glancing at Clyde. “Do you want to watch this with us, Uncle Clyde?” she asks. The sight of the two men beating each other to a bloody pulp doesn’t faze her or Marcus, but it might not be the case for the older man.
“My dear, it’s the reason why I’m still here,” he answers cheerily. Clyde Randolph was a very close friend of their father, and she and Marcus have known him since they were children. He is very much like the eccentric (and he truly is eccentric) uncle to them. “I’m a big fan of this sport, if you must know.”
An astonished laugh escapes her and she looks at Clyde, who grins at her like a child. It’s almost the way Marcus does when he’s excited. She doesn’t know why this revelation surprises her.
She turns her attention back to Langton, and waits to hear the background on his pick.
“He’s called El Tigre. 26-years-old, stands at six-foot-three, 187 pounds.” Langton dictates the statistic’s from memory. She goes to the other side of the room to switch on the television and the DVD player. “He’s got a nice track record -18 wins so far, with only one loss.”
She goes to the entertainment system Marcus installed in the study several months ago. He always liked having noise wherever he works. She opens a panel on the wall, which reveals a flat screen TV and a DVD player.
“Do you want a glass of anything, little sister?”
She shakes her head. “No, thank you,” she says, starting up the system. She glances at Langton. “Where did you find him?”
Langton smiles wryly, “In a country where it isn’t safe to drink the water from the faucet.”
“Unfortunately, there are still a lot of countries with that problem,” Marcus starts. “The fact is-” She gives her brother a sharp look and he shakes his head. “I’ll tell it later.”
The video starts. The resolution is all right and the audio is crisp. She can hear people hurling various obscenities at the fighters. With one hand on her hip and the remote control in the other, she starts watching.
Marcus, Clyde and Langton gather around her as a large man with fiery orange hair and black streaks appears on the television.
“The Tiger, I assume?” she asks Langton. The man nods his head.
“Nice hair,” Marcus remarks.
“Very colourful,” Clyde adds.
The video jumps from one fight to another; the only indication that they’re watching a new match is an abrupt flicker of the screen.
The fights are quick. El Tigre knows how to immobilize his opponents. He seems like a one-dimensional fighter, though.
The screen blanks out again, the third fight over in a matter of seconds. When the video starts again, the orange-haired man is now fighting a blond man. And in this segment, the crowd is louder, their raucous worst than the first two matches.
The Tiger doesn’t rush headlong, as he did with the first three matches. There’s something different with this challenger. The Tiger is cautious this time around.
She tilts her head to the right, curious. The other man’s smaller (as compared to El Tigre) but he carries himself differently from the previous opponents.
She watches as he gets pummeled to the ground. But he doesn’t stay down for long. He is resilient, quick on his feet and, best of all, he thinks. Every punch is deliberate; every tackle is precise; every dodge, calculated. His movements are fluid- there’s something almost graceful about him.
When she’s picking winners, she had always favored tough, smart fighters.
He throws a blow that catches the Tiger squarely on the nose. Blood spurts out in the arena. The crowd cheers even louder.
“How very gladiator-esque,” Marcus says.
Adelle pauses the video and looks at Langton. “I want him,” she says and gestures to El Tigre’s challenger.
Langton raises a brow. “In Ballard’s weight class?”
“Of course not.” Her lips quirk upwards in amusement. “If you play your hand right, that man will be the new middleweight champion,” she says, “And I don’t have to finish watching this to know that this is the Tigre’s first loss.”
“It is?” Clyde asks.
She presses play.
The fight goes on for several more minutes. The man falls down hard twice, but after the second fall, he tackles El Tigre to floor and finishes the match with an ingenious choke hold. There are angry jeers from the crowd.
Adelle stops the video and flashes a pleased glance at Langton, who receives a friendly slap at the back from Marcus.
Clyde starts chuckling, “I shouldn’t have been surprised. Your father took gambling advice from you since you were a five-year-old in pinafores.”
“I’d follow her suggestion, if I were you,” Marcus adds and sips his drink. “The last time I didn’t listen to her, I lost fifty million in your currency.”
She makes her way to the sofa and sits down. Langton doesn’t move from where he’s standing, mulling over his choices. Marcus sits beside her.
“Are you sure that you don’t want my guy?” Langton asks, finally.
She can see what Langton sees in El Tigre. He’s a smart fighter and his orange hair will make it easier for Langton to promote him. And true, the sport needs new blood to get a larger audience. However, she isn’t too keen on the idea to find another athlete for the middleweight class. There are far too many fighters in that weight group and Langton’s managing the current champion-Paul Ballard.
And even if Ballard has been sidelined because of an injury, she doubts that it’s going to ruin his career or his marketability.
She leans back on the settee and crosses her legs. “No,” she answers with certainty.
He doesn’t ask the question again.
“I’ll call Romeo.”
There’s a gaping gash on his knuckles that’s stinging, his entire torso’s screaming and he can feel the cuts all over his face throbbing.
He keeps on moving, trying to sustain the adrenaline in his body. He’s going to win at least one more today, if he wants to have enough money to get his ass home.
Laurence checks his things. His body buzzes with tension as he starts arranging his gear-his flask (which is currently filled with really bad whiskey), his empty wallet, his dirty handkerchief and his knife.
Since it will be difficult to wash off the blood, he folds his shirt and tosses it in the corner. He then uncaps the flask, takes one gulp of whiskey before pouring some of it on his knuckles and face.
Pain digs into his skin, knocking the air out of him. He clenches his jaw as his eyes water from the harsh sensation.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. If he keeps this up, he’ll die in this country. He probably should let his body recover, even for just a week.
Suddenly, his skin prickles. He’s not alone in this enclosure.
Quickly, he grabs his knife and whirls around, pointing its tip to the intruder. He shouldn’t even be turning his back against the opening of this pig sty.
But instead of a group of men as he’s (always) expecting, it’s Alejandro.
“Enzo,” Alejandro says, staring at the tip of his knife. “It’s just me, man.”
He lowers his weapon. “What are you doing here, Alejandro?” he asks. The man never lets the cage out of his sight when there’s a match.
“These people want to meet you.”
He notices two people by the entrance of the pen-a man and a woman. The man is bald with piercing eyes and sporting a five o’clock shadow. They have the same build, but the bald guy’s taller than him. The woman with him is Asian and tiny.
“This is Mr. Romeo and his associate, Ms. Pound.”
“Laurence Dominic?” The bald guy, Romeo, speaks first.
He puts the knife on the bed. “That would be me.”
Romeo looks at Alejandro, who immediately makes himself scarce.
“Nice name,” Pound speaks. Her voice doesn’t exactly match her size. “Enzo.” She puts a stress on the second syllable. She’s already starting to sound like an abrasive woman.
He sits down on the crate. The alcohol on his face is making an unpleasant sensation and it’s making his eye twitch in pain, “What do you want?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of him.
They’re both looking at him intently, as if trying to determine whether or not he really is Laurence Dominic.
“How do you feel about fighting professionally?” Romeo asks at last, “Going legit?”
He assesses them from head to foot. They look more like bounty hunters than talent scouts. “You’re the hotshots Alejandro’s talking about?” he asks. They also seem the type who will leave the moment they see a hint of hesitation.
They don’t answer. He lifts his chin up. “What kind of deal am I being offered with, anyway?”
“A big one,” Pound answers bluntly. “Our boss thinks you’re champion material.”
He doesn’t have a reason to trust them. For all he knows, this is just some elaborate ruse by the high-rolling, drug dealing gamblers who want him out of the picture. But, thinking about it, drug dealers like to get their point across as simple as possible.
“Do you need time to decide on the matter, Mr. Dominic?” Romeo asks.
There’s the temptation to say no, just to see what they would do (they wouldn’t leave right away; they answer to a higher authority), but a larger part of him wants to try it. He’s thirty-two- which is old in the standards of this arena, but he’s been fighting twice a week for more than a month and he hasn’t lost a match.
But… his mind trails off. His life before this wasn’t as interesting. He’s fighting to get out of this place and out of this country, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do after that.
“Why the hell not?” he answers, finally. “Your boss thinks I’m good enough professionally. I can go with that.”
“Good.” Romeo looks at Pound. “I’ll talk to Alejandro,” he says and steps out.
Pound turns to him. “Put a shirt on, Enzo. We’re outta here,” she says, motioning him to follow her out of the enclosure. “C’mon.”
He puts on his shirt and makes sure that his knife is safely inside its sheath before putting it in his pants pocket, among his other belongings. He then follows Pound out, his aching body struggling to catch up to her.
They leave the boisterous sounds of the arena and out into the heat and dust.
“Get in the car,” she barks, jerking her head to the black sedan that just pulled up in front of them.
He does what she told him to do and gets in the backseat while she sits at front.
“Where’s Romeo?” he asks when the car screeches away from the arena.
“Getting back your passport,” she replies. Paying his debt is what she’s actually saying. “Aww, don’t worry about him. He’s gonna be just fine,” she says with a saccharine tone.
She’s getting on his nerves. He smells like he fell on a tub of whiskey. And, thanks to the quick shift from dry heat to the cool blast of the air condition in the car, he now has a headache.
His body has been through worse these past few weeks, but this is the first time he actually feels like throwing up. The bumpy road isn’t helping either.
“Where are we going?” he asks after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence.
“When I said we’re outta here, I mean it,” she answers. “Hope you’re not holding some poor girl’s heart in your hands, Enzo.”
“Stop calling me that.” He scowls. He’s never liked the nickname and he’s sure as hell that he doesn’t want to be called that ever again. He only acquiesced to it because he wanted to be on Alejandro’s good side.
Pound looks at him from the passenger’s side. “It’s a nice name.” A somewhat insincere smile blooms on her face. “I think it suits your personality.” She looks back to the road. “Enzo.”
He looks away in irritation. They speed through the market, the town hall and out to the dry, hot countryside.
She didn’t say where they’re going, but she did say they’re getting out of here. That’s all he needs to know.
~*~
They pull into a hangar in an airstrip an hour-and-a-half away from the town. Inside the hangar is a white jet. The car parks next to it.
Pound throws a glance at him. “The boss will be inside.”
“The jet?”
“Where else, Enzo?” Pound answers. “Look alive, future champ.” She opens her side of the door and he does the same.
He trails behind the tiny woman, avoiding making unnecessary movements when he starts moving up the plane’s stairs.
“Mr. Dominic,” someone greets when he steps inside. He glances towards the direction of the voice and sees a man sitting in the middle of the cabin. He’s an older man, black, with shortly-cropped hair and a serious expression on his face. “Have a seat.”
Laurence walks through the aisle, looking around him. The cabin is spacious, with off-white walls and leather seats, “Nice ride,” he remarks as he slowly sits down across the man.
“Would you like anything to drink? Water, tea, whiskey?”
“No, thanks.” He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
A bout of awkward silence follows. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. Should he thank the man for getting him out of that hellhole? Probably, but then, he had more or less agreed to stay in the hellhole’s way of life, albeit living it more comfortably.
“The name’s Boyd Langton, by the way,” the man says, finally introducing himself.
“Laurence Dominic,” he replies, though the man already knows that.
He sees a small smile form on Langton’s face.
“So, what is it that you do exactly?” he asks, leaning back on his chair.
Langton rests his elbows on the armrests and clasps his hands together. “I manage athletes,” he answers. “My company manages athletes, teams even. Simply put, you do your thing and we make sure you get money for what you're doing. The better you are, the more money you get-if you’re management’s good, that is.”
“You mean the better I am, the more money you get.”
“I’m not pretending that’s not part of the set-up.” Langton shrugs. “Frankly speaking, you aren’t my first choice. You weren’t even in my radar. But someone noticed you and said that you’re champion material.”
He frowns and raises a brow “And that was good enough for you?” That doesn’t sound like a good business move. “Sounds like you're gambling.”
A somewhat ironic smile appears on the older man’s face. “When the DeWitts give you gambling advice, you take it.”
His frown grows deeper. DeWitts? The name is familiar, but he can’t remember what it is they do. Right now, he’s thinking mafia, but he’s pretty sure that’s not going to be it.
Langton’s attention switches away from him. “Good, you’re here.” He extends his arm and takes something from the person behind him.
He doesn’t even attempt to look behind him.
“I believe this is yours,” Langton says and gives it to him, something blue with a glint of gold. He takes it and looks at it. His passport. “Tell the pilot we’re ready to go,” he orders.
“Where are we going?” he asks
Langton shrugs, “A country with decent healthcare. We need to make sure you’re not slowly dying from head trauma.”
“That sounds…” Laurence trails off, “reasonable.”
“I want the best for my athletes.”
~*~
The plane ride to the next country, as it turns out, is shorter than the trip from the arena to the airstrip. And the moment the jet touches down, they whisk him off to the hospital.
Various doctors check on him. They made him go through tests, examined on various parts of his body, and had him go through an MRI and an x-ray.
He’s given stern warnings about the dangers of underground fight clubs and advice on how to take care of his wounds and bruises (he has bruises on bruises, apparently-nothing too serious). He’s also given something for the pain, but other than that, the doctors give him a clean bill of health.
Langton then brings him to the Regency, the hotel where they’ll stay for a few days. He is told that he can order room service anytime he wants and that he can buy clothes in the hotel boutique if the need arises (charge them to your room, Langton says).
His room is up in the seventeenth floor. It’s very spacious, with large windows and a large bed in the middle. The bathroom is one-fourth the room’s size and has both a bath and a shower stall.
Laurence doesn’t care about those things right now. All he wants to do is take a hot shower and sleep.
He takes out the things in his pocket - his knife, his drink flask, his wallet, his handkerchief and the painkillers the hospital gave him - puts them on top of the bathroom counter, and takes off his clothes (he realizes for the first time that these are the only clothes he have).
He turns on the shower and bows under the hot spray of water. He audibly groans in relief. This is the most decent shower he’s had this past few months. If he could embrace these drops of water, he would have done it the moment they dropped on his head.
He opens a pack of soap and starts scrubbing his body clean as steam fills the bathroom, feeling like he’s washing off layers and layers of grime and dirt from his skin.
A few minutes later, he steps out of the stall. He grabs a towel and dries himself, before grabbing a smaller towel to wipe off the steam in the mirror.
He doesn’t recognize the person standing in front of him. He looks terrible. It’s a good thing he rarely saw his face when he was in that blasted country. He would have forgotten what he really looked like.
Laurence picks up his clothes and neatly folds them. He puts them on top of a chair inside his room.
He takes a deep breath and sits on top of the bed. He suddenly feels the exhaustion catching up with him, as if the bed had sucked out the vestiges of his strength.
His eyelids start to droop and before he dozes off while sitting down, he stands up and pulls the covers from the bed. He tosses the towel on the chair and climbs in, not really concerned that housekeeping might come in tomorrow morning and see him naked on the bed.
He’s fast asleep before his head even hits the pillows.
1/4 prrrrrrobably