Holiday Ficlet for jaydblu!
Title: Prelude
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Gault/Keamy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Gault is introduced to Keamy at Widmore's office, and he meets him again unexpectedly before the Kahana leaves port.
Notes: Thank you so much jaydblu, for requesting these two, because it's been forever since I wrote them and I forgot how much I love it! This has revitalized my big time travel fic idea like whoa. I was going to write goofy ghosts!fic but couldn't come up with anything decent, so I went back to pre-Kahana time and tried to keep that spirit of humor in it along with the sexiness. I hope you'll enjoy it! Thanks so much to chlorate for beta reading this when it was an even rougher draft than usual! :)
Gault doesn't really believe in self-affirmations, but he gets a pretty good mantra working in his head on the way to the meeting with Widmore's assistant. This is your big break, it says. This is the opportunity you were always unknowingly moving toward. Other, less optimistic sentiments worm their way in by the time he arrives: Better not screw this one up like the others! and why isn't he meeting with you personally? What's this assistant bullshit? Gault tries to quiet them and tilts the rear view mirror down so he can straighten his tie and check his teeth.
The assistant is English, and he reminds Gault of a malnourished chihuahua. He's skinny, with little glasses and a pinched, narrow face. The paleness of his skin and hair seem as if they were selected to complement his stylish outfit, not the other way around. He looks at Gault like he's yet another annoyance in the midst of a busy day, and introduces himself as Buck.
"The ship will leave tomorrow at six AM," Buck says. "You will be expected to report to the bridge two hours prior. I would plan to be in bed early tonight." There is something suggestive in the way he looks over his glasses at Gault after saying so. Gault has always been uncomfortable around obviously gay men, like he owes them something - not quite a confession, but a more charitable attitude than what he usually feels like offering.
Buck leads him back into the plush confines of the Widmore offices to meet the communications officer and someone whom Buck refers to as the "armsman." Gault doesn't know what the hell an armsman is, and he wonders if Buck invented the word himself. He follows Buck into a room with white carpet and wood paneling. There is a giant fireplace on the opposite wall and all the furniture seems to be made of glass and goose down. For a moment Gault expects Widmore himself to pop around the corner and offer him a scotch, but the only people waiting in the room are a greasy-looking bloke called Minkowski and a man named Keamy who is almost seven feet tall. He crushes Gault's hand into his when they shake, and Gault can guess which of them is the armsman.
"Mr. Keamy will be managing a small group of specialized trackers who will be deployed once the ship reaches the coordinates off the coast of the island," Buck says. Gault gets the feeling he's having a Bond movie fantasy as he speaks, trying to keep his voice brisk and computer-like. Minkowski is staring off into space as if he's already heard this several times and Keamy is picking his teeth. They both look a bit filthy, and Gault feels like an idiot in his suit and tie.
"All communication will be filtered through Mr. Minkowski," Buck continues. He glances at Keamy meaningfully. "You're to keep an eye on the communications room."
Keamy gives Buck a mildly disgusted look, and the backs of Gault's knees begin to sweat. His armsman is clearly the type who thinks that people like Buck should be rounded up and exterminated. He doesn't know why it bothers him, or why it makes him so goddamn nervous, anyway. It's not as if Gault is going to be prancing around the ship in a feather boa or blowing the deck hands. Nobody has ever guessed about him outside of bars where everyone is after the same thing.
Buck himself doesn't seem to notice, and he goes on blissfully detailing the mission to capture the fugitive Ben Linus. Gault wants to tell everyone he meets about this windfall he's stumbled into -- interesting work and more money than he would have dreamed of asking for, had there been an actual negotiation -- but he's under orders to keep quiet about all of it. He's been looking forward to at least talking with his crew about the mission, finding out what they know and what they make of all the mystery, but if these two are his main chain of command he can't imagine what the rest will be like.
Minkowski is dismissed first, and he seems glad to leave. He shuts the door behind him, and Buck turns to Keamy and Gault.
"You two will be trusted with these," he says, reaching into his trouser pocket. He pulls out two long chains with keys on them and hands one to each of them. Gault examines his like he's a monkey with a shiny toy while Keamy quickly loops his around his neck and tucks it down the front of his shirt.
"These keys unlock the lowest drawer in the filing cabinet in the captain's stateroom," Buck says. "Both of them must be turned simultaneously in order for the drawer to open. Accordingly, both of you must agree that the primary protocol has failed in order to open the drawer, which contains a secondary protocol. The secondary protocol is not to be touched unless you are both completely certain that the primary protocol cannot be realized. Mr. Widmore is trusting you both with this emergency scenario in case communication with the mainland is lost and you must make this decision yourselves. Do you understand the gravity of this?" Buck leans forward slightly, and Gault bites his tongue to keep from laughing at his posturing. He glances over at Keamy to commiserate, but Keamy has his eyes focused on Buck, shoulders straight. He nods as if this is very serious indeed, and perhaps it is. Gault guiltily flicks his eyes back to Buck. This is your chance to stop laughing your life away, the mantra says. Seriously, quit screwing around.
When Buck dismisses them, Gault tries to match Keamy's gigantic stride as they head out of Widmore's offices. He searches for something casual and companionable to say, and can't come up with anything until they're in the stuffy silence of an elevator.
"Buck called you an armsman," Gault says. He glances over at Keamy, who looks ridiculous in this wood-paneled corporate environment, watered down mamba music playing almost directly over his head. "Is that your official title?"
"I haven't got an official title," Keamy says. His voice is exactly what Gault expected: American-accented and threatening.
"What shall I call you, then?" Gault wants to brain himself against the elevator wall. What shall I call you, then? Really? Maybe he's not as subtle as he wants to think. He sounds like somebody's grandmother and feels like he should clutch a pocketbook to his chest as an accessory to that question.
"Martin," Keamy says. He glances down at Gault from the hulking tower of a body he inhabits, and Gault considers stepping away to give him more respectful distance, but perhaps that would make it too obvious that Keamy's full attention is terrifying to him. "That's my name," he says.
Something about this extraordinary brute having such a common first name and wanting to be called by it is extremely hilarious, and again Gault is chewing his tongue to keep from bursting into nervous laughter. He smiles instead.
"Good to meet you, mate," Gault says, though they've already met. Whoops. Keamy stares at him in quiet disbelief, and when the elevator reaches the lobby Gault lets him walk ahead. He hangs back in humiliation and watches the giant silhouette of Keamy as he heads out the front doors and into the parking lot, directly into the sun. He already feels like he has at the start of every job he's ever had: This isn't going to go well, is it?
*
Gault is staying at a motel for the evening, and when he can't get to sleep early he resolves not to sleep at all. He'll do a little bit of drinking to calm his nerves. Then he'll have coffee and make straight for the job at four in the morning. Maybe he'll even be early. But first the drinking, because it will be his last chance to do that for over a month.
As he's in Miami, the type of bar where he might find something else he won't have for over a month is not hard to find. He simply asks a drag queen who is walking down the street in a zebra-striped leotard and pink boots to recommend a place.
"Kind of low key, you know?" he says, giving her the cigarette she asked for. "I mean look at me, right, I ain't wearing leather pants, eh?"
"Oh, you'll be fine at Derrick's, two blocks north," she says, gesturing with the cigarette. "That accent will make up for what's lacking in style." She winks and bids him a pleasant evening, and Gault is feeling quite the man of the world as he heads two blocks north. Back home he wouldn't get within fifty feet of a drag queen for fear of incriminating himself, but this is a big city in another country, and he's only here for the night. He feels free in a way that he hasn't in quite awhile, maybe ever, and he allows himself this since he knows the next month will be all protocol and sober wanking.
Derrick's is low key as promised, at least in comparison to most of the clubs Gault passed on the way. It's hidden on a back street and reminds him of the places he goes out of town to visit in Australia, dark and filled with television sets that are showing a variety of sporting events. It's trying pretty hard to look like a normal bar, and Gault imagines that in Miami this is some kind of amusing irony and not a necessary function.
It doesn't take Gault long to locate the biggest guy in the place, because that's kind of his thing. This one, however, happens to be Martin Keamy the armsman, hunched over his beer and ignoring a chubby bloke with a shaved head who is trying to chat him up. Gault is about to wheel around and bolt for the door when Keamy looks up from his beer and meets his eyes. Gault waits for a mirrored expression of horrified shock to pass across Keamy's face, but he just stares at him like he's waiting for Gault to saunter over and bullshit about football.
Gault is compelled to move toward him as if he's got hands to his back, and Keamy watches him the whole time. The chubby bloke gives up when Gault sits beside Keamy at the bar and Keamy looks him over. Gault's calm sense of freedom is long gone. His heart is hammering and he's afraid he's just lost his job. Was Keamy sent here to check the place out, to make sure that no poufs who somehow made it onto the crew sneaked in?
"Heya," Gault says, as if this is just a chance meeting in an innocuous place, though his neck is turning bright red, he can feel it. "I was looking for a bar that didn't have a line out the door and this was the first one I found."
"Uh-huh," Keamy says.
Gault gestures wildly for the bartender, who gives him a bitchy look and comes over to take his order of a double whiskey. Gault usually drinks vodka, but suddenly it doesn't seem manly enough. He'd go for beer but that won't do the job of making him forget that this nightmare is happening. He's been caught. He's exposed. He might as well be lying on the bar naked with his legs spread and his hands around his ankles.
"So have you been here for awhile?" Gault asks when he's had a few gulps of whiskey. "Does it seem like a decent place?" He looks around desperately hoping that some haggy hangers-on will appear to make his story half-legitimate, but the place is all men, leaning in corners and looking at each other with an unmistakable sort of evaluation.
"It's a gay bar," Keamy says. He's got beer foam on his upper lip as he says this, and he licks it off while Gault stares, the flush at his neck creeping upward.
"Oh," he says. A cold sweat follows the overall reddening of his skin. So Keamy was stationed here to catch him in the act. That drag queen must have been hired by Widmore to point him here. But, wait. What?
"So you might want to leave if you're not queer," Keamy says diplomatically. He doesn't seem even slightly perturbed, but Gault thinks it must be an act. He's calling Gault's bluff. Or something? Gault finishes his drink, as if more whiskey will help him work this out.
"Actually, I am," Gault blurts, though it still feels very unwise to do so. He laughs just in case he needs to pass this off as a joke. Keamy raises his eyebrows.
"Awesome," he says, flat enough that it might still be sarcasm. "I thought I'd be fucking my hand for five weeks. You want to go somewhere?"
Gault stares at him in thunderstruck silence until the rest of that sentiment works its way into his mind. Thought I'd be fucking my hand, looks like now I'll be fucking you. He should feel insulted, but now his flush is warming his stomach in a way that will eventually reach his cock. He nods drowsily and lets Keamy pay for his drink.
They walk back to Gault's motel without speaking much, Keamy picking his teeth again, this time with a toothpick he got from the bar. Gault feels oddly enamored of him suddenly, though he's also still terrified. The stoic acceptance of whatever falls into his lap is attractive, and very American, somehow. He's probably got a dick like a tree trunk. Gault knows this should dissuade him, but it makes him weak-kneed with anticipation. He got this thing for big blokes from a shore leave when he was nineteen, a thick-necked bartender who'd pounded him until he forgot which continent he was on, and Keamy is the tallest man he's ever met.
"You been to Miami before?" Gault asks, his heartbeat banging in the hollow of his throat as they walk.
"I've been all over," Keamy says.
"Oh yeah? Me, too. Well, when I was in the service. You were in the American military, yeah?"
Keamy glances at him, turning the toothpick over in his mouth with his tongue. "Who told you that?" he asks.
"Nobody. Just a guess."
Keamy grunts, and Gault isn't sure if he should take that for an affirmative answer or not. By the time they reach the motel he's starting to wonder if he regrets this. It will complicate things on the job, surely. Hell, who he is kidding? It will sabotage the whole goddamn thing.
He lets Keamy into his room, and he's embarrassed by the unmade bed, as if anybody makes his bed at a motel. Keamy walks around and inspects the place as if he's thinking of buying it. Gault stands near the door and waits for instruction. He actually doesn't do one night stands very often anymore, but this won't be a one night affair, will it? Keamy turns back to look at him and he wonders if he should start to undress.
"I didn't peg you as the gay bar type," Gault says, still afraid this might be a trick. He undoes the top button on his shirt but stops there. He wants to ask Keamy if he was surprised to see him there, but doesn't want to hear him say no, he wasn't.
"I only go to bars when I want to get fucked," Keamy says. He sounds bored. Gault watches him take off his shirt and then does the same. They're standing on opposite sides of the room.
"Get?" Gault says, his chest deflating. It's not that he's never. It's just that Keamy doesn't look like someone who bends over for anybody, and certainly not for someone like Gault. So far Gault is oh-for-two in the correct assumptions department.
"Shit." Keamy scowls and rips his belt off so fast that Gault is afraid he's going to come at him with it, but he just squeezes it into his fist. "Are you one of those fucking guys?"
"No," Gault says, though he has no idea what he's talking about.
"'Cause I don't need to fucking hear about how you thought I was going to pull your ass cheeks apart and do all the goddamn work. I know what I like, okay? I've tried the other shit and it's not as good."
Gault agrees with him, but he keeps his mouth shut. There is nothing better than going limp with surrender and having someone so deep that it's just an inch or two away from hurting. He's not going to have that, but he takes his trousers off anyway. He kind of fancies this bloke, with his intimidating body, every muscle perfectly in place, just short of overkill. And he's strange, an unexpected bounty of honesty.
"Come here," Gault says, glumly accepting the fact that he'll have to call the shots and take on the dangerous task of bossing Keamy around. Keamy does as he asked, wearing only his trousers and boots. Gault puts his hands over the points of Keamy's hips, closes his fingers around them.
"You're fucking brilliant looking, you know," Gault says, almost unintentionally, but he can't stop himself when Keamy's face is right in front of him. He's just what Gault likes, not pretty at all but frighteningly beautiful in a disjointed way once studied closely, blue-eyed and just short of thick-lipped. He's better looking now that he's watching Gault, mouth open, like he's ready to be pushed to his knees. But maybe that would be true of anyone.
"You like sucking cock?" Gault asks, his pulse frantic with uncertainty. He tries to remember the last time he was with someone like this, who told him up front that he could do what he liked. Five years ago maybe, that Asian guy with the lip ring. It was awkward.
"Yeah," Keamy says. "You want your cock sucked?" He smirks like he's never heard anybody say no.
"Go ahead," Gault says. He has to reach up to put his hands on Keamy's shoulders, and he pushes him down with as much force as he can muster. The whole second floor of the motel seems to shake when Keamy crashes to his knees. "And you'll swallow every drop of my come, understand?" These career bottoms get off on receiving commands, apparently. Gault swallows an anxious bubble in his throat when Keamy stares up at him incredulously.
"I don't need a soundtrack," he says, and Gault wishes Keamy was the type who liked to be slapped across the face, because suddenly that's what he feels like doing. He's been made a fool of, it's still got to be a joke. "And you ain't coming in my mouth unless you can guarantee you'll get it up again before you fall asleep. No offense, but your hair's kind of going gray."
"You know what?" Gault barks. "You can, uh, put that mouth of yours to, um, use by - you know, sucking me off. Not talking." Gault slaps a hand over his face. He's absolute shit at this. When he peeks through his fingers he sees Keamy smiling up at him, amused but charitable.
"Can I take off your pants?" he asks.
"That would be conducive to your sucking my cock, yeah." Gault hates this kind of yes, sir shit. He wants to be turned onto his stomach and plunged into with animal fury; it should be a mindless thing, not scripted and predictable. He doesn't need a fucking soundtrack, either.
When Keamy undoes Gault's trouser buttons with his thick fingers, Gault's annoyance abates, and his breath quickens as Keamy slides his shorts down along with his trousers. His cock is hard and pointed straight at Keamy's mouth like a demand. Keamy licks the head and Gault sways on his feet, lets his mouth fall open.
"Tell me what you like," Keamy says, and it flushes through Gault all at once: he's not really in control here. It's such a relief that his cock leaks onto Keamy's lingering bottom lip.
"The slit," Gault says, embarrassed, like he's the one on his knees. "Lick into it - I - yeah."
Gault whines happily as Keamy slides his tongue through the slit of his cock, tries not to fall over onto his back. Keamy takes all of him into his mouth without asking permission, and it's enough to make Gault's head rock backward like the muscles in his neck have liquefied. He tries not to buck into Keamy's throat, but then he does anyway, because apparently he's got license. Keamy rubs his balls as if he's grateful for the presumption, holding him in place at the same time, leading him around by the balls, ha ha, Gault would laugh if he could do anything but moan and struggle to stay on his feet.
"Wanna fuck you," Gault manages to say, and it's not an act. Keamy pulls his mouth from Gault's cock slowly, dragging his tongue along the underside, just the point scraping the length of him. Gault makes a strangled noise that escapes his mouth without permission, and he drags Keamy up by the armpits, pushing him over to the unmade bed. They bounce onto it and kiss each other like frantic teenagers, grinding and panting, Keamy's hands tight on Gault's arse and Gault's twisted tightly into the blankets.
"Lube?" Gault breathes hopefully, because if Keamy doesn't want any this might suddenly get too fucked up for him.
"It's your room," Keamy says, and Gault laughs. He kisses Keamy without pretending to be a tease, just like he can't help it. Keamy squeezes his waist impatiently, and Gault crawls to his bag, open on the floor by the bed. He has cocoa butter for jerking off; he's always liked the smell. He sits on his knees while he slicks his cock, and Keamy watches him. Gault is afraid he's disappointing, or that he's giving away the fact that Keamy has disappointed him by not being a merciless fucker of arses like his. Then they're just looking at each other and Gault's hand is still.
"C'mon," Keamy says, and Gault falls onto him. He kisses him again. It's probably not what he was asking for, but Keamy wraps his big arms tight around the small of Gault's back and allows it anyway. Gault ends up on his back, and Keamy squats over him. Gault laughs like he's drunk when Keamy takes his hand and pulls it between his legs; he's actually far too sober for this. But he pushes a finger coated in cocoa butter into Keamy's arse anyway, and watches in fascination when Keamy bounces over him, drooling like Gault's finger is almost enough to get him off.
"Oh, God," Gault says, sleepily amazed by whatever is happening. "I'm gonna fuck you into this mattress, mate."
"Don't call me mate," Keamy grunts. He pushes Gault's finger away and grabs his cock, impaling himself on it. Gault shouts with surprise, feels absurdly like he's the one who's been torn open, then just feels Keamy all around him, tight and hot and already pumping up and down onto Gault's cock.
"Jesus," Gault says, pushing up into him with pathetic little thrusts. He shuts his eyes and claws his fingernails into the sheets. He knows he's got to do his part, get up on his knees and slam his balls against Keamy's arse like he was made to do it, but in the meantime he's delighted to be melted into the mattress.
Keamy dismounts when his breath is chopped up and short. He crawls across the mattress and grabs the cheap cherry wood headboard, looking back over his shoulder to make sure Gault is following. Gault figures he owes him some fireworks, so he grabs his hips and puts his cock just over the tip of his entrance, taps it there lightly.
"Like being fucked, do you?" he pants.
"Yeah," Keamy says, not quite sheepish but in imitation of such.
"Open wide for me, are you?"
"Yeah." Keamy presses backward, but Gault leans away, won't give him what they both want. He does hate these games, but understands them, too, why it's good to wait.
"Aching for a big cock to fill up that tight arse, yeah? Stretch you open and, uh, stuff you full of hot come, yeah?"
Keamy laughs against the headboard, and Gault would kiss the back of his sweaty neck, but that would be out of character.
"Yeah," Keamy says, gruff like a fairy tale lumberjack. "Yeah, that's what I want."
"I know what you want," Gault says, moving his dripping cock in clumsy circles around Keamy's open hole, pushing his legs further apart. And how on earth did a bloke like this turn out to like being fucked, all his carefully sculpted bits prone and lazy in Gault's hands? Well, whatever. They've got five weeks; maybe he'll find out eventually.
He pushes in without warning and Keamy groans in appreciation. Gault isn't going to last long. He's not drunk enough and he hasn't ever been with someone with thighs like this, almost metallic in their perfection. He tries to be a tease but then just does what he usually likes to have done to him, thrusting with wild enthusiasm like a secondary school athlete who's afraid he'll never get the chance again. Keamy slams back against him, hardly passive, cursing into the sheets and begging for it harder no matter what Gault unleashes on him. Gault comes like a character in a comic strip, seeing cartoon starbursts and imagining sweat drops bouncing away from his skin with emphasis. He drops onto Keamy's back and pumps out everything he had in him, giving it up and feeling again like he's been tricked, all of this turned around on him. When he's conscious he tumbles onto his side, sliding out of Keamy with an exhausted groan. Keamy is breathing onto the pillow like he just surfaced after being held underwater, and Gault gropes at him, hoping he's not one of those hardcore dicks who pretends nothing happened as soon as the happening is done. Keamy lies under his hand, at least feigning surrender.
"Oh," Gault says. "God." He rolls Keamy over to face him, pretending he's still in control. Keamy is just breathing hard, seems to register nothing else, one of his eyes still half-closed. Gault gets the sense that something bigger than what they've just done and will probably do again on the Kahana is happening to him. He feels like he's set something in motion that he won't really understand until it's over, until he's screwed this up, too. But maybe he's giving himself too much credit. He also feels like Keamy has been carrying him around by the scruff of his neck since he saw him in the bar, and the sense of resignation is comfortable so far.
"You walked into that bar," Keamy huffs, every word hot on Gault's face. "That was something else."
Gault slings a friendly arm around him and laughs, then draws him in closer, well past friendly. Well, he's fucked up the job, that's certain. This is his imperative now, and it's nothing new. Every time he's determined to change, become responsible, something like Keamy comes along. Maybe he should feel blessed for it, but he's starting to wonder if all these happy accidents will be the death of him. Well, fuck it if they are. He shuts his eyes and tucks his forehead against Keamy's. There's making money and then there's things like this, bedding a giant who likes to be fucked, who doesn't pull away and make for the door. They've got five weeks to figure it out, and it's more than Gault has ever had with anybody else.
"I don't usually do this," Gault says, and he's not even sure what he's referring to. There are a number of eligible possibilities.
"Yeah," Keamy mutters. "Me either."
There's something about the tone of his voice: Gault isn't sure if he's being sincere or sarcastic. So far, that's what he likes best about Martin Keamy.
*
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Gault/Keamy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Gault is introduced to Keamy at Widmore's office, and he meets him again unexpectedly before the Kahana leaves port.
Notes: Thank you so much jaydblu, for requesting these two, because it's been forever since I wrote them and I forgot how much I love it! This has revitalized my big time travel fic idea like whoa. I was going to write goofy ghosts!fic but couldn't come up with anything decent, so I went back to pre-Kahana time and tried to keep that spirit of humor in it along with the sexiness. I hope you'll enjoy it! Thanks so much to chlorate for beta reading this when it was an even rougher draft than usual! :)
Gault doesn't really believe in self-affirmations, but he gets a pretty good mantra working in his head on the way to the meeting with Widmore's assistant. This is your big break, it says. This is the opportunity you were always unknowingly moving toward. Other, less optimistic sentiments worm their way in by the time he arrives: Better not screw this one up like the others! and why isn't he meeting with you personally? What's this assistant bullshit? Gault tries to quiet them and tilts the rear view mirror down so he can straighten his tie and check his teeth.
The assistant is English, and he reminds Gault of a malnourished chihuahua. He's skinny, with little glasses and a pinched, narrow face. The paleness of his skin and hair seem as if they were selected to complement his stylish outfit, not the other way around. He looks at Gault like he's yet another annoyance in the midst of a busy day, and introduces himself as Buck.
"The ship will leave tomorrow at six AM," Buck says. "You will be expected to report to the bridge two hours prior. I would plan to be in bed early tonight." There is something suggestive in the way he looks over his glasses at Gault after saying so. Gault has always been uncomfortable around obviously gay men, like he owes them something - not quite a confession, but a more charitable attitude than what he usually feels like offering.
Buck leads him back into the plush confines of the Widmore offices to meet the communications officer and someone whom Buck refers to as the "armsman." Gault doesn't know what the hell an armsman is, and he wonders if Buck invented the word himself. He follows Buck into a room with white carpet and wood paneling. There is a giant fireplace on the opposite wall and all the furniture seems to be made of glass and goose down. For a moment Gault expects Widmore himself to pop around the corner and offer him a scotch, but the only people waiting in the room are a greasy-looking bloke called Minkowski and a man named Keamy who is almost seven feet tall. He crushes Gault's hand into his when they shake, and Gault can guess which of them is the armsman.
"Mr. Keamy will be managing a small group of specialized trackers who will be deployed once the ship reaches the coordinates off the coast of the island," Buck says. Gault gets the feeling he's having a Bond movie fantasy as he speaks, trying to keep his voice brisk and computer-like. Minkowski is staring off into space as if he's already heard this several times and Keamy is picking his teeth. They both look a bit filthy, and Gault feels like an idiot in his suit and tie.
"All communication will be filtered through Mr. Minkowski," Buck continues. He glances at Keamy meaningfully. "You're to keep an eye on the communications room."
Keamy gives Buck a mildly disgusted look, and the backs of Gault's knees begin to sweat. His armsman is clearly the type who thinks that people like Buck should be rounded up and exterminated. He doesn't know why it bothers him, or why it makes him so goddamn nervous, anyway. It's not as if Gault is going to be prancing around the ship in a feather boa or blowing the deck hands. Nobody has ever guessed about him outside of bars where everyone is after the same thing.
Buck himself doesn't seem to notice, and he goes on blissfully detailing the mission to capture the fugitive Ben Linus. Gault wants to tell everyone he meets about this windfall he's stumbled into -- interesting work and more money than he would have dreamed of asking for, had there been an actual negotiation -- but he's under orders to keep quiet about all of it. He's been looking forward to at least talking with his crew about the mission, finding out what they know and what they make of all the mystery, but if these two are his main chain of command he can't imagine what the rest will be like.
Minkowski is dismissed first, and he seems glad to leave. He shuts the door behind him, and Buck turns to Keamy and Gault.
"You two will be trusted with these," he says, reaching into his trouser pocket. He pulls out two long chains with keys on them and hands one to each of them. Gault examines his like he's a monkey with a shiny toy while Keamy quickly loops his around his neck and tucks it down the front of his shirt.
"These keys unlock the lowest drawer in the filing cabinet in the captain's stateroom," Buck says. "Both of them must be turned simultaneously in order for the drawer to open. Accordingly, both of you must agree that the primary protocol has failed in order to open the drawer, which contains a secondary protocol. The secondary protocol is not to be touched unless you are both completely certain that the primary protocol cannot be realized. Mr. Widmore is trusting you both with this emergency scenario in case communication with the mainland is lost and you must make this decision yourselves. Do you understand the gravity of this?" Buck leans forward slightly, and Gault bites his tongue to keep from laughing at his posturing. He glances over at Keamy to commiserate, but Keamy has his eyes focused on Buck, shoulders straight. He nods as if this is very serious indeed, and perhaps it is. Gault guiltily flicks his eyes back to Buck. This is your chance to stop laughing your life away, the mantra says. Seriously, quit screwing around.
When Buck dismisses them, Gault tries to match Keamy's gigantic stride as they head out of Widmore's offices. He searches for something casual and companionable to say, and can't come up with anything until they're in the stuffy silence of an elevator.
"Buck called you an armsman," Gault says. He glances over at Keamy, who looks ridiculous in this wood-paneled corporate environment, watered down mamba music playing almost directly over his head. "Is that your official title?"
"I haven't got an official title," Keamy says. His voice is exactly what Gault expected: American-accented and threatening.
"What shall I call you, then?" Gault wants to brain himself against the elevator wall. What shall I call you, then? Really? Maybe he's not as subtle as he wants to think. He sounds like somebody's grandmother and feels like he should clutch a pocketbook to his chest as an accessory to that question.
"Martin," Keamy says. He glances down at Gault from the hulking tower of a body he inhabits, and Gault considers stepping away to give him more respectful distance, but perhaps that would make it too obvious that Keamy's full attention is terrifying to him. "That's my name," he says.
Something about this extraordinary brute having such a common first name and wanting to be called by it is extremely hilarious, and again Gault is chewing his tongue to keep from bursting into nervous laughter. He smiles instead.
"Good to meet you, mate," Gault says, though they've already met. Whoops. Keamy stares at him in quiet disbelief, and when the elevator reaches the lobby Gault lets him walk ahead. He hangs back in humiliation and watches the giant silhouette of Keamy as he heads out the front doors and into the parking lot, directly into the sun. He already feels like he has at the start of every job he's ever had: This isn't going to go well, is it?
*
Gault is staying at a motel for the evening, and when he can't get to sleep early he resolves not to sleep at all. He'll do a little bit of drinking to calm his nerves. Then he'll have coffee and make straight for the job at four in the morning. Maybe he'll even be early. But first the drinking, because it will be his last chance to do that for over a month.
As he's in Miami, the type of bar where he might find something else he won't have for over a month is not hard to find. He simply asks a drag queen who is walking down the street in a zebra-striped leotard and pink boots to recommend a place.
"Kind of low key, you know?" he says, giving her the cigarette she asked for. "I mean look at me, right, I ain't wearing leather pants, eh?"
"Oh, you'll be fine at Derrick's, two blocks north," she says, gesturing with the cigarette. "That accent will make up for what's lacking in style." She winks and bids him a pleasant evening, and Gault is feeling quite the man of the world as he heads two blocks north. Back home he wouldn't get within fifty feet of a drag queen for fear of incriminating himself, but this is a big city in another country, and he's only here for the night. He feels free in a way that he hasn't in quite awhile, maybe ever, and he allows himself this since he knows the next month will be all protocol and sober wanking.
Derrick's is low key as promised, at least in comparison to most of the clubs Gault passed on the way. It's hidden on a back street and reminds him of the places he goes out of town to visit in Australia, dark and filled with television sets that are showing a variety of sporting events. It's trying pretty hard to look like a normal bar, and Gault imagines that in Miami this is some kind of amusing irony and not a necessary function.
It doesn't take Gault long to locate the biggest guy in the place, because that's kind of his thing. This one, however, happens to be Martin Keamy the armsman, hunched over his beer and ignoring a chubby bloke with a shaved head who is trying to chat him up. Gault is about to wheel around and bolt for the door when Keamy looks up from his beer and meets his eyes. Gault waits for a mirrored expression of horrified shock to pass across Keamy's face, but he just stares at him like he's waiting for Gault to saunter over and bullshit about football.
Gault is compelled to move toward him as if he's got hands to his back, and Keamy watches him the whole time. The chubby bloke gives up when Gault sits beside Keamy at the bar and Keamy looks him over. Gault's calm sense of freedom is long gone. His heart is hammering and he's afraid he's just lost his job. Was Keamy sent here to check the place out, to make sure that no poufs who somehow made it onto the crew sneaked in?
"Heya," Gault says, as if this is just a chance meeting in an innocuous place, though his neck is turning bright red, he can feel it. "I was looking for a bar that didn't have a line out the door and this was the first one I found."
"Uh-huh," Keamy says.
Gault gestures wildly for the bartender, who gives him a bitchy look and comes over to take his order of a double whiskey. Gault usually drinks vodka, but suddenly it doesn't seem manly enough. He'd go for beer but that won't do the job of making him forget that this nightmare is happening. He's been caught. He's exposed. He might as well be lying on the bar naked with his legs spread and his hands around his ankles.
"So have you been here for awhile?" Gault asks when he's had a few gulps of whiskey. "Does it seem like a decent place?" He looks around desperately hoping that some haggy hangers-on will appear to make his story half-legitimate, but the place is all men, leaning in corners and looking at each other with an unmistakable sort of evaluation.
"It's a gay bar," Keamy says. He's got beer foam on his upper lip as he says this, and he licks it off while Gault stares, the flush at his neck creeping upward.
"Oh," he says. A cold sweat follows the overall reddening of his skin. So Keamy was stationed here to catch him in the act. That drag queen must have been hired by Widmore to point him here. But, wait. What?
"So you might want to leave if you're not queer," Keamy says diplomatically. He doesn't seem even slightly perturbed, but Gault thinks it must be an act. He's calling Gault's bluff. Or something? Gault finishes his drink, as if more whiskey will help him work this out.
"Actually, I am," Gault blurts, though it still feels very unwise to do so. He laughs just in case he needs to pass this off as a joke. Keamy raises his eyebrows.
"Awesome," he says, flat enough that it might still be sarcasm. "I thought I'd be fucking my hand for five weeks. You want to go somewhere?"
Gault stares at him in thunderstruck silence until the rest of that sentiment works its way into his mind. Thought I'd be fucking my hand, looks like now I'll be fucking you. He should feel insulted, but now his flush is warming his stomach in a way that will eventually reach his cock. He nods drowsily and lets Keamy pay for his drink.
They walk back to Gault's motel without speaking much, Keamy picking his teeth again, this time with a toothpick he got from the bar. Gault feels oddly enamored of him suddenly, though he's also still terrified. The stoic acceptance of whatever falls into his lap is attractive, and very American, somehow. He's probably got a dick like a tree trunk. Gault knows this should dissuade him, but it makes him weak-kneed with anticipation. He got this thing for big blokes from a shore leave when he was nineteen, a thick-necked bartender who'd pounded him until he forgot which continent he was on, and Keamy is the tallest man he's ever met.
"You been to Miami before?" Gault asks, his heartbeat banging in the hollow of his throat as they walk.
"I've been all over," Keamy says.
"Oh yeah? Me, too. Well, when I was in the service. You were in the American military, yeah?"
Keamy glances at him, turning the toothpick over in his mouth with his tongue. "Who told you that?" he asks.
"Nobody. Just a guess."
Keamy grunts, and Gault isn't sure if he should take that for an affirmative answer or not. By the time they reach the motel he's starting to wonder if he regrets this. It will complicate things on the job, surely. Hell, who he is kidding? It will sabotage the whole goddamn thing.
He lets Keamy into his room, and he's embarrassed by the unmade bed, as if anybody makes his bed at a motel. Keamy walks around and inspects the place as if he's thinking of buying it. Gault stands near the door and waits for instruction. He actually doesn't do one night stands very often anymore, but this won't be a one night affair, will it? Keamy turns back to look at him and he wonders if he should start to undress.
"I didn't peg you as the gay bar type," Gault says, still afraid this might be a trick. He undoes the top button on his shirt but stops there. He wants to ask Keamy if he was surprised to see him there, but doesn't want to hear him say no, he wasn't.
"I only go to bars when I want to get fucked," Keamy says. He sounds bored. Gault watches him take off his shirt and then does the same. They're standing on opposite sides of the room.
"Get?" Gault says, his chest deflating. It's not that he's never. It's just that Keamy doesn't look like someone who bends over for anybody, and certainly not for someone like Gault. So far Gault is oh-for-two in the correct assumptions department.
"Shit." Keamy scowls and rips his belt off so fast that Gault is afraid he's going to come at him with it, but he just squeezes it into his fist. "Are you one of those fucking guys?"
"No," Gault says, though he has no idea what he's talking about.
"'Cause I don't need to fucking hear about how you thought I was going to pull your ass cheeks apart and do all the goddamn work. I know what I like, okay? I've tried the other shit and it's not as good."
Gault agrees with him, but he keeps his mouth shut. There is nothing better than going limp with surrender and having someone so deep that it's just an inch or two away from hurting. He's not going to have that, but he takes his trousers off anyway. He kind of fancies this bloke, with his intimidating body, every muscle perfectly in place, just short of overkill. And he's strange, an unexpected bounty of honesty.
"Come here," Gault says, glumly accepting the fact that he'll have to call the shots and take on the dangerous task of bossing Keamy around. Keamy does as he asked, wearing only his trousers and boots. Gault puts his hands over the points of Keamy's hips, closes his fingers around them.
"You're fucking brilliant looking, you know," Gault says, almost unintentionally, but he can't stop himself when Keamy's face is right in front of him. He's just what Gault likes, not pretty at all but frighteningly beautiful in a disjointed way once studied closely, blue-eyed and just short of thick-lipped. He's better looking now that he's watching Gault, mouth open, like he's ready to be pushed to his knees. But maybe that would be true of anyone.
"You like sucking cock?" Gault asks, his pulse frantic with uncertainty. He tries to remember the last time he was with someone like this, who told him up front that he could do what he liked. Five years ago maybe, that Asian guy with the lip ring. It was awkward.
"Yeah," Keamy says. "You want your cock sucked?" He smirks like he's never heard anybody say no.
"Go ahead," Gault says. He has to reach up to put his hands on Keamy's shoulders, and he pushes him down with as much force as he can muster. The whole second floor of the motel seems to shake when Keamy crashes to his knees. "And you'll swallow every drop of my come, understand?" These career bottoms get off on receiving commands, apparently. Gault swallows an anxious bubble in his throat when Keamy stares up at him incredulously.
"I don't need a soundtrack," he says, and Gault wishes Keamy was the type who liked to be slapped across the face, because suddenly that's what he feels like doing. He's been made a fool of, it's still got to be a joke. "And you ain't coming in my mouth unless you can guarantee you'll get it up again before you fall asleep. No offense, but your hair's kind of going gray."
"You know what?" Gault barks. "You can, uh, put that mouth of yours to, um, use by - you know, sucking me off. Not talking." Gault slaps a hand over his face. He's absolute shit at this. When he peeks through his fingers he sees Keamy smiling up at him, amused but charitable.
"Can I take off your pants?" he asks.
"That would be conducive to your sucking my cock, yeah." Gault hates this kind of yes, sir shit. He wants to be turned onto his stomach and plunged into with animal fury; it should be a mindless thing, not scripted and predictable. He doesn't need a fucking soundtrack, either.
When Keamy undoes Gault's trouser buttons with his thick fingers, Gault's annoyance abates, and his breath quickens as Keamy slides his shorts down along with his trousers. His cock is hard and pointed straight at Keamy's mouth like a demand. Keamy licks the head and Gault sways on his feet, lets his mouth fall open.
"Tell me what you like," Keamy says, and it flushes through Gault all at once: he's not really in control here. It's such a relief that his cock leaks onto Keamy's lingering bottom lip.
"The slit," Gault says, embarrassed, like he's the one on his knees. "Lick into it - I - yeah."
Gault whines happily as Keamy slides his tongue through the slit of his cock, tries not to fall over onto his back. Keamy takes all of him into his mouth without asking permission, and it's enough to make Gault's head rock backward like the muscles in his neck have liquefied. He tries not to buck into Keamy's throat, but then he does anyway, because apparently he's got license. Keamy rubs his balls as if he's grateful for the presumption, holding him in place at the same time, leading him around by the balls, ha ha, Gault would laugh if he could do anything but moan and struggle to stay on his feet.
"Wanna fuck you," Gault manages to say, and it's not an act. Keamy pulls his mouth from Gault's cock slowly, dragging his tongue along the underside, just the point scraping the length of him. Gault makes a strangled noise that escapes his mouth without permission, and he drags Keamy up by the armpits, pushing him over to the unmade bed. They bounce onto it and kiss each other like frantic teenagers, grinding and panting, Keamy's hands tight on Gault's arse and Gault's twisted tightly into the blankets.
"Lube?" Gault breathes hopefully, because if Keamy doesn't want any this might suddenly get too fucked up for him.
"It's your room," Keamy says, and Gault laughs. He kisses Keamy without pretending to be a tease, just like he can't help it. Keamy squeezes his waist impatiently, and Gault crawls to his bag, open on the floor by the bed. He has cocoa butter for jerking off; he's always liked the smell. He sits on his knees while he slicks his cock, and Keamy watches him. Gault is afraid he's disappointing, or that he's giving away the fact that Keamy has disappointed him by not being a merciless fucker of arses like his. Then they're just looking at each other and Gault's hand is still.
"C'mon," Keamy says, and Gault falls onto him. He kisses him again. It's probably not what he was asking for, but Keamy wraps his big arms tight around the small of Gault's back and allows it anyway. Gault ends up on his back, and Keamy squats over him. Gault laughs like he's drunk when Keamy takes his hand and pulls it between his legs; he's actually far too sober for this. But he pushes a finger coated in cocoa butter into Keamy's arse anyway, and watches in fascination when Keamy bounces over him, drooling like Gault's finger is almost enough to get him off.
"Oh, God," Gault says, sleepily amazed by whatever is happening. "I'm gonna fuck you into this mattress, mate."
"Don't call me mate," Keamy grunts. He pushes Gault's finger away and grabs his cock, impaling himself on it. Gault shouts with surprise, feels absurdly like he's the one who's been torn open, then just feels Keamy all around him, tight and hot and already pumping up and down onto Gault's cock.
"Jesus," Gault says, pushing up into him with pathetic little thrusts. He shuts his eyes and claws his fingernails into the sheets. He knows he's got to do his part, get up on his knees and slam his balls against Keamy's arse like he was made to do it, but in the meantime he's delighted to be melted into the mattress.
Keamy dismounts when his breath is chopped up and short. He crawls across the mattress and grabs the cheap cherry wood headboard, looking back over his shoulder to make sure Gault is following. Gault figures he owes him some fireworks, so he grabs his hips and puts his cock just over the tip of his entrance, taps it there lightly.
"Like being fucked, do you?" he pants.
"Yeah," Keamy says, not quite sheepish but in imitation of such.
"Open wide for me, are you?"
"Yeah." Keamy presses backward, but Gault leans away, won't give him what they both want. He does hate these games, but understands them, too, why it's good to wait.
"Aching for a big cock to fill up that tight arse, yeah? Stretch you open and, uh, stuff you full of hot come, yeah?"
Keamy laughs against the headboard, and Gault would kiss the back of his sweaty neck, but that would be out of character.
"Yeah," Keamy says, gruff like a fairy tale lumberjack. "Yeah, that's what I want."
"I know what you want," Gault says, moving his dripping cock in clumsy circles around Keamy's open hole, pushing his legs further apart. And how on earth did a bloke like this turn out to like being fucked, all his carefully sculpted bits prone and lazy in Gault's hands? Well, whatever. They've got five weeks; maybe he'll find out eventually.
He pushes in without warning and Keamy groans in appreciation. Gault isn't going to last long. He's not drunk enough and he hasn't ever been with someone with thighs like this, almost metallic in their perfection. He tries to be a tease but then just does what he usually likes to have done to him, thrusting with wild enthusiasm like a secondary school athlete who's afraid he'll never get the chance again. Keamy slams back against him, hardly passive, cursing into the sheets and begging for it harder no matter what Gault unleashes on him. Gault comes like a character in a comic strip, seeing cartoon starbursts and imagining sweat drops bouncing away from his skin with emphasis. He drops onto Keamy's back and pumps out everything he had in him, giving it up and feeling again like he's been tricked, all of this turned around on him. When he's conscious he tumbles onto his side, sliding out of Keamy with an exhausted groan. Keamy is breathing onto the pillow like he just surfaced after being held underwater, and Gault gropes at him, hoping he's not one of those hardcore dicks who pretends nothing happened as soon as the happening is done. Keamy lies under his hand, at least feigning surrender.
"Oh," Gault says. "God." He rolls Keamy over to face him, pretending he's still in control. Keamy is just breathing hard, seems to register nothing else, one of his eyes still half-closed. Gault gets the sense that something bigger than what they've just done and will probably do again on the Kahana is happening to him. He feels like he's set something in motion that he won't really understand until it's over, until he's screwed this up, too. But maybe he's giving himself too much credit. He also feels like Keamy has been carrying him around by the scruff of his neck since he saw him in the bar, and the sense of resignation is comfortable so far.
"You walked into that bar," Keamy huffs, every word hot on Gault's face. "That was something else."
Gault slings a friendly arm around him and laughs, then draws him in closer, well past friendly. Well, he's fucked up the job, that's certain. This is his imperative now, and it's nothing new. Every time he's determined to change, become responsible, something like Keamy comes along. Maybe he should feel blessed for it, but he's starting to wonder if all these happy accidents will be the death of him. Well, fuck it if they are. He shuts his eyes and tucks his forehead against Keamy's. There's making money and then there's things like this, bedding a giant who likes to be fucked, who doesn't pull away and make for the door. They've got five weeks to figure it out, and it's more than Gault has ever had with anybody else.
"I don't usually do this," Gault says, and he's not even sure what he's referring to. There are a number of eligible possibilities.
"Yeah," Keamy mutters. "Me either."
There's something about the tone of his voice: Gault isn't sure if he's being sincere or sarcastic. So far, that's what he likes best about Martin Keamy.
*