Power Rangers: Whole (1/?), (Billy/Tommy), R.
Title: Whole, chapter one
Author: vandonovan
Pairing: eventually Billy/Tommy, with background Skull/Kim, Adam/Rocky, Jason/Zack and Aisha/OMC
Word count: 4,519 (this chapter)
Rating: R (this chapter)
Era: MMPR AU after "The Green Candle" where Tommy never becomes the White Ranger. (Picks up in 1999.)
Warnings: drug/alcohol use, mentioned dub-con, prostitution, adult language, sexual situations/innuendo, Alternate Universe, potential spoilers through Zeo.
Summary: Six years after losing his Green Ranger powers, Tommy has been consumed by inner darkness and a destructive lifestyle. Can Billy bring Tommy back or will his attempts strain the Rangers too much as they face the return of an old enemy?
Notes: Super special thanks to azelmaroark for both playing beta and helping me create and cultivate this monster. ♥
Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19.
Chapter one:
“Excuse me,” Billy says, “I’m looking for the Cat’s Beard.” He’s walked up and down this alleyway three times now, feeling more and more frustrated each time.
The man he’s addressed appears to have been hewn from the same material that makes up the wall behind him. His beady dark gaze takes in Billy slowly. No surprise registers on his face, but it’s clear he can’t believe Billy is actually addressing him. “You lost or something?”
“Actually, yes.” Billy’s not afraid. He’s taken out bigger threats than this guy unmorphed, and anyway he has his communicator and morpher on him, if things get ugly. “I’m looking for an old friend; a man by the name of Tommy Oliver. Someone told me he was working at the Cat’s Beard on 32nd and Broad.” He looks up at the dilapidated street sign in the distance. Unlike Angel Grove after the war, he suspects this place has always been this way. “This is the location; I’m just not seeing any places of business.”
The man’s dark eyes sweep over him again, reassessing. “You’re a friend of Tommy Oliver?” His head and thick column of a neck nod as one unit. “Go on downstairs.”
Stepping aside, the man reveals a tiny stairwell leading to a dimly lit door. It’s like he’s uncovered a secret passageway in a role-playing video game, but it’s not what Billy expected to find.
Logically, Billy thinks to himself as he slowly begins the descent down the fetid stairwell, the name Tommy Oliver belongs to more than one man. He knows, statistically speaking, that’s a given. Neither name is rare. Thomas has been in the top twenty-five most popular male baby names for over 100 years. There are twenty-three Olivers in Angel Grove alone, and one of those is an unrelated Thomas Oliver. It’s entirely likely- in fact highly probable-that if there is a Tommy Oliver working in a facility at the bottom of these stairs, it is not the Tommy Oliver that Billy had once known as the Green Ranger.
Still, he’s come this far. Devil’s Cove isn’t exactly a stone throw away from home, and the traffic’s going to be a nightmare until at least seven. There’s no reason not to investigate.
Beyond the dingy door, Billy finds himself transported to a lively, bustling club bursting with pounding music and pulsing lights. A doorman gives him a quizzical look but steps aside, allowing Billy to stagger into the throng.
It’s not crowded, but it’s far from empty. A large stage dominates the basement room, bathed in pinkish-red hues. Three male dancers occupy the floor, all scantily clad as they wildly swing themselves around the metal poles installed for such purposes. Scattered tables are arranged in front of the stage, and they are half filled with patrons, both male and female, but predominantly male. Nearer to the stage are several more engrossed viewers, clutching fistfuls of dollars to tuck into the dancer’s g-strings.
Turning his back to the stage, Billy’s eyes scan the expansive bar that fills the left wall. The bartender’s eyes are on the dancers, even though he has patrons seated on black vinyl-topped stools trying to get his attention. Billy spies some waitstaff-female-and then he’s back to the bouncer. There’s a double door on the far right blazoned “Employes Only” (Billy wonders where the other E went), but no Tommy.
He’s about to head over to the bar to launch an inquiry when one of the waitstaff approaches him, pasting on a smile. Up close he notices her extra thick make up attempting to cover her five o’clock shadow, and he makes a smile he’s sure is more genuine than hers.
“Can I show you to a table?” Her voice is sweet but husky, probably from years of smoking.
She’s cute even though she’s obviously been on her feet all day and is exhausted. Billy wants to accept just to make her day easier, buy a drink and leave a fifty percent tip, but he doesn’t. That’s not what he’s here for. “I’m looking for Tommy Oliver.”
There’s a subtle change in her face at those words-a glimmer of disappointment-and her gaze slides off Billy, turning toward the stage where the dancers have managed to lose even more of their clothing.
It isn’t the reply Billy expected. If anything, he thought the Tommy Oliver in this club would be behind those double doors. “Oh, he can’t dance,” he says, but his eyes are captivated by the wild gyrations of the center dancer, frantically working himself up to the delight of the customers.
His Speedo is black, his torso and arms are covered in sprawling black ink and glitter, and his curtain of wavy dark hair whirls around his head like a cyclone. It takes just a single flash of cheek and mouth for Billy’s heart to leap into his throat. The features are lost behind the curtain of hair again and Billy’s clutching the hard wooden back of a chair in his fists by the time Tommy throws his hair back and fully reveals his face.
His hips keep gyrating against the pole as one leg goes up the pole and then the other. Things are cloudy suddenly, and Billy’s out of place, like he’s looking at the scene through a fishbowl, or the Viewing Globe. Everything has skewed; the world has shifted off its axis. Tommy’s soon hanging half upside-down on the pole, arms out stretched. His powerful thighs keep him aloft as he pulls filthy twenties out of grubby hands with his teeth. His dark eyes seem vacant and alive all at once, but Billy’s certain that whatever Tommy’s seeing isn’t really there.
Stunned as Billy is by the revelation that this is the funny, forgetful Tommy he went to high school with, it isn’t until the waitress touches his arm that reality comes crashing back down. Suddenly, the music is loud again, roaring in his ears, punctuated only by the jubilant cries of the customers in front of him as Tommy performs a trick on the pole. The lights are brighter, the strobe hurting his eyes, and the smell of sweat and sour beer assaults his nose.
“I’ll have a vodka and tonic,” Billy finally says, not daring to look back at the stage yet.
She’s a wise woman and leaves him be, letting Billy seat himself by lowering into the nearest chair. His hand subconsciously slides over his wrist communicator, fearful of just what might be seen or heard through it.
Another cheering roar draws Billy’s attention, and he looks up in time to find Tommy dangling dangerously, precariously, from the ceiling, which is littered with stage lights and railings. He’s using them like monkey bars and the drop is probably fourteen feet. It’s clear he’s done this before, as the crowd encourages him, goading him on. Lacking the martial arts grace Tommy once had, he propels himself through the air. For a moment, Billy’s certain he’ll crash to the floor, but his fingers find purchase on one of the gleaming red lamps, sending him swinging.
They’re rewarded with a yelp from overhead as the stage light sears Tommy’s hand, and then he’s leaping-to one of the other poles. He slides down but doesn’t stop at the bottom, just oozes right onto the floor and once there, spreads out on his back.
Billy’s on his feet, alarmed and concerned, but the patrons just put up a cheer. The two other dancers, who, until now, had continued dancing during Tommy’s feat, bend and scoop Tommy up, one under each of his arms. Tommy’s awake and crowing and waving, though Billy can’t hear him over the crowd and the music.
As the dancers drag Tommy backstage, Billy gets up, sprinting for the double doors. Ignoring the ‘Employes Only’ sign, he slips in unimpeded and hurries down the corridor, hoping to intersect the stage.
It’s more labyrinthine than he expected and it takes several sharp turns (and cleverly dodging one pole dancer for a few minutes), before Billy finds the entrance backstage. It’s not a fancy place. There’s one dressing room and it stinks of mildew and old cheese. Three long mirrors line the painted brick walls, and Tommy sits facing one of them, his face buried behind a curtain of hair as Billy watches him snort a line.
Tommy stares at himself in the mirror once he’s done, holding his nose up high as though fearing something might drip out. Billy can see his face-pierced eyebrows, ears and all-and the reflected tattoos on his chest, the biggest of which clearly says ‘whore’ in lowercase letters, like there’s not enough dignity there to capitalize any of it.
Tommy sees him reflected in the mirror a second later. He sniffs loudly, presses a silver painted nail to the side of his nose ring and swivels around on his barstool. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” He’s smiling and his eyes are more than a little unfocused. “Did you think I didn’t see you sitting off by yourself there earlier? You could’ve come down to the stage with the big boys.”
Though Billy hasn’t had time to think of how he expected Tommy to react to his arrival, he knows this isn’t what he would have come up with. “What’re you . . .” but it’s a rare moment where words have escaped him. There have been times in his life where Billy has teleported to safety when he felt less frightened than now. It’s hard not to grip Tommy’s wrist and whisk them out of here.
“I’m Tommy,” Tommy says, attempting, and failing, to get out of his chair. His grin broadens. “And, cute as you are, I don’t really do . . . private entertainment.”
Billy’s skin is crawling, and, against his will, his eyes keep flickering down to the tattoos on Tommy’s chest. The words there belie the words coming out of his mouth. Below ‘whore’ the letters spell out ‘cocksucker’ in only slightly smaller font.
“Who let you back here?” Tommy’s looking at him a little closer now. “Shanna?” He rubs a hand over his chest, fingers pressing into the ‘cocksucker’ tattoo. The nails on this hand are green. “Or is this what you’re after?” One of his eyebrows arches and his fingers trail down, tugging gently at his nipple rings.
It’s only then Billy slots all the pieces into place. Tommy hasn’t seen him yet. He’s coked out of his mind, probably drunk given his slurred words, high on adrenaline and six years’ distance and . . . who knew what else. “It’s me,” Billy says, stepping closer. “It’s Billy.”
Tommy’s gaze lifts off Billy’s collar, slowly trailing up to his face. When recognition hits, it isn’t pretty, contorting Tommy’s face first into a frown, then a sneer followed by confusion. “Billy?”
“What’re you doing here, Tommy?”
The confusion passes quickly and Tommy turns away, folding up a small plastic bag and shoving it into a box that he promptly locks. “What does it fucking look like?”
Billy’s never heard Tommy curse, and the words rock him almost more than the tattoos and piercings do. “You don’t . . . you don’t have to do this.” The words feel wrong, but Billy’s not sure anything would be right. It’s impossible to think that all this time he’s been wondering where Tommy disappeared to after losing his powers he’s been here. “You . . . you should’ve come to us if you needed help.”
“Help?” Tommy snorts. “I don’t need help. I’m right where I belong.” Picking up a kohl stick, Tommy starts to darken the lines around his eyes, but catches Billy’s open-mouthed gap in the mirror again and throws the stick down. “You can leave, now, Billy.”
“Are you insane? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been searching for you?”
Tommy doesn’t turn around and refuses to meet Billy’s eye in the mirror again. “Did you ever think I didn’t want to be found?” Tommy gets to his feet, turning toward him. “I did my damage already.”
“What’re you talking about?” Billy’s afraid of him. Not in the way he fears monsters or criminals, but in the heart-stopping fearful way he feels when confronted with vast, unsolvable equations. It’s as though reality has sifted right through his fingertips. Looking at Tommy is like staring into a cracked mirror, where the reflection has distorted beyond recognition. How could this have happened to funny, affable Tommy? How could Zordon have not known? “I’ve been worried!”
“Well, I’m fine, and you can leave now.” Tommy pushes him toward the door, but instantly draws his hand back, wincing.
It’s the hand that gripped the stage light, and Billy realizes it’s still red and tender. “You should put some salve on that,” he starts.
“You should shut up.” With his other hand, Tommy pushes him again. “Forget you came here. Forget you saw me. Forget . . . forget you ever even knew me.”
Billy grips Tommy’s arm the next time he shoves. He wishes Tommy weren’t in a speedo stuffed full of twenties, but he can’t stand this place anymore. Before Tommy’s eyes can widen in rage, Billy slaps his other hand over his communicator, and they teleport out in a flash of color.
Unable to take Tommy to the Command Center like this, Billy teleports them to his house on the outskirts of what was once Angel Grove. He’ll have to go back for his car tomorrow, but it’s worth it to get them both out of that slum.
Tommy gasps at the teleportation, back arching, then jerks away from Billy as if scalded. His eyes are wild as they dart around the dimly lit living room.
“I’ll get an ointment for your hand,” Billy says, pulling away. He turns on a lamp and disappears into his half bathroom.
“Fuck you, Billy! Jesus. Where are we? What is this place?”
He’s only gone a moment, but Tommy’s already stalking around looking for the front door by the time he comes back. “Calm down,” Billy says, but he’s just watched Tommy snort a line of cocaine and knows it’s not that easy. “Let me see your hand.”
Tommy doesn’t give it, so Billy grabs it, squeezing ointment out onto the burn.
Hissing, Tommy pulls his hand back. “That hurts!”
“I’m sorry, but it’ll help.” He sets the ointment aside. “This is my house, near Angel Grove. You’re safe here. Just take a breath and let me help you.”
“I don’t want your help! I don’t want anyone’s help!”
It’s like grasping at straws while sinking in quicksand. “Are you hungry?” Billy watches Tommy’s nostrils flare. “I’ve got food. Let me at least cook you a meal.” He’s just got to buy enough time for the cocaine to wear off. How long would the affects last? Thirty minutes? An hour? “How about a bath? I’ve got quite a nice bathroom.”
Tommy’s clearly considering it, though he doesn’t look happy about it. One of his fingertips goes into his mouth, teeth nipping at the skin. “They’re gonna fucking kill me just disappearing on them.”
“It’s all right. I’ll talk to your boss there and sort it out.” Billy starts toward the kitchen. “What would you like to eat? Eggs? Sandwich? Or I could make spaghetti?”
“Fuck,” Tommy says. His body wavers slightly and he’s soon slumped down on Billy’s couch.
Hurrying back, Billy finds he hasn’t passed out; he’s just exhausted. “Just rest. I’ll be quick.” Eggs are the fastest thing Billy can make, and he scrambles three in half the time it takes the toast to brown. He puts it all on a plate and brings it to Tommy out in the living room, along with a glass of orange juice.
Deciding not to stand there and watch Tommy eat, Billy goes and raids his closet for anything that would fit Tommy, and wracks his brain on what to do while he searches. Contacting the other Rangers just isn’t possible. Only Kimberly knew Tommy, and there’s no way she should see him like this. Neither Jason nor Zack would know what to do with him anymore than Billy does, and he suspects Jason’s reaction to all of this would be to blame himself for all of it, and to such a degree that he couldn’t help Tommy at all.
That leaves Trini, but last time he spoke to her, she was in Thailand heading the international peace conference there. He knows she might be able to give him some advice, but that’s no help right now. Pulling a baggy pair of jeans and a loose fitting shirt out of his closet, Billy hurries back into the living room.
He’s been gone no more than five minutes, but Tommy’s already polished the plate clean and is now busy organizing the money that had been tucked in his waistband. He doesn’t look up as Billy returns, intently orienting each bill the same direction. “I located some clothes that I think should fit you,” Billy says, laying them on the empty seat beside Tommy. “I apologize that they’re nothing fancy, but I have a real love-hate relationship with my wardrobe right now.”
When Tommy finally looks at him, Billy’s bowled over by the anger in his dark eyes. Tommy says nothing, just takes the clothes and nods, but the fury burns under the surface, almost tangible. It’s frightening enough that Billy doesn’t know what to say or do, fearful any wrong word will set Tommy off. There are so many unknown variables; Billy’s drowning in the unfamiliar seas of self-doubt and uncertainty.
Billy sits, but they don’t talk. Even after Tommy has all the bills neatly arranged by orientation and denomination, he remains silent. Tommy seems as incapable of brooding now as he did in high school, but he does a fairly decent facsimile, looking at Billy only to glower.
Billy tries to fill the silence. “You’re better off out of that place.”
“You’re so smart, Billy,” Tommy says, but the words aren’t complimentary. “You think you know everything, but you don’t-not anything important. You should’ve left me there.” He runs a hand through his limp, wavy hair. “My boss is going to kill me and you’re just sitting there, ignoring reality, pretending the last five, six years haven’t happened.”
It’s such an absurd statement Billy has to hold his tongue before replying; if anyone has ignored the last few years, it’s Tommy. “You’re right,” he says instead. “I’ve missed so much.” Words have never been Billy’s strong suit and despite his years of practice, he’s not sure how to properly phrase things now. “What have you been up to?” He knows that isn’t the right thing to say even as he says it, but it’s better than he was doing before.
The cocaine has evidently started to wear off as Tommy’s eyes just look dark now. He doesn’t answer, just pulls the shirt Billy brought over his head, swallowing up his tattoos and sweat and glitter. “Use your imagination.” Tommy stands up, hips first, and steps into the pants.
Billy averts his eyes, staring at his hands on his knees and his skin crawls at the thought of putting clothes on over all that filth. He expects Tommy to ask about the other Rangers; so much has changed that he couldn’t possible know about.
He doesn’t ask. He just folds his wad of cash up, stuffs it into his pocket and sits back down.
Tommy’s eyes are dark and haunted and Billy finds he is using his imagination, filling in stories for how he came by those tattoos; he’s not sure if the horrors he’s mentally concocting are better or worse than reality. The thoughts of Tommy on his knees, beaten, empty-eyed and being abused, twist his stomach. Out of the club, Tommy looks sallow, like he doesn’t eat enough and hardly sleeps. The truth is probably even more disturbing.
“Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning?” Billy gets to his feet. “There’s a guest room at the end of the hallway. It doesn’t get used often, but the sheets are clean.”
“Thanks.”
For just that one moment, it sounds like Tommy. Billy’s a little shocked; he didn’t realize how much Tommy didn’t even sound right. He clings to hope. “I just want to help.”
“I don’t need it, okay?” Tommy gets back to his feet. “I know you mean well, but this-what you’ve just done-is going to get me into more trouble than you can imagine. Your ‘help’ is just the opposite. They’re going to make my life hell when I get back.”
“That’s just it. You don’t have to return there. I’ll take care of your boss.”
Tommy laughs, but it’s cold and mirthless. “You really don’t know anything. Not how the real world works.” His dark eyes fix on Billy’s. “Here’s a reality check for you: not everything can be solved.” He crosses past Billy. “I know you mean well. I know you’ve got this little superhero streak in there that wants to ‘save’ me. I get it, all right? It’s just not what you think. I don’t need to be saved. Go back to forgetting I ever existed.”
Billy follows him. “I never forgot you existed. None of us did. There was a war. We were busy.” The look Tommy gives him sends strange guilt rippling through Billy. There was a war, but Tommy went missing well before it. Finding Tommy has just never been a priority. It isn’t even a priority now; Billy’s only gone looking because of an off-handed comment Zordon made that piqued his curiosity. “No matter the reason, you don’t belong in that club.”
“You don’t know that,” Tommy says. “You knew me for what, a year? A few months? Back in high school. I’m not that good, dumb, naïve kid anymore. I’m not sure I ever was.” Tommy’s taller, and he uses that height to his advantage, trying to intimidate Billy.
It doesn’t work. Billy’s been in charge for too long; he’s taken out too many putties and monsters to be intimidated by a human, especially someone like Tommy. “At least tell your parents where you’ve been.”
“Ha. They’re not my parents. They’re some people who took me in thinking they would get a son; a sweet little boy. They’re glad to be rid of me.”
“That’s not true,” Billy calls, but Tommy’s past him now, heading down the hallway, searching for the guest room. He should be glad Tommy’s not heading for the front door, but he’s not. He could chase Tommy down the street; once the guest door closes behind him, the conversation ends.
“Tommy,” he says, putting a hand on the handle, but not daring to turn it. Of course there’s no answer. At length, after considering and rejecting several other things, Billy finally says, “I’m just down the hall, if you need anything.”
He waits five minutes, but Tommy never acknowledges him.
--
In the morning, Tommy’s gone.
Part of him knew it was within the realm of possibility that Tommy would slip out in the middle of the night, but it still surprises Billy more than he expected. Deep inside he feels Tommy wants help. That he didn’t stay unsettles him, and stacks of variables shift from one column to another inside Billy’s head.
A cursory glance around his house tells him Tommy left with only the clothing Billy loaned him. Not even the shoes by the front door have been taken. The juxtaposition is strange; it means that despite the drugs and the sex and dancing, Tommy’s drawn a line at theft.
It’s the most positive thing Billy’s discovered yet. Even though Tommy’s gone, he’s learned something vital: Tommy still has lines he won’t cross. It’s hard not to go after him immediately, but his car is sitting in a rundown parking lot in Devil’s Cove. Being expected at work by nine doesn’t help either, and complicates getting to work.
He wants to call Trini, tell her about Tommy and ask her advice, but there’s no time. Instead, he gets dressed and puts in a call to Adam, asking for a ride.
Adam doesn’t know Tommy. Of the remaining Rangers, only he and Kimberley were there for Tommy’s stint as the Green Ranger, though the others have learned about it. He doesn’t want to think about what opinion Adam would form of Tommy if he met him now, like this, so he stays quiet.
The silence is unusual enough for Adam to comment on it, but not wanting to lie to his friend, Billy just says, “I’m not ready to talk about it right now.”
The furrows in Adam’s brow speak of his concern, but he knows Billy and doesn’t press the issue.
At work, the company’s servers go down. During the hours spent tinkering with electronics, Billy loses himself in getting everything back online and doesn’t think about Tommy once. He passes up an invitation to go drinking with co-workers that evening, lacking a car, and instead pores over the bus schedule until he’s memorized the best route back to Devil’s Cove.
It’s just after ten by the time he finally arrives, and he’s weary from work and travel via the subpar California public transport system. Miraculously, he finds his car where he left it, and still in one piece. There’s a parking violation tucked under the windshield wiper, which he folds into his wallet.
The engine turns over when he inserts the key and the cassette in the deck soon churns out the Mozart that’s been on endless repeat for the past month. Billy’s hands grip the steering wheel, but his eyes stare through the darkness in the direction of the Cat’s Beard.
The last three hours have been so focused on getting back to his car and fretting about whether it would even be there that Billy’s a little stunned by the revelation that Tommy’s probably right there. If he came back, then he’s just down that stairwell. It’s Friday; he’s probably even performing.
To his shame, Billy’s not sure until that moment that he’d planned to go after Tommy again. Even sitting there, he’s still not sure. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’d be easier to do as Tommy asked; to just forget about him completely. It’d be much easier to go back to the way things were before he found Tommy. It’s not that any of them ever forgot Tommy; they’ve just all got lives. Billy’s got one. He should be home now, working on it.
Instead, he gets out of his car and locks it. He’s dressed for work now and knows he’ll draw even more looks down in that club, but he can’t leave. Tommy’s a Ranger, and a friend. There’s no way Billy can leave him in that place, and the knowledge that if Billy doesn’t help Tommy no one else will hangs heavy on his shoulders.
Author: vandonovan
Pairing: eventually Billy/Tommy, with background Skull/Kim, Adam/Rocky, Jason/Zack and Aisha/OMC
Word count: 4,519 (this chapter)
Rating: R (this chapter)
Era: MMPR AU after "The Green Candle" where Tommy never becomes the White Ranger. (Picks up in 1999.)
Warnings: drug/alcohol use, mentioned dub-con, prostitution, adult language, sexual situations/innuendo, Alternate Universe, potential spoilers through Zeo.
Summary: Six years after losing his Green Ranger powers, Tommy has been consumed by inner darkness and a destructive lifestyle. Can Billy bring Tommy back or will his attempts strain the Rangers too much as they face the return of an old enemy?
Notes: Super special thanks to azelmaroark for both playing beta and helping me create and cultivate this monster. ♥
Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19.
Chapter one:
“Excuse me,” Billy says, “I’m looking for the Cat’s Beard.” He’s walked up and down this alleyway three times now, feeling more and more frustrated each time.
The man he’s addressed appears to have been hewn from the same material that makes up the wall behind him. His beady dark gaze takes in Billy slowly. No surprise registers on his face, but it’s clear he can’t believe Billy is actually addressing him. “You lost or something?”
“Actually, yes.” Billy’s not afraid. He’s taken out bigger threats than this guy unmorphed, and anyway he has his communicator and morpher on him, if things get ugly. “I’m looking for an old friend; a man by the name of Tommy Oliver. Someone told me he was working at the Cat’s Beard on 32nd and Broad.” He looks up at the dilapidated street sign in the distance. Unlike Angel Grove after the war, he suspects this place has always been this way. “This is the location; I’m just not seeing any places of business.”
The man’s dark eyes sweep over him again, reassessing. “You’re a friend of Tommy Oliver?” His head and thick column of a neck nod as one unit. “Go on downstairs.”
Stepping aside, the man reveals a tiny stairwell leading to a dimly lit door. It’s like he’s uncovered a secret passageway in a role-playing video game, but it’s not what Billy expected to find.
Logically, Billy thinks to himself as he slowly begins the descent down the fetid stairwell, the name Tommy Oliver belongs to more than one man. He knows, statistically speaking, that’s a given. Neither name is rare. Thomas has been in the top twenty-five most popular male baby names for over 100 years. There are twenty-three Olivers in Angel Grove alone, and one of those is an unrelated Thomas Oliver. It’s entirely likely- in fact highly probable-that if there is a Tommy Oliver working in a facility at the bottom of these stairs, it is not the Tommy Oliver that Billy had once known as the Green Ranger.
Still, he’s come this far. Devil’s Cove isn’t exactly a stone throw away from home, and the traffic’s going to be a nightmare until at least seven. There’s no reason not to investigate.
Beyond the dingy door, Billy finds himself transported to a lively, bustling club bursting with pounding music and pulsing lights. A doorman gives him a quizzical look but steps aside, allowing Billy to stagger into the throng.
It’s not crowded, but it’s far from empty. A large stage dominates the basement room, bathed in pinkish-red hues. Three male dancers occupy the floor, all scantily clad as they wildly swing themselves around the metal poles installed for such purposes. Scattered tables are arranged in front of the stage, and they are half filled with patrons, both male and female, but predominantly male. Nearer to the stage are several more engrossed viewers, clutching fistfuls of dollars to tuck into the dancer’s g-strings.
Turning his back to the stage, Billy’s eyes scan the expansive bar that fills the left wall. The bartender’s eyes are on the dancers, even though he has patrons seated on black vinyl-topped stools trying to get his attention. Billy spies some waitstaff-female-and then he’s back to the bouncer. There’s a double door on the far right blazoned “Employes Only” (Billy wonders where the other E went), but no Tommy.
He’s about to head over to the bar to launch an inquiry when one of the waitstaff approaches him, pasting on a smile. Up close he notices her extra thick make up attempting to cover her five o’clock shadow, and he makes a smile he’s sure is more genuine than hers.
“Can I show you to a table?” Her voice is sweet but husky, probably from years of smoking.
She’s cute even though she’s obviously been on her feet all day and is exhausted. Billy wants to accept just to make her day easier, buy a drink and leave a fifty percent tip, but he doesn’t. That’s not what he’s here for. “I’m looking for Tommy Oliver.”
There’s a subtle change in her face at those words-a glimmer of disappointment-and her gaze slides off Billy, turning toward the stage where the dancers have managed to lose even more of their clothing.
It isn’t the reply Billy expected. If anything, he thought the Tommy Oliver in this club would be behind those double doors. “Oh, he can’t dance,” he says, but his eyes are captivated by the wild gyrations of the center dancer, frantically working himself up to the delight of the customers.
His Speedo is black, his torso and arms are covered in sprawling black ink and glitter, and his curtain of wavy dark hair whirls around his head like a cyclone. It takes just a single flash of cheek and mouth for Billy’s heart to leap into his throat. The features are lost behind the curtain of hair again and Billy’s clutching the hard wooden back of a chair in his fists by the time Tommy throws his hair back and fully reveals his face.
His hips keep gyrating against the pole as one leg goes up the pole and then the other. Things are cloudy suddenly, and Billy’s out of place, like he’s looking at the scene through a fishbowl, or the Viewing Globe. Everything has skewed; the world has shifted off its axis. Tommy’s soon hanging half upside-down on the pole, arms out stretched. His powerful thighs keep him aloft as he pulls filthy twenties out of grubby hands with his teeth. His dark eyes seem vacant and alive all at once, but Billy’s certain that whatever Tommy’s seeing isn’t really there.
Stunned as Billy is by the revelation that this is the funny, forgetful Tommy he went to high school with, it isn’t until the waitress touches his arm that reality comes crashing back down. Suddenly, the music is loud again, roaring in his ears, punctuated only by the jubilant cries of the customers in front of him as Tommy performs a trick on the pole. The lights are brighter, the strobe hurting his eyes, and the smell of sweat and sour beer assaults his nose.
“I’ll have a vodka and tonic,” Billy finally says, not daring to look back at the stage yet.
She’s a wise woman and leaves him be, letting Billy seat himself by lowering into the nearest chair. His hand subconsciously slides over his wrist communicator, fearful of just what might be seen or heard through it.
Another cheering roar draws Billy’s attention, and he looks up in time to find Tommy dangling dangerously, precariously, from the ceiling, which is littered with stage lights and railings. He’s using them like monkey bars and the drop is probably fourteen feet. It’s clear he’s done this before, as the crowd encourages him, goading him on. Lacking the martial arts grace Tommy once had, he propels himself through the air. For a moment, Billy’s certain he’ll crash to the floor, but his fingers find purchase on one of the gleaming red lamps, sending him swinging.
They’re rewarded with a yelp from overhead as the stage light sears Tommy’s hand, and then he’s leaping-to one of the other poles. He slides down but doesn’t stop at the bottom, just oozes right onto the floor and once there, spreads out on his back.
Billy’s on his feet, alarmed and concerned, but the patrons just put up a cheer. The two other dancers, who, until now, had continued dancing during Tommy’s feat, bend and scoop Tommy up, one under each of his arms. Tommy’s awake and crowing and waving, though Billy can’t hear him over the crowd and the music.
As the dancers drag Tommy backstage, Billy gets up, sprinting for the double doors. Ignoring the ‘Employes Only’ sign, he slips in unimpeded and hurries down the corridor, hoping to intersect the stage.
It’s more labyrinthine than he expected and it takes several sharp turns (and cleverly dodging one pole dancer for a few minutes), before Billy finds the entrance backstage. It’s not a fancy place. There’s one dressing room and it stinks of mildew and old cheese. Three long mirrors line the painted brick walls, and Tommy sits facing one of them, his face buried behind a curtain of hair as Billy watches him snort a line.
Tommy stares at himself in the mirror once he’s done, holding his nose up high as though fearing something might drip out. Billy can see his face-pierced eyebrows, ears and all-and the reflected tattoos on his chest, the biggest of which clearly says ‘whore’ in lowercase letters, like there’s not enough dignity there to capitalize any of it.
Tommy sees him reflected in the mirror a second later. He sniffs loudly, presses a silver painted nail to the side of his nose ring and swivels around on his barstool. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” He’s smiling and his eyes are more than a little unfocused. “Did you think I didn’t see you sitting off by yourself there earlier? You could’ve come down to the stage with the big boys.”
Though Billy hasn’t had time to think of how he expected Tommy to react to his arrival, he knows this isn’t what he would have come up with. “What’re you . . .” but it’s a rare moment where words have escaped him. There have been times in his life where Billy has teleported to safety when he felt less frightened than now. It’s hard not to grip Tommy’s wrist and whisk them out of here.
“I’m Tommy,” Tommy says, attempting, and failing, to get out of his chair. His grin broadens. “And, cute as you are, I don’t really do . . . private entertainment.”
Billy’s skin is crawling, and, against his will, his eyes keep flickering down to the tattoos on Tommy’s chest. The words there belie the words coming out of his mouth. Below ‘whore’ the letters spell out ‘cocksucker’ in only slightly smaller font.
“Who let you back here?” Tommy’s looking at him a little closer now. “Shanna?” He rubs a hand over his chest, fingers pressing into the ‘cocksucker’ tattoo. The nails on this hand are green. “Or is this what you’re after?” One of his eyebrows arches and his fingers trail down, tugging gently at his nipple rings.
It’s only then Billy slots all the pieces into place. Tommy hasn’t seen him yet. He’s coked out of his mind, probably drunk given his slurred words, high on adrenaline and six years’ distance and . . . who knew what else. “It’s me,” Billy says, stepping closer. “It’s Billy.”
Tommy’s gaze lifts off Billy’s collar, slowly trailing up to his face. When recognition hits, it isn’t pretty, contorting Tommy’s face first into a frown, then a sneer followed by confusion. “Billy?”
“What’re you doing here, Tommy?”
The confusion passes quickly and Tommy turns away, folding up a small plastic bag and shoving it into a box that he promptly locks. “What does it fucking look like?”
Billy’s never heard Tommy curse, and the words rock him almost more than the tattoos and piercings do. “You don’t . . . you don’t have to do this.” The words feel wrong, but Billy’s not sure anything would be right. It’s impossible to think that all this time he’s been wondering where Tommy disappeared to after losing his powers he’s been here. “You . . . you should’ve come to us if you needed help.”
“Help?” Tommy snorts. “I don’t need help. I’m right where I belong.” Picking up a kohl stick, Tommy starts to darken the lines around his eyes, but catches Billy’s open-mouthed gap in the mirror again and throws the stick down. “You can leave, now, Billy.”
“Are you insane? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been searching for you?”
Tommy doesn’t turn around and refuses to meet Billy’s eye in the mirror again. “Did you ever think I didn’t want to be found?” Tommy gets to his feet, turning toward him. “I did my damage already.”
“What’re you talking about?” Billy’s afraid of him. Not in the way he fears monsters or criminals, but in the heart-stopping fearful way he feels when confronted with vast, unsolvable equations. It’s as though reality has sifted right through his fingertips. Looking at Tommy is like staring into a cracked mirror, where the reflection has distorted beyond recognition. How could this have happened to funny, affable Tommy? How could Zordon have not known? “I’ve been worried!”
“Well, I’m fine, and you can leave now.” Tommy pushes him toward the door, but instantly draws his hand back, wincing.
It’s the hand that gripped the stage light, and Billy realizes it’s still red and tender. “You should put some salve on that,” he starts.
“You should shut up.” With his other hand, Tommy pushes him again. “Forget you came here. Forget you saw me. Forget . . . forget you ever even knew me.”
Billy grips Tommy’s arm the next time he shoves. He wishes Tommy weren’t in a speedo stuffed full of twenties, but he can’t stand this place anymore. Before Tommy’s eyes can widen in rage, Billy slaps his other hand over his communicator, and they teleport out in a flash of color.
Unable to take Tommy to the Command Center like this, Billy teleports them to his house on the outskirts of what was once Angel Grove. He’ll have to go back for his car tomorrow, but it’s worth it to get them both out of that slum.
Tommy gasps at the teleportation, back arching, then jerks away from Billy as if scalded. His eyes are wild as they dart around the dimly lit living room.
“I’ll get an ointment for your hand,” Billy says, pulling away. He turns on a lamp and disappears into his half bathroom.
“Fuck you, Billy! Jesus. Where are we? What is this place?”
He’s only gone a moment, but Tommy’s already stalking around looking for the front door by the time he comes back. “Calm down,” Billy says, but he’s just watched Tommy snort a line of cocaine and knows it’s not that easy. “Let me see your hand.”
Tommy doesn’t give it, so Billy grabs it, squeezing ointment out onto the burn.
Hissing, Tommy pulls his hand back. “That hurts!”
“I’m sorry, but it’ll help.” He sets the ointment aside. “This is my house, near Angel Grove. You’re safe here. Just take a breath and let me help you.”
“I don’t want your help! I don’t want anyone’s help!”
It’s like grasping at straws while sinking in quicksand. “Are you hungry?” Billy watches Tommy’s nostrils flare. “I’ve got food. Let me at least cook you a meal.” He’s just got to buy enough time for the cocaine to wear off. How long would the affects last? Thirty minutes? An hour? “How about a bath? I’ve got quite a nice bathroom.”
Tommy’s clearly considering it, though he doesn’t look happy about it. One of his fingertips goes into his mouth, teeth nipping at the skin. “They’re gonna fucking kill me just disappearing on them.”
“It’s all right. I’ll talk to your boss there and sort it out.” Billy starts toward the kitchen. “What would you like to eat? Eggs? Sandwich? Or I could make spaghetti?”
“Fuck,” Tommy says. His body wavers slightly and he’s soon slumped down on Billy’s couch.
Hurrying back, Billy finds he hasn’t passed out; he’s just exhausted. “Just rest. I’ll be quick.” Eggs are the fastest thing Billy can make, and he scrambles three in half the time it takes the toast to brown. He puts it all on a plate and brings it to Tommy out in the living room, along with a glass of orange juice.
Deciding not to stand there and watch Tommy eat, Billy goes and raids his closet for anything that would fit Tommy, and wracks his brain on what to do while he searches. Contacting the other Rangers just isn’t possible. Only Kimberly knew Tommy, and there’s no way she should see him like this. Neither Jason nor Zack would know what to do with him anymore than Billy does, and he suspects Jason’s reaction to all of this would be to blame himself for all of it, and to such a degree that he couldn’t help Tommy at all.
That leaves Trini, but last time he spoke to her, she was in Thailand heading the international peace conference there. He knows she might be able to give him some advice, but that’s no help right now. Pulling a baggy pair of jeans and a loose fitting shirt out of his closet, Billy hurries back into the living room.
He’s been gone no more than five minutes, but Tommy’s already polished the plate clean and is now busy organizing the money that had been tucked in his waistband. He doesn’t look up as Billy returns, intently orienting each bill the same direction. “I located some clothes that I think should fit you,” Billy says, laying them on the empty seat beside Tommy. “I apologize that they’re nothing fancy, but I have a real love-hate relationship with my wardrobe right now.”
When Tommy finally looks at him, Billy’s bowled over by the anger in his dark eyes. Tommy says nothing, just takes the clothes and nods, but the fury burns under the surface, almost tangible. It’s frightening enough that Billy doesn’t know what to say or do, fearful any wrong word will set Tommy off. There are so many unknown variables; Billy’s drowning in the unfamiliar seas of self-doubt and uncertainty.
Billy sits, but they don’t talk. Even after Tommy has all the bills neatly arranged by orientation and denomination, he remains silent. Tommy seems as incapable of brooding now as he did in high school, but he does a fairly decent facsimile, looking at Billy only to glower.
Billy tries to fill the silence. “You’re better off out of that place.”
“You’re so smart, Billy,” Tommy says, but the words aren’t complimentary. “You think you know everything, but you don’t-not anything important. You should’ve left me there.” He runs a hand through his limp, wavy hair. “My boss is going to kill me and you’re just sitting there, ignoring reality, pretending the last five, six years haven’t happened.”
It’s such an absurd statement Billy has to hold his tongue before replying; if anyone has ignored the last few years, it’s Tommy. “You’re right,” he says instead. “I’ve missed so much.” Words have never been Billy’s strong suit and despite his years of practice, he’s not sure how to properly phrase things now. “What have you been up to?” He knows that isn’t the right thing to say even as he says it, but it’s better than he was doing before.
The cocaine has evidently started to wear off as Tommy’s eyes just look dark now. He doesn’t answer, just pulls the shirt Billy brought over his head, swallowing up his tattoos and sweat and glitter. “Use your imagination.” Tommy stands up, hips first, and steps into the pants.
Billy averts his eyes, staring at his hands on his knees and his skin crawls at the thought of putting clothes on over all that filth. He expects Tommy to ask about the other Rangers; so much has changed that he couldn’t possible know about.
He doesn’t ask. He just folds his wad of cash up, stuffs it into his pocket and sits back down.
Tommy’s eyes are dark and haunted and Billy finds he is using his imagination, filling in stories for how he came by those tattoos; he’s not sure if the horrors he’s mentally concocting are better or worse than reality. The thoughts of Tommy on his knees, beaten, empty-eyed and being abused, twist his stomach. Out of the club, Tommy looks sallow, like he doesn’t eat enough and hardly sleeps. The truth is probably even more disturbing.
“Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning?” Billy gets to his feet. “There’s a guest room at the end of the hallway. It doesn’t get used often, but the sheets are clean.”
“Thanks.”
For just that one moment, it sounds like Tommy. Billy’s a little shocked; he didn’t realize how much Tommy didn’t even sound right. He clings to hope. “I just want to help.”
“I don’t need it, okay?” Tommy gets back to his feet. “I know you mean well, but this-what you’ve just done-is going to get me into more trouble than you can imagine. Your ‘help’ is just the opposite. They’re going to make my life hell when I get back.”
“That’s just it. You don’t have to return there. I’ll take care of your boss.”
Tommy laughs, but it’s cold and mirthless. “You really don’t know anything. Not how the real world works.” His dark eyes fix on Billy’s. “Here’s a reality check for you: not everything can be solved.” He crosses past Billy. “I know you mean well. I know you’ve got this little superhero streak in there that wants to ‘save’ me. I get it, all right? It’s just not what you think. I don’t need to be saved. Go back to forgetting I ever existed.”
Billy follows him. “I never forgot you existed. None of us did. There was a war. We were busy.” The look Tommy gives him sends strange guilt rippling through Billy. There was a war, but Tommy went missing well before it. Finding Tommy has just never been a priority. It isn’t even a priority now; Billy’s only gone looking because of an off-handed comment Zordon made that piqued his curiosity. “No matter the reason, you don’t belong in that club.”
“You don’t know that,” Tommy says. “You knew me for what, a year? A few months? Back in high school. I’m not that good, dumb, naïve kid anymore. I’m not sure I ever was.” Tommy’s taller, and he uses that height to his advantage, trying to intimidate Billy.
It doesn’t work. Billy’s been in charge for too long; he’s taken out too many putties and monsters to be intimidated by a human, especially someone like Tommy. “At least tell your parents where you’ve been.”
“Ha. They’re not my parents. They’re some people who took me in thinking they would get a son; a sweet little boy. They’re glad to be rid of me.”
“That’s not true,” Billy calls, but Tommy’s past him now, heading down the hallway, searching for the guest room. He should be glad Tommy’s not heading for the front door, but he’s not. He could chase Tommy down the street; once the guest door closes behind him, the conversation ends.
“Tommy,” he says, putting a hand on the handle, but not daring to turn it. Of course there’s no answer. At length, after considering and rejecting several other things, Billy finally says, “I’m just down the hall, if you need anything.”
He waits five minutes, but Tommy never acknowledges him.
--
In the morning, Tommy’s gone.
Part of him knew it was within the realm of possibility that Tommy would slip out in the middle of the night, but it still surprises Billy more than he expected. Deep inside he feels Tommy wants help. That he didn’t stay unsettles him, and stacks of variables shift from one column to another inside Billy’s head.
A cursory glance around his house tells him Tommy left with only the clothing Billy loaned him. Not even the shoes by the front door have been taken. The juxtaposition is strange; it means that despite the drugs and the sex and dancing, Tommy’s drawn a line at theft.
It’s the most positive thing Billy’s discovered yet. Even though Tommy’s gone, he’s learned something vital: Tommy still has lines he won’t cross. It’s hard not to go after him immediately, but his car is sitting in a rundown parking lot in Devil’s Cove. Being expected at work by nine doesn’t help either, and complicates getting to work.
He wants to call Trini, tell her about Tommy and ask her advice, but there’s no time. Instead, he gets dressed and puts in a call to Adam, asking for a ride.
Adam doesn’t know Tommy. Of the remaining Rangers, only he and Kimberley were there for Tommy’s stint as the Green Ranger, though the others have learned about it. He doesn’t want to think about what opinion Adam would form of Tommy if he met him now, like this, so he stays quiet.
The silence is unusual enough for Adam to comment on it, but not wanting to lie to his friend, Billy just says, “I’m not ready to talk about it right now.”
The furrows in Adam’s brow speak of his concern, but he knows Billy and doesn’t press the issue.
At work, the company’s servers go down. During the hours spent tinkering with electronics, Billy loses himself in getting everything back online and doesn’t think about Tommy once. He passes up an invitation to go drinking with co-workers that evening, lacking a car, and instead pores over the bus schedule until he’s memorized the best route back to Devil’s Cove.
It’s just after ten by the time he finally arrives, and he’s weary from work and travel via the subpar California public transport system. Miraculously, he finds his car where he left it, and still in one piece. There’s a parking violation tucked under the windshield wiper, which he folds into his wallet.
The engine turns over when he inserts the key and the cassette in the deck soon churns out the Mozart that’s been on endless repeat for the past month. Billy’s hands grip the steering wheel, but his eyes stare through the darkness in the direction of the Cat’s Beard.
The last three hours have been so focused on getting back to his car and fretting about whether it would even be there that Billy’s a little stunned by the revelation that Tommy’s probably right there. If he came back, then he’s just down that stairwell. It’s Friday; he’s probably even performing.
To his shame, Billy’s not sure until that moment that he’d planned to go after Tommy again. Even sitting there, he’s still not sure. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’d be easier to do as Tommy asked; to just forget about him completely. It’d be much easier to go back to the way things were before he found Tommy. It’s not that any of them ever forgot Tommy; they’ve just all got lives. Billy’s got one. He should be home now, working on it.
Instead, he gets out of his car and locks it. He’s dressed for work now and knows he’ll draw even more looks down in that club, but he can’t leave. Tommy’s a Ranger, and a friend. There’s no way Billy can leave him in that place, and the knowledge that if Billy doesn’t help Tommy no one else will hangs heavy on his shoulders.