Power Rangers: Whole (4/?), Billy/Tommy, R.
Title: Whole, chapter four
Author: vandonovan
Pairing: Eventual Billy/Tommy, background Rocky/Adam, Skull/Kim, Jason/Zack.
Word count: 4,180 (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 four:
On Friday, Billy doesn’t teleport in until after midnight.
Reggie puts a big, meaty hand on his chest. “What’s in the bag?”
He expected this and replies promptly. “Late dinner.” Billy opens it to show him. “And some cookies. Want some?” He pulls out four chocolate chip cookies, neatly bundled in a napkin. “Still warm.”
Reggie’s brow furrows, but he accepts the cookies. “You didn’t put shit in them or nothing, did you?”
“No. I just thought if I was going to bring my dinner with me, I ought to bring something to share. If you don’t want them though . . .”
“No, no. That’s fine. That’s fine.” Reggie’s thick fingers take awhile to delicately unwrap the napkin, but he nods and pops one, whole, into his mouth. “S’not bad. Homemade?”
“Yes. Just out of the oven.”
Reggie nods approvingly as he finishes chewing and swallows.
Billy inclines his head toward the stairs. “Can I go down?”
“All right. Just don’t make a habit of bringing your dinner with you.”
The music is so loud tonight Billy can hear it even out on the stairwell with the door closed. He squeezes inside and it’s like stepping into a sauna. The air is stale and hot and, as he pushes his way past people, sweat is soon dripping off him.
Last night, the small bag of food fit neatly undetected under his shirt. He’s brought four times as much tonight and two dozen cookies as bribes, but he doesn’t need them. No one bars his way as he navigates toward the “Employes Only” sign.
He stands beside the door for an hour, watching what he can see of Tommy on stage from his vantage point. The crowd starts to thin after one and, during a particularly loud part of the stage show, Billy slips through the doors.
He walks quietly, mentally mapping the place out, memorizing where the backstage dressing room is in relation to both Mack’s office and the private room. There are dancers in the dressing room when he arrives, but they hurry on stage for a grand finale, leaving the room empty. Along the back of the wall, in lieu of closets, are racks of costumes. Billy picks the one furthest in the corner and hides behind it.
Half an hour later, the show is over and the room floods with dancers again. To his relief, none hang their costumes up on his rack and no one notices the aroma of food in the musty old cellar. He doesn’t dare put his head out to look for Tommy, but he hears his voice, low and indistinct. When the room finally starts to clear, Billy nudges the rack away from the wall and steps forward.
One of the dancers notices him, and Billy acts quickly. “Special delivery from an admirer.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a neat bundle of cookies. “There’s enough for everyone.”
They’re all exhausted, hungry and mistreated, and suddenly none of them care that a strange man is backstage with them; not when he’s handing out food.
Tommy watches him in the mirror, but doesn’t get up or turn around until Billy makes his way past the others and leans against the counter. He sets the bag down between them. “I’ll be here tomorrow, too.” He smiles sadly. Tommy looks so utterly wrecked. “You all right?”
“You fucking let me fall asleep.” His brow furrows. “Mack was furious.”
“Then Mack is an idiot. I paid my money. He has no business dictating what I let you do.”
Tommy’s eyes are on the bag. “I slept for almost two hours.”
“The club was closed.”
“He was waiting for me to finish to lock up.”
“Then he should’ve checked up on you sooner.” Billy crosses his arms. “Look, I’m sorry if that got you in trouble.” He takes a deep breath. “I won’t do it again.” He nudges the bag closer. “There’s plenty to eat. I recommend getting out of here with it while you can.”
Tommy pulls the bag into his lap and glances at the other dancers. They’re all chattering loudly and enjoying their cookies. “Well, thanks.” His voice is hardly even a whisper.
There’s something in the words that tugs at Billy’s heart. “We can go any time, Tommy. You can stay with me as long as you want or need, you know. I really mean it. I’ve got an extra bed, a shower, food . . . just say the word.”
Tommy stares at him. “I can’t. I owe Mack.”
Billy holds his breath to keep from shouting.
Almost as if on cue, Mack’s voice booms down the corridor. “What’s all this noise?!”
All eyes turn toward the door and Billy acts fast. He gives Tommy’s shoulder a squeeze and then teleports out before Mack can catch him.
--
He repeats the process almost exactly on Saturday and Sunday, but both times teleports directly into the dressing room, behind the clothes rack, just before the final dance number finishes. He brings more food with him too, but hands it to the other dancers discreetly so they take it without alerting Mack.
On Sunday, Tommy says, “We close at midnight on Monday.”
Billy smiles. “See you just before midnight then.”
--
It doesn’t go quite as he planned on Monday. The dancers come in after the final number as usual and happily take the thirty-nine cent tacos Billy brought for them, but Tommy doesn’t show. Monday nights are much quieter than weekends, and only one fourth as many dancers show up.
After half an hour, the dressing room is nearly empty. Concerned, he calls out before the last dancer leaves. “Where’s Tommy?”
He’s given an elaborate shrug. “Saw him talking to Mack after the show.”
Relieved slightly to know Tommy’s there, Billy decides to wait. The lights in the hall shut off and after another half hour he starts toward the door with the intention of making his way to Mack’s office. He’s only a few feet out of the dressing room when he hears feet approaching and hurries back inside. There isn’t time to hide in the clothing rack, so Billy presses himself against the wall.
Tommy enters and passes right by without noticing him. He sits in front of the mirror and scrubs his face with a wad of tissues. Staring at himself in the mirror, he bares his teeth and swipes his arm across all the makeup on the counter, knocking most of it to the ground.
Glancing out the door, Billy ascertains he’s come alone.
“Tommy?”
Tommy spins around, startled, but relaxes when he sees Billy. He rubs his palms over his eyes. “You’re still here.”
“Of course I am. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Mack just . . .” Tommy sniffs and lifts his head. “He isn’t letting me use right now.”
It takes a moment for the words to make sense to Billy, but then he blinks. To him, that sounds ideal. Normally Tommy’s too drugged; it's well past time he should've quit. It also explains the strained look in his eyes, and the agitated way he glances around the room. Billy slides onto the stool beside him. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Just be careful, Tommy. Given your usage rates, you’ll probably experience considerable withdrawal.”
Tommy snorts. It’s almost a laugh. There are unshed tears in his eyes. “Did you bring food?”
“Yeah.” Billy hands him the bag. “You shouldn’t be doing this alone. Come back to my place tonight.”
For once, Tommy doesn’t tear open the bag. His gaze is focused on Billy. “I have to do this.” He closes his eyes, calming his breathing. “You should go. Mack’ll be in any moment.”
“It’ll be all right.” Billy reaches out and squeezes Tommy’s hand.
Tommy stuffs the food into a dark bag on the ground by his feet and resumes scrubbing the makeup off his face. “Just go. Please.”
It’s so hard for Billy to leave him like this. Withdrawal isn’t easy. He knows how badly users suffer all sorts of horrible symptoms-and experience suicidal thoughts. Hoping Mack knows what he’s doing, Billy gets to his feet. “I’m just a phone call away. Any time.”
In the hallway, he hears Mack approaching, jauntily whistling “Singin’ in the Rain.”
“I’ll see you soon,” Billy whispers before teleporting out.
--
Concerned for Tommy’s health, Billy forgoes working on the zords and heads to the club at nine on Tuesday, stopping only for Chinese takeout. Tommy’s not on stage when he arrives and doesn’t come on stage at any point during the number. Billy’s heart is in his throat as he tries to figure out what to do.
It’s while looking for Cindy that he notices how different the crowd is. The rowdy men at the foot of the stage are gone, replaced by cheering women. The performers are different too-mostly women and, as Billy realizes, women dressed as men. He turns around completely and discovers that he’s one of the only male patrons there.
Cindy’s nowhere in sight, but the bartender is the same as usual.
“Where’s Tommy,” he asks without preamble.
“Didn’t expect to see you in here tonight.” The bartender tilts his head. “You better buy a drink before you start prying me with questions.”
“Fine. Give me a vodka and tonic.” He hands over his card. “Where’s Tommy?”
Grinning, the bartender takes the card. “How should I know that?”
It’s hard not to throttle the man. “Why isn’t he here?”
The bartender laughs. “Are you kidding? It’s Ladies Night! He’s probably home sleeping.”
The thought terrifies Billy, though he isn’t sure why. “Where does he live?”
“Tommy? He’s hardly said five words to me. You think I know where he lives?” Turning away, the bartender fixes Billy’s drink and runs his card.
It’s not the sort of problem Billy can work out. If Tommy’s address was listed somewhere, he would have long ago found it in his research. The only person he can imagine who has it is Mack, and he somehow doubts that Mack’s going to give it up lightly. “How much can I pay you to distract Mack for an hour?”
“You’ve gotta be joking. As if I could distract anyone for an hour. Anyway, even if I could, your card was just declined.” He grins. “Been a big spender lately, haven’t you?”
Snatching his card back, Billy pushes away from the counter. Stalking through the club with purpose, he passes through to the employee’s area unimpeded. His feet take him quickly toward Mack’s office, and he lets out a breath of relief when he finds it empty. Not expecting it to stay that way for very long, he quickly surveys the area. To his surprise there isn’t a computer, so he starts rifling through filing cabinets, looking for any sort of employee records.
Mack is fairly organized and Billy pulls a manila envelope marked “T. Oliver” in almost no time at all. He flips through it quickly, and then, hearing footsteps, shuts the cabinet and teleports out with the entire file.
Though he quickly finds a home address, he has to stop and buy a map to figure out how to get there. It takes almost fifteen minutes to discover it’s a mere ten minute walk from the club. The map leads him to an even seedier part of Devil’s Cove, where homeless camp out in tents and cardboard houses along the street. Eyes follow his every move, and all of Billy’s senses remain hyper aware.
The complex itself should have been condemned in the 1980s. All of the ground floor windows are broken, despite the bars over them. The inside is dark, and the stairwell running up to the second floor has entire steps missing. There’s a drunk sleeping on one of the landings and Billy’s not sure if the reeking stench of urine emanates from him or not.
Tommy’s room is on the third floor. The landing is illuminated by one dim, naked bulb, which casts its paltry light over a threadbare runner stretched over stripped hardwood floors. Billy raps on the front door. “Tommy? Tommy, it’s Billy.”
Anxious, he tries the handle and discovers the door doesn’t even have a lock.
Tommy, dressed in filthy sweat pants and nothing else, is curled up in a ratty armchair in full view of the front door, illuminated only by the light from the hallway and a neon sign outside the window. His eyes are on Billy as he enters, but he makes no effort to move.
“You’re here!” Billy gasps, hurrying inside. “Are you all right?” He cringes at how stupid that sounds.
“Thought about answering,” Tommy quietly says. “Seemed . . . so much effort.”
Tommy looks worse than Billy's ever seen him. He looks far worse. “What's wrong? What happened?” He sets the Chinese food down and goes to touch Tommy's clammy forehead.
The reaction is instant. “Don't touch me!” Tommy jerks away violently but doesn't get very far.
Stunned, Billy draws his hand back. Tommy's breathing hard and pulls his bare feet up to his chest. Up close like this, Billy can see him more clearly. His eyes are haunted and one is bruised; he's sure it'll be black by morning. He's curled up, favoring one side, and his makeup has smeared down his face in twin tear tracks. “Did you get into a fight?”
Tommy doesn't answer, just moans softly and stares listlessly over Billy's shoulder.
Outside of the sweltering club, Billy can really smell Tommy. For once, he doesn't smell like alcohol. It's a muskier scent than that, something feral mixed with sweat. It makes his stomach roil. At a loss, Billy picks up the bag of food. “I brought Chinese.”
Tommy doesn't snatch the bag away like Billy anticipated. He doesn't even look over until Billy's got the lid off the container and the scent of food fills the air. Billy sticks the plastic fork in and hands it over, not daring to touch Tommy.
With what looks like considerable effort, Tommy accepts the food. His first bite is very slow, but as he chews, a little life comes back into his eyes. Before long, he's eating with gusto.
Billy takes Tommy’s interest in the food as a good sign and uses the moment to look Tommy over for further injuries-he identifies deep bruising here and there but nothing is bleeding or broken. He doesn't know exactly what's wrong, but he's starting to piece together an idea. Something happened and since Tommy hasn’t been using, he felt it much more keenly and had no way to dull the after effects.
“You're a real wreck,” Billy quietly, affectionately says. “You should've called me.”
Between bites of his food, Tommy weakly says, “Don't have a phone.”
The words stab Billy. He never thought of that. “I'm an idiot. I never should've left you alone yesterday.”
“Had to do it,” Tommy quietly says. “Had a debt to pay.”
Billy wants to protest, but he doesn't. He wants to comfortingly touch Tommy too, but he doesn't do that either. “Are you debt free now?”
Tommy's stopped eating, but stares at his food, contemplating. “For now.” He shivers and sets the container aside. One of his hands rakes through his tangled hair, which causes him to wince.
Billy can see that his scalp is red and irritated and his hair is filthy. The smell is quite intense when he lifts his arm. “Tommy, don't take this the wrong way, but you could seriously use a shower.”
Tommy's eyes flash as they redirect on Billy, and for a moment Billy's afraid he's seriously offended him. “Want one so bad,” Tommy whispers. As if disgusted with himself, Tommy digs his fingertips into one of his shoulders and presses so hard his closely-shorn nails cut through a thin layer of dried sweat on his skin. He repeats the process, leaving red trails cutting through filth. “Water's been off for weeks.”
Sensing an opening, Billy wastes no time. “Come back to my house, Tommy.” He feels so close to success he can hardly believe it. “You can shower and clean up there. There's plenty of hot water and big fluffy towels and all the soap and shampoo you could want.” The broken look Tommy gives him makes Billy's heart ache.
When Tommy speaks, it's not even loud enough to be called a whisper. “I want to.”
Not daring to breathe, Billy extends his hand, palm up. “We can be there in ten seconds.”
Tommy stares at Billy's hand. He starts to reach out and then closes his eyes before his fingers fold into Billy's.
Relief floods through Billy, and a second later he presses the teleport key.
They arrive in Billy's living room, Tommy in the easy chair, Billy kneeling on the floor beside him. He releases Tommy's hand and watches him gasp at the sensation.
Not wanting to give Tommy time to reconsider, Billy springs to his feet. “The bathroom is this way.” He gets the shower running as soon as possible, convinced that the steam and sound of running water will entice Tommy more than anything he can say. “Take as much time as you'd like.” He pulls a big bath towel out from under the sink and sets it on the counter. “There's shampoo and conditioner, lots of soap, wash cloths . . . just let me know if you need anything else.”
Tommy stands in the doorway, dazed. He looks even worse in the harsh bathroom lighting. Billy thinks he can see bite marks on his neck. “Thanks.”
“I'll just be in the other room if you need anything.”
Tommy’s gaze starts tracking again, honing in on Billy as he edges out of the bathroom. “Billy.” He blinks once. “You . . .” He rubs his shoulder again. “Nevermind.”
“What is it?”
Heavily, Tommy leans against the door. His face screws up, as if in pain, and Billy realizes he's holding back tears. He shakes his head. “Want some blow so fucking bad.” Before he can cry, Tommy rubs the back of his wrist against his eyes. His attention is drawn by the running water. It's hot enough now to start steaming the mirror.
It's horrible to watch, and Billy's so glad he doesn't have drugs. He's not sure he'd be able to keep from giving them to Tommy right now if he did. “I'm sorry. I've . . . I've got some painkillers. They should at least knock the edge off . . . off the pain.” He opens the medicine cabinet and pulls out a bottle and sets a few pills on the counter. He holds onto the bottle.
Tommy doesn't reply. He doesn't even seem to have heard. Without even undressing, Tommy climbs into the shower. When the water hits him, he actually hisses, bowing his head until his hair is wet and hanging in his face. It's a heart-rending sight, and Billy has difficulty looking away and closing the door. Every fiber in his being wants to stay there and help Tommy, but he knows Tommy won’t allow it.
For a while, he wanders his house, aimless. After so many days of hunting Tommy down in the club, he finds he doesn't know what to do with himself now that he has Tommy here.
He calls Trini and leaves a message on her answering machine, updating her on Tommy's condition. Not wanting to be on the phone when Tommy gets out of the shower, he doesn't try calling back later. The fear was ungrounded. After an hour, Tommy's still in the shower, and Billy can hear the water sloughing as Tommy scrubs and scrubs and knows he hasn't fallen asleep.
As it begins to stretch into two hours, Billy finds his mind slotting all the variables of the last few days into place. Tommy had been dreading something big happening. Mack had cut his alcohol and drugs off yesterday in what Billy now realizes was in preparation for this, whatever this is. If Tommy's debt's paid, he can imagine it wasn't thugs that beat him up.
Not with bite marks on his neck.
After two hours in the shower, Billy's convinced that Mack's method of making him pay back his last debt was by whoring him out to some abusive fuck who wanted Tommy clean and aware of all the abuse he was going to dole out. It fills Billy with such rage he actually sees red for several seconds before managing to calm himself down.
Not much later, the water finally shuts off.
Sitting out in the living room while waiting for Tommy to dry off and exit the bathroom is the worst waiting game he's ever played.
At long last, the door opens. “Billy?”
“I'm here.” He springs to his feet and hurries over.
Tommy's standing in the doorway, framed by steam, the towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is clean and shiny, but even more than that, his face is free of makeup. For once, it actually looks like Tommy. Billy hadn't realized how much the makeup changed him.
“Do you . . . do you have a shirt I could wear or something?”
“Right. Of course. Just a second.” Two hours and he didn't think to find something for Tommy to wear! He's hopeful Tommy will let him burn the horrible things he came over in.
Tommy's taller and broader than Billy, and he's already given away the two articles of clothing that would best fit him, but he finds a pair of old pajamas that ought to do the trick-and some boxers. “These'll be okay to sleep in. We can get you something that fits better in the morning.” He hands the bundle over.
“Sleep?”
“There's no way you're going back to that apartment.” Billy walks down the hall and opens the door to the guest room. “Look, this is where you'll stay.” It's a nice room done up in a nautical theme. The bed is a queen and loaded with pillows. “At least for tonight.”
Holding the bundle of clothes to his chest, Tommy wanders into the room.
Feeling apprehension rolling off him, Billy says, “You're safe here. No one can hurt you.”
“I have to be at work at eight tomorrow.” He turns back to Billy. “Will . . . will you drive me?”
“You're not going back to that club. There's no way. Not after . . . not after this.”
“But Mack--”
“Fuck. Mack.” He watches the way Tommy's back straightens upon hearing those words come out of Billy's mouth. “You paid your debt, didn't you? Just . . . let me take care of the rest.” He crosses to the bed and pulls back the covers. “Get some sleep. When did you last have a full night of rest?”
“Dunno.” Tommy stares at the sheets. “Don't ever sleep well.”
“You're going to sleep well tonight. Look . . . I've got an idea. You change, I'll be right back.”
He leaves Tommy there and ducks into his bedroom and the adjoining master bathroom. It takes a bit of rummaging, but he finally finds the sleeping pills he got not long after the war. When he returns, he's pleased to see Tommy's pulled the boxers on. “We can't make a habit of this, but these will knock you out in thirty minutes guaranteed.” He puts two pills in Tommy's hand, and pressed a glass of water into the other. “Did you take the painkillers earlier?”
“Yeah.” Tommy doesn't hesitate; he's desperate and swallows the pills down gratefully. He crawls into bed after that, curled up on his side. “Will you . . . will you stay until I'm asleep?”
The fragility in Tommy's voice almost takes Billy's breath away. “Of course.” He wants to stroke Tommy's wet hair and whisper reassuring words, but he doesn't dare.
Tommy curls up with the pillow and closes his eyes, letting out a groan of contentment as he sinks into the soft mattress. Billy knows the sleeping pills couldn't have taken hold that quickly, but he's out within five minutes.
Billy sits with him for half an hour and then quietly picks up the wet discarded towel, turns out the light and goes to tidy the bathroom. Tommy sleeps, but Billy can't. His mind is whirling fast, desperate for outlet and a way to make this right.
He soon finds himself seated at his computer, Tommy's file from the Cat's Beard at his side, typing up a new contract. It takes him less than twenty minutes to draft and then he prints out twenty copies. It's just after midnight, but Billy's on fire. Feeling like a man possessed, he checks in on Tommy once more and then goes into his living room and morphs right there.
Zordon's rules echo in his head, but he mentally justifies this: he's not escalating a battle; he's defending Tommy.
Author: vandonovan
Pairing: Eventual Billy/Tommy, background Rocky/Adam, Skull/Kim, Jason/Zack.
Word count: 4,180 (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 four:
On Friday, Billy doesn’t teleport in until after midnight.
Reggie puts a big, meaty hand on his chest. “What’s in the bag?”
He expected this and replies promptly. “Late dinner.” Billy opens it to show him. “And some cookies. Want some?” He pulls out four chocolate chip cookies, neatly bundled in a napkin. “Still warm.”
Reggie’s brow furrows, but he accepts the cookies. “You didn’t put shit in them or nothing, did you?”
“No. I just thought if I was going to bring my dinner with me, I ought to bring something to share. If you don’t want them though . . .”
“No, no. That’s fine. That’s fine.” Reggie’s thick fingers take awhile to delicately unwrap the napkin, but he nods and pops one, whole, into his mouth. “S’not bad. Homemade?”
“Yes. Just out of the oven.”
Reggie nods approvingly as he finishes chewing and swallows.
Billy inclines his head toward the stairs. “Can I go down?”
“All right. Just don’t make a habit of bringing your dinner with you.”
The music is so loud tonight Billy can hear it even out on the stairwell with the door closed. He squeezes inside and it’s like stepping into a sauna. The air is stale and hot and, as he pushes his way past people, sweat is soon dripping off him.
Last night, the small bag of food fit neatly undetected under his shirt. He’s brought four times as much tonight and two dozen cookies as bribes, but he doesn’t need them. No one bars his way as he navigates toward the “Employes Only” sign.
He stands beside the door for an hour, watching what he can see of Tommy on stage from his vantage point. The crowd starts to thin after one and, during a particularly loud part of the stage show, Billy slips through the doors.
He walks quietly, mentally mapping the place out, memorizing where the backstage dressing room is in relation to both Mack’s office and the private room. There are dancers in the dressing room when he arrives, but they hurry on stage for a grand finale, leaving the room empty. Along the back of the wall, in lieu of closets, are racks of costumes. Billy picks the one furthest in the corner and hides behind it.
Half an hour later, the show is over and the room floods with dancers again. To his relief, none hang their costumes up on his rack and no one notices the aroma of food in the musty old cellar. He doesn’t dare put his head out to look for Tommy, but he hears his voice, low and indistinct. When the room finally starts to clear, Billy nudges the rack away from the wall and steps forward.
One of the dancers notices him, and Billy acts quickly. “Special delivery from an admirer.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a neat bundle of cookies. “There’s enough for everyone.”
They’re all exhausted, hungry and mistreated, and suddenly none of them care that a strange man is backstage with them; not when he’s handing out food.
Tommy watches him in the mirror, but doesn’t get up or turn around until Billy makes his way past the others and leans against the counter. He sets the bag down between them. “I’ll be here tomorrow, too.” He smiles sadly. Tommy looks so utterly wrecked. “You all right?”
“You fucking let me fall asleep.” His brow furrows. “Mack was furious.”
“Then Mack is an idiot. I paid my money. He has no business dictating what I let you do.”
Tommy’s eyes are on the bag. “I slept for almost two hours.”
“The club was closed.”
“He was waiting for me to finish to lock up.”
“Then he should’ve checked up on you sooner.” Billy crosses his arms. “Look, I’m sorry if that got you in trouble.” He takes a deep breath. “I won’t do it again.” He nudges the bag closer. “There’s plenty to eat. I recommend getting out of here with it while you can.”
Tommy pulls the bag into his lap and glances at the other dancers. They’re all chattering loudly and enjoying their cookies. “Well, thanks.” His voice is hardly even a whisper.
There’s something in the words that tugs at Billy’s heart. “We can go any time, Tommy. You can stay with me as long as you want or need, you know. I really mean it. I’ve got an extra bed, a shower, food . . . just say the word.”
Tommy stares at him. “I can’t. I owe Mack.”
Billy holds his breath to keep from shouting.
Almost as if on cue, Mack’s voice booms down the corridor. “What’s all this noise?!”
All eyes turn toward the door and Billy acts fast. He gives Tommy’s shoulder a squeeze and then teleports out before Mack can catch him.
--
He repeats the process almost exactly on Saturday and Sunday, but both times teleports directly into the dressing room, behind the clothes rack, just before the final dance number finishes. He brings more food with him too, but hands it to the other dancers discreetly so they take it without alerting Mack.
On Sunday, Tommy says, “We close at midnight on Monday.”
Billy smiles. “See you just before midnight then.”
--
It doesn’t go quite as he planned on Monday. The dancers come in after the final number as usual and happily take the thirty-nine cent tacos Billy brought for them, but Tommy doesn’t show. Monday nights are much quieter than weekends, and only one fourth as many dancers show up.
After half an hour, the dressing room is nearly empty. Concerned, he calls out before the last dancer leaves. “Where’s Tommy?”
He’s given an elaborate shrug. “Saw him talking to Mack after the show.”
Relieved slightly to know Tommy’s there, Billy decides to wait. The lights in the hall shut off and after another half hour he starts toward the door with the intention of making his way to Mack’s office. He’s only a few feet out of the dressing room when he hears feet approaching and hurries back inside. There isn’t time to hide in the clothing rack, so Billy presses himself against the wall.
Tommy enters and passes right by without noticing him. He sits in front of the mirror and scrubs his face with a wad of tissues. Staring at himself in the mirror, he bares his teeth and swipes his arm across all the makeup on the counter, knocking most of it to the ground.
Glancing out the door, Billy ascertains he’s come alone.
“Tommy?”
Tommy spins around, startled, but relaxes when he sees Billy. He rubs his palms over his eyes. “You’re still here.”
“Of course I am. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Mack just . . .” Tommy sniffs and lifts his head. “He isn’t letting me use right now.”
It takes a moment for the words to make sense to Billy, but then he blinks. To him, that sounds ideal. Normally Tommy’s too drugged; it's well past time he should've quit. It also explains the strained look in his eyes, and the agitated way he glances around the room. Billy slides onto the stool beside him. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Just be careful, Tommy. Given your usage rates, you’ll probably experience considerable withdrawal.”
Tommy snorts. It’s almost a laugh. There are unshed tears in his eyes. “Did you bring food?”
“Yeah.” Billy hands him the bag. “You shouldn’t be doing this alone. Come back to my place tonight.”
For once, Tommy doesn’t tear open the bag. His gaze is focused on Billy. “I have to do this.” He closes his eyes, calming his breathing. “You should go. Mack’ll be in any moment.”
“It’ll be all right.” Billy reaches out and squeezes Tommy’s hand.
Tommy stuffs the food into a dark bag on the ground by his feet and resumes scrubbing the makeup off his face. “Just go. Please.”
It’s so hard for Billy to leave him like this. Withdrawal isn’t easy. He knows how badly users suffer all sorts of horrible symptoms-and experience suicidal thoughts. Hoping Mack knows what he’s doing, Billy gets to his feet. “I’m just a phone call away. Any time.”
In the hallway, he hears Mack approaching, jauntily whistling “Singin’ in the Rain.”
“I’ll see you soon,” Billy whispers before teleporting out.
--
Concerned for Tommy’s health, Billy forgoes working on the zords and heads to the club at nine on Tuesday, stopping only for Chinese takeout. Tommy’s not on stage when he arrives and doesn’t come on stage at any point during the number. Billy’s heart is in his throat as he tries to figure out what to do.
It’s while looking for Cindy that he notices how different the crowd is. The rowdy men at the foot of the stage are gone, replaced by cheering women. The performers are different too-mostly women and, as Billy realizes, women dressed as men. He turns around completely and discovers that he’s one of the only male patrons there.
Cindy’s nowhere in sight, but the bartender is the same as usual.
“Where’s Tommy,” he asks without preamble.
“Didn’t expect to see you in here tonight.” The bartender tilts his head. “You better buy a drink before you start prying me with questions.”
“Fine. Give me a vodka and tonic.” He hands over his card. “Where’s Tommy?”
Grinning, the bartender takes the card. “How should I know that?”
It’s hard not to throttle the man. “Why isn’t he here?”
The bartender laughs. “Are you kidding? It’s Ladies Night! He’s probably home sleeping.”
The thought terrifies Billy, though he isn’t sure why. “Where does he live?”
“Tommy? He’s hardly said five words to me. You think I know where he lives?” Turning away, the bartender fixes Billy’s drink and runs his card.
It’s not the sort of problem Billy can work out. If Tommy’s address was listed somewhere, he would have long ago found it in his research. The only person he can imagine who has it is Mack, and he somehow doubts that Mack’s going to give it up lightly. “How much can I pay you to distract Mack for an hour?”
“You’ve gotta be joking. As if I could distract anyone for an hour. Anyway, even if I could, your card was just declined.” He grins. “Been a big spender lately, haven’t you?”
Snatching his card back, Billy pushes away from the counter. Stalking through the club with purpose, he passes through to the employee’s area unimpeded. His feet take him quickly toward Mack’s office, and he lets out a breath of relief when he finds it empty. Not expecting it to stay that way for very long, he quickly surveys the area. To his surprise there isn’t a computer, so he starts rifling through filing cabinets, looking for any sort of employee records.
Mack is fairly organized and Billy pulls a manila envelope marked “T. Oliver” in almost no time at all. He flips through it quickly, and then, hearing footsteps, shuts the cabinet and teleports out with the entire file.
Though he quickly finds a home address, he has to stop and buy a map to figure out how to get there. It takes almost fifteen minutes to discover it’s a mere ten minute walk from the club. The map leads him to an even seedier part of Devil’s Cove, where homeless camp out in tents and cardboard houses along the street. Eyes follow his every move, and all of Billy’s senses remain hyper aware.
The complex itself should have been condemned in the 1980s. All of the ground floor windows are broken, despite the bars over them. The inside is dark, and the stairwell running up to the second floor has entire steps missing. There’s a drunk sleeping on one of the landings and Billy’s not sure if the reeking stench of urine emanates from him or not.
Tommy’s room is on the third floor. The landing is illuminated by one dim, naked bulb, which casts its paltry light over a threadbare runner stretched over stripped hardwood floors. Billy raps on the front door. “Tommy? Tommy, it’s Billy.”
Anxious, he tries the handle and discovers the door doesn’t even have a lock.
Tommy, dressed in filthy sweat pants and nothing else, is curled up in a ratty armchair in full view of the front door, illuminated only by the light from the hallway and a neon sign outside the window. His eyes are on Billy as he enters, but he makes no effort to move.
“You’re here!” Billy gasps, hurrying inside. “Are you all right?” He cringes at how stupid that sounds.
“Thought about answering,” Tommy quietly says. “Seemed . . . so much effort.”
Tommy looks worse than Billy's ever seen him. He looks far worse. “What's wrong? What happened?” He sets the Chinese food down and goes to touch Tommy's clammy forehead.
The reaction is instant. “Don't touch me!” Tommy jerks away violently but doesn't get very far.
Stunned, Billy draws his hand back. Tommy's breathing hard and pulls his bare feet up to his chest. Up close like this, Billy can see him more clearly. His eyes are haunted and one is bruised; he's sure it'll be black by morning. He's curled up, favoring one side, and his makeup has smeared down his face in twin tear tracks. “Did you get into a fight?”
Tommy doesn't answer, just moans softly and stares listlessly over Billy's shoulder.
Outside of the sweltering club, Billy can really smell Tommy. For once, he doesn't smell like alcohol. It's a muskier scent than that, something feral mixed with sweat. It makes his stomach roil. At a loss, Billy picks up the bag of food. “I brought Chinese.”
Tommy doesn't snatch the bag away like Billy anticipated. He doesn't even look over until Billy's got the lid off the container and the scent of food fills the air. Billy sticks the plastic fork in and hands it over, not daring to touch Tommy.
With what looks like considerable effort, Tommy accepts the food. His first bite is very slow, but as he chews, a little life comes back into his eyes. Before long, he's eating with gusto.
Billy takes Tommy’s interest in the food as a good sign and uses the moment to look Tommy over for further injuries-he identifies deep bruising here and there but nothing is bleeding or broken. He doesn't know exactly what's wrong, but he's starting to piece together an idea. Something happened and since Tommy hasn’t been using, he felt it much more keenly and had no way to dull the after effects.
“You're a real wreck,” Billy quietly, affectionately says. “You should've called me.”
Between bites of his food, Tommy weakly says, “Don't have a phone.”
The words stab Billy. He never thought of that. “I'm an idiot. I never should've left you alone yesterday.”
“Had to do it,” Tommy quietly says. “Had a debt to pay.”
Billy wants to protest, but he doesn't. He wants to comfortingly touch Tommy too, but he doesn't do that either. “Are you debt free now?”
Tommy's stopped eating, but stares at his food, contemplating. “For now.” He shivers and sets the container aside. One of his hands rakes through his tangled hair, which causes him to wince.
Billy can see that his scalp is red and irritated and his hair is filthy. The smell is quite intense when he lifts his arm. “Tommy, don't take this the wrong way, but you could seriously use a shower.”
Tommy's eyes flash as they redirect on Billy, and for a moment Billy's afraid he's seriously offended him. “Want one so bad,” Tommy whispers. As if disgusted with himself, Tommy digs his fingertips into one of his shoulders and presses so hard his closely-shorn nails cut through a thin layer of dried sweat on his skin. He repeats the process, leaving red trails cutting through filth. “Water's been off for weeks.”
Sensing an opening, Billy wastes no time. “Come back to my house, Tommy.” He feels so close to success he can hardly believe it. “You can shower and clean up there. There's plenty of hot water and big fluffy towels and all the soap and shampoo you could want.” The broken look Tommy gives him makes Billy's heart ache.
When Tommy speaks, it's not even loud enough to be called a whisper. “I want to.”
Not daring to breathe, Billy extends his hand, palm up. “We can be there in ten seconds.”
Tommy stares at Billy's hand. He starts to reach out and then closes his eyes before his fingers fold into Billy's.
Relief floods through Billy, and a second later he presses the teleport key.
They arrive in Billy's living room, Tommy in the easy chair, Billy kneeling on the floor beside him. He releases Tommy's hand and watches him gasp at the sensation.
Not wanting to give Tommy time to reconsider, Billy springs to his feet. “The bathroom is this way.” He gets the shower running as soon as possible, convinced that the steam and sound of running water will entice Tommy more than anything he can say. “Take as much time as you'd like.” He pulls a big bath towel out from under the sink and sets it on the counter. “There's shampoo and conditioner, lots of soap, wash cloths . . . just let me know if you need anything else.”
Tommy stands in the doorway, dazed. He looks even worse in the harsh bathroom lighting. Billy thinks he can see bite marks on his neck. “Thanks.”
“I'll just be in the other room if you need anything.”
Tommy’s gaze starts tracking again, honing in on Billy as he edges out of the bathroom. “Billy.” He blinks once. “You . . .” He rubs his shoulder again. “Nevermind.”
“What is it?”
Heavily, Tommy leans against the door. His face screws up, as if in pain, and Billy realizes he's holding back tears. He shakes his head. “Want some blow so fucking bad.” Before he can cry, Tommy rubs the back of his wrist against his eyes. His attention is drawn by the running water. It's hot enough now to start steaming the mirror.
It's horrible to watch, and Billy's so glad he doesn't have drugs. He's not sure he'd be able to keep from giving them to Tommy right now if he did. “I'm sorry. I've . . . I've got some painkillers. They should at least knock the edge off . . . off the pain.” He opens the medicine cabinet and pulls out a bottle and sets a few pills on the counter. He holds onto the bottle.
Tommy doesn't reply. He doesn't even seem to have heard. Without even undressing, Tommy climbs into the shower. When the water hits him, he actually hisses, bowing his head until his hair is wet and hanging in his face. It's a heart-rending sight, and Billy has difficulty looking away and closing the door. Every fiber in his being wants to stay there and help Tommy, but he knows Tommy won’t allow it.
For a while, he wanders his house, aimless. After so many days of hunting Tommy down in the club, he finds he doesn't know what to do with himself now that he has Tommy here.
He calls Trini and leaves a message on her answering machine, updating her on Tommy's condition. Not wanting to be on the phone when Tommy gets out of the shower, he doesn't try calling back later. The fear was ungrounded. After an hour, Tommy's still in the shower, and Billy can hear the water sloughing as Tommy scrubs and scrubs and knows he hasn't fallen asleep.
As it begins to stretch into two hours, Billy finds his mind slotting all the variables of the last few days into place. Tommy had been dreading something big happening. Mack had cut his alcohol and drugs off yesterday in what Billy now realizes was in preparation for this, whatever this is. If Tommy's debt's paid, he can imagine it wasn't thugs that beat him up.
Not with bite marks on his neck.
After two hours in the shower, Billy's convinced that Mack's method of making him pay back his last debt was by whoring him out to some abusive fuck who wanted Tommy clean and aware of all the abuse he was going to dole out. It fills Billy with such rage he actually sees red for several seconds before managing to calm himself down.
Not much later, the water finally shuts off.
Sitting out in the living room while waiting for Tommy to dry off and exit the bathroom is the worst waiting game he's ever played.
At long last, the door opens. “Billy?”
“I'm here.” He springs to his feet and hurries over.
Tommy's standing in the doorway, framed by steam, the towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is clean and shiny, but even more than that, his face is free of makeup. For once, it actually looks like Tommy. Billy hadn't realized how much the makeup changed him.
“Do you . . . do you have a shirt I could wear or something?”
“Right. Of course. Just a second.” Two hours and he didn't think to find something for Tommy to wear! He's hopeful Tommy will let him burn the horrible things he came over in.
Tommy's taller and broader than Billy, and he's already given away the two articles of clothing that would best fit him, but he finds a pair of old pajamas that ought to do the trick-and some boxers. “These'll be okay to sleep in. We can get you something that fits better in the morning.” He hands the bundle over.
“Sleep?”
“There's no way you're going back to that apartment.” Billy walks down the hall and opens the door to the guest room. “Look, this is where you'll stay.” It's a nice room done up in a nautical theme. The bed is a queen and loaded with pillows. “At least for tonight.”
Holding the bundle of clothes to his chest, Tommy wanders into the room.
Feeling apprehension rolling off him, Billy says, “You're safe here. No one can hurt you.”
“I have to be at work at eight tomorrow.” He turns back to Billy. “Will . . . will you drive me?”
“You're not going back to that club. There's no way. Not after . . . not after this.”
“But Mack--”
“Fuck. Mack.” He watches the way Tommy's back straightens upon hearing those words come out of Billy's mouth. “You paid your debt, didn't you? Just . . . let me take care of the rest.” He crosses to the bed and pulls back the covers. “Get some sleep. When did you last have a full night of rest?”
“Dunno.” Tommy stares at the sheets. “Don't ever sleep well.”
“You're going to sleep well tonight. Look . . . I've got an idea. You change, I'll be right back.”
He leaves Tommy there and ducks into his bedroom and the adjoining master bathroom. It takes a bit of rummaging, but he finally finds the sleeping pills he got not long after the war. When he returns, he's pleased to see Tommy's pulled the boxers on. “We can't make a habit of this, but these will knock you out in thirty minutes guaranteed.” He puts two pills in Tommy's hand, and pressed a glass of water into the other. “Did you take the painkillers earlier?”
“Yeah.” Tommy doesn't hesitate; he's desperate and swallows the pills down gratefully. He crawls into bed after that, curled up on his side. “Will you . . . will you stay until I'm asleep?”
The fragility in Tommy's voice almost takes Billy's breath away. “Of course.” He wants to stroke Tommy's wet hair and whisper reassuring words, but he doesn't dare.
Tommy curls up with the pillow and closes his eyes, letting out a groan of contentment as he sinks into the soft mattress. Billy knows the sleeping pills couldn't have taken hold that quickly, but he's out within five minutes.
Billy sits with him for half an hour and then quietly picks up the wet discarded towel, turns out the light and goes to tidy the bathroom. Tommy sleeps, but Billy can't. His mind is whirling fast, desperate for outlet and a way to make this right.
He soon finds himself seated at his computer, Tommy's file from the Cat's Beard at his side, typing up a new contract. It takes him less than twenty minutes to draft and then he prints out twenty copies. It's just after midnight, but Billy's on fire. Feeling like a man possessed, he checks in on Tommy once more and then goes into his living room and morphs right there.
Zordon's rules echo in his head, but he mentally justifies this: he's not escalating a battle; he's defending Tommy.