Holiday Fic #4
Day Four, and today's little story is dedicated to suespur, who is probably the one person responsible for my current "all Oz, all the time" state of mind! suespur barraged me with PM's -- "Do you know about this comm? Have you heard about Oz Magi? Here's a list of people, FRIEND THEM NOW!" -- and for that I am eternally grateful! Not only did she help me get "acclimated to my surroundings", she also arranged for me to get WANTED, without which I would not know the wonders of Eddie Drake. EDDIE DRAKE. Oh yes.
Merry Christmas, suespur!
Title: The Devil You Know
Fandom: Oz
Timeframe: Season Four. Technically I guess it's AU. :)
Prompt: 25moments #01 - Scars
Word Count: 1354
The Devil You Know
by Severina
Chris spent much of his elementary school education sitting on a hard-backed chair waiting to get into the principal’s office, where justice for his crimes was usually metered out by a long wooden pointer stick, a steady palm, and a count of 20. By the way Toby is fidgeting in his chair, he doesn’t think Toby ever got the same treatment. Toby, he thinks, probably went to one of those schools were corporal punishment was frowned upon, and the worst thing any of his little uniformed buddies ever did anyway was cheat on a math test. Toby, he thinks, is probably shitting bricks right about now.
Chris swivels in his chair to peer over his shoulder, watches McManus wave his clipboard at a startled looking Murphy. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that particular look on Murphy’s face before, and McManus is turning a remarkable shade of red as well, and he takes a minute to ponder just what that might mean for Toby and himself before facing forward again.
He side-glances Toby, but Toby is gritting his teeth and staring straight ahead. He reaches out and puts a hand tentatively on Toby’s arm.
Toby snatches his arm away, shooting him a glare that could strip the paint off the walls. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls.
“Aw, Toby, c’mon. I said I was fucking sorry.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Chris straightens in his chair. “You know I didn’t mean to elbow you in the nose!”
“Yeah, whatever,” Toby sniffs.
“It ain’t my fault! You should fucking know better than to sneak up behind me--”
“Sneak?” Toby squeals. He huffs out a breath. “Sneak.”
“Sneak!“ Chris repeats vehemently. “And at least what I did was accidental. You knew exactly what you were doing when you punched me in the fucking gut.”
Toby smiles grimly. “Damn right I did.”
“I’m glad I took you out,” Chris said. “Watching you fly over that weight bench was sweet.”
“You might have noticed that I was on top when they pulled us apart,” Toby said condescendingly.
“Motherfucker.”
“Bitch.”
“Cocksucker.”
“Oh,” Toby says, “not for a loooong time.”
Chris slumps back in his seat, curls his hands into fists and rests them lightly on his thighs, and reminds himself that he actually loves the prick in the next chair. Remembering that helps while he’s pretending that he doesn’t want to pick Toby up and hurl him through McManus’s window.
“It’s probably going to scar,” Toby says primly.
Chris glances over in time to see Toby tentatively poking at the bump on his nose. He snorts. “Yeah, well fuck you. Maybe it’ll match the two I’ve got on my back,” he says pointedly.
“I’ve got enough scars without having to compare to yours,” Toby shoots back. He slides the arm of his long-sleeved shirt over his elbow, points at the tiny faded lines. “You might remember the incident that caused these?”
“Yeah?” Chris whips up his T-shirt, places a palm over his heart and cups the half-moon scar on his chest. “I died, Toby.”
“Need a fucking stake to kill you off,” Toby muttered under his breath.
“What did you say? What did you fucking say to me?”
Toby shrugs and lets the arm of his shirt fall back in order to raise the hem, points at the long thin line on his side left behind by Schillinger‘s blade. “This bled like a stuck pig,” he says.
Chris squints over at him, looks from the crooked and angry-looking scar to Toby’s face. He lets his shirt fall and rubs at his bottom lip. “That one was bad,” he agrees.
“Damn right.”
“This one,” Chris says, pointing at the tiny mark below his ear, “don’t look like much, but I was out for three days. Don’t remember a fucking thing.”
“No shit?”
“No fucking shit,” Chris says.
“I got this one falling off my bike when I was ten,” Toby says, tugging his zipper to half-mast and pulling his pants down just a little to indicate the small scar on his hip. “My mother nearly had a heart attack.”
Chris finds himself smiling at that, mostly because he pictures Toby’s mother as a stuck-up society bitch and figures she could use a heart attack or two. “She fire the nanny?” he asks.
Toby blinks. “How did you know?”
Chris gives him a look and slides his own pants lower on his hips and gestures to the scar on the curve of one rounded ass cheek.
“That one’s always bothered me,” Toby says, tracing a finger lightly over the small crescent shaped scar. “I’ve wanted to ask, but…”
Chris sighs. “Let’s just say my mother had a nasty fucking temper.”
“Shit, Chris.”
“Ground glass.” Chris shrugs. “Never stole her smokes again.”
“Jesus,” Toby breathes. “I’ve got one here on the back of my knee--”
“What the FUCK is going on here?” McManus booms from the doorway.
Toby is caught leaning forward, and he jerks at the shout, his feet catching in his loosened jeans. His arms spiral and he manages to stay upright only by flinging himself the rest of the way forward, slapping his hands loudly onto Chris’s shoulders and sending them both toppling back into his chair. Chris wraps a leg around Toby’s calf when he feels them start to slide; pulls, drags, and otherwise manhandles them both into a semi-upright position in the chair.
He feels Toby’s chest hitching against his and for a split second thinks that Toby is crying, then feels that the mouth buried against his neck is curved into a wide smile and realizes that Toby is trying desperately to keep from laughing.
“Hey,” he says. “Mr. McManus. Sir.”
“Don’t you fucking sir me!” McManus rounds to the front of the desk, and Chris does his best to keep a straight face in the face of McManus’s outraged indignation. He raises a brow when McManus throws the clipboard on the desk. “Beecher, get off him!”
Chris pushes back on Toby’s shoulders, catches his elbow when he again stumbles, and rises slowly, letting his eyes wander to the front of Toby’s jeans before stepping around him to face McManus. The clacking noise of the teeth of Toby’s zipper going up sounds very loud in the small room.
“We were just--” Chris starts.
McManus holds up a hand. “If you’re going to finish that sentence with ’about to fuck in your office’, I don’t want to fucking know!”
Toby slides a hand over his face and takes a breath before turning to face the unit manager. “We were comparing--”
“Oh fuck,” McManus says, closing his eyes.
“--battle scars,” Toby finishes.
McManus takes a deep breath before opening his eyes. “What part of the no fucking and no fighting rules do you not understand?”
“Well--” Chris says.
“We weren’t--”
“I don’t want to hear it. If the hole wasn’t filled to capacity right now, you’d both have a month to think about it! Jesus Christ! Give me one fucking good reason I shouldn’t put the two of you into separate pods right now!”
Toby looks at his shoes.
“Well?”
Chris clears his throat. “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t?” he tries.
McManus shakes his head. Sighs. “You’re on your last fucking legs, you got that? Next time there‘s an incident, of any kind, one of you will be heading to Gen Pop. Understood?”
Chris stands at attention. “Yes, sir.”
“Beecher?”
Toby presses his lips together, manages to meet McManus’s eyes. “Got it,” he says shortly.
“Good.” McManus drops into his chair, pulls the clipboard forward and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Back to your pods.”
Chris brushes up against Toby as they exit the room, because he loves watching the hair at the nape of Toby’s neck bristle just before he turns around to glare.
“I really didn’t mean to elbow you in the nose,” Chris says casually.
“Are you really going there again?” Toby bites out.
“It’s barely a scratch.”
“Fuck you.”
“Pussy,” Chris says.
Chris smirks as the door shuts on McManus‘s groan.
.
Merry Christmas, suespur!
Title: The Devil You Know
Fandom: Oz
Timeframe: Season Four. Technically I guess it's AU. :)
Prompt: 25moments #01 - Scars
Word Count: 1354
The Devil You Know
by Severina
Chris spent much of his elementary school education sitting on a hard-backed chair waiting to get into the principal’s office, where justice for his crimes was usually metered out by a long wooden pointer stick, a steady palm, and a count of 20. By the way Toby is fidgeting in his chair, he doesn’t think Toby ever got the same treatment. Toby, he thinks, probably went to one of those schools were corporal punishment was frowned upon, and the worst thing any of his little uniformed buddies ever did anyway was cheat on a math test. Toby, he thinks, is probably shitting bricks right about now.
Chris swivels in his chair to peer over his shoulder, watches McManus wave his clipboard at a startled looking Murphy. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that particular look on Murphy’s face before, and McManus is turning a remarkable shade of red as well, and he takes a minute to ponder just what that might mean for Toby and himself before facing forward again.
He side-glances Toby, but Toby is gritting his teeth and staring straight ahead. He reaches out and puts a hand tentatively on Toby’s arm.
Toby snatches his arm away, shooting him a glare that could strip the paint off the walls. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls.
“Aw, Toby, c’mon. I said I was fucking sorry.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Chris straightens in his chair. “You know I didn’t mean to elbow you in the nose!”
“Yeah, whatever,” Toby sniffs.
“It ain’t my fault! You should fucking know better than to sneak up behind me--”
“Sneak?” Toby squeals. He huffs out a breath. “Sneak.”
“Sneak!“ Chris repeats vehemently. “And at least what I did was accidental. You knew exactly what you were doing when you punched me in the fucking gut.”
Toby smiles grimly. “Damn right I did.”
“I’m glad I took you out,” Chris said. “Watching you fly over that weight bench was sweet.”
“You might have noticed that I was on top when they pulled us apart,” Toby said condescendingly.
“Motherfucker.”
“Bitch.”
“Cocksucker.”
“Oh,” Toby says, “not for a loooong time.”
Chris slumps back in his seat, curls his hands into fists and rests them lightly on his thighs, and reminds himself that he actually loves the prick in the next chair. Remembering that helps while he’s pretending that he doesn’t want to pick Toby up and hurl him through McManus’s window.
“It’s probably going to scar,” Toby says primly.
Chris glances over in time to see Toby tentatively poking at the bump on his nose. He snorts. “Yeah, well fuck you. Maybe it’ll match the two I’ve got on my back,” he says pointedly.
“I’ve got enough scars without having to compare to yours,” Toby shoots back. He slides the arm of his long-sleeved shirt over his elbow, points at the tiny faded lines. “You might remember the incident that caused these?”
“Yeah?” Chris whips up his T-shirt, places a palm over his heart and cups the half-moon scar on his chest. “I died, Toby.”
“Need a fucking stake to kill you off,” Toby muttered under his breath.
“What did you say? What did you fucking say to me?”
Toby shrugs and lets the arm of his shirt fall back in order to raise the hem, points at the long thin line on his side left behind by Schillinger‘s blade. “This bled like a stuck pig,” he says.
Chris squints over at him, looks from the crooked and angry-looking scar to Toby’s face. He lets his shirt fall and rubs at his bottom lip. “That one was bad,” he agrees.
“Damn right.”
“This one,” Chris says, pointing at the tiny mark below his ear, “don’t look like much, but I was out for three days. Don’t remember a fucking thing.”
“No shit?”
“No fucking shit,” Chris says.
“I got this one falling off my bike when I was ten,” Toby says, tugging his zipper to half-mast and pulling his pants down just a little to indicate the small scar on his hip. “My mother nearly had a heart attack.”
Chris finds himself smiling at that, mostly because he pictures Toby’s mother as a stuck-up society bitch and figures she could use a heart attack or two. “She fire the nanny?” he asks.
Toby blinks. “How did you know?”
Chris gives him a look and slides his own pants lower on his hips and gestures to the scar on the curve of one rounded ass cheek.
“That one’s always bothered me,” Toby says, tracing a finger lightly over the small crescent shaped scar. “I’ve wanted to ask, but…”
Chris sighs. “Let’s just say my mother had a nasty fucking temper.”
“Shit, Chris.”
“Ground glass.” Chris shrugs. “Never stole her smokes again.”
“Jesus,” Toby breathes. “I’ve got one here on the back of my knee--”
“What the FUCK is going on here?” McManus booms from the doorway.
Toby is caught leaning forward, and he jerks at the shout, his feet catching in his loosened jeans. His arms spiral and he manages to stay upright only by flinging himself the rest of the way forward, slapping his hands loudly onto Chris’s shoulders and sending them both toppling back into his chair. Chris wraps a leg around Toby’s calf when he feels them start to slide; pulls, drags, and otherwise manhandles them both into a semi-upright position in the chair.
He feels Toby’s chest hitching against his and for a split second thinks that Toby is crying, then feels that the mouth buried against his neck is curved into a wide smile and realizes that Toby is trying desperately to keep from laughing.
“Hey,” he says. “Mr. McManus. Sir.”
“Don’t you fucking sir me!” McManus rounds to the front of the desk, and Chris does his best to keep a straight face in the face of McManus’s outraged indignation. He raises a brow when McManus throws the clipboard on the desk. “Beecher, get off him!”
Chris pushes back on Toby’s shoulders, catches his elbow when he again stumbles, and rises slowly, letting his eyes wander to the front of Toby’s jeans before stepping around him to face McManus. The clacking noise of the teeth of Toby’s zipper going up sounds very loud in the small room.
“We were just--” Chris starts.
McManus holds up a hand. “If you’re going to finish that sentence with ’about to fuck in your office’, I don’t want to fucking know!”
Toby slides a hand over his face and takes a breath before turning to face the unit manager. “We were comparing--”
“Oh fuck,” McManus says, closing his eyes.
“--battle scars,” Toby finishes.
McManus takes a deep breath before opening his eyes. “What part of the no fucking and no fighting rules do you not understand?”
“Well--” Chris says.
“We weren’t--”
“I don’t want to hear it. If the hole wasn’t filled to capacity right now, you’d both have a month to think about it! Jesus Christ! Give me one fucking good reason I shouldn’t put the two of you into separate pods right now!”
Toby looks at his shoes.
“Well?”
Chris clears his throat. “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t?” he tries.
McManus shakes his head. Sighs. “You’re on your last fucking legs, you got that? Next time there‘s an incident, of any kind, one of you will be heading to Gen Pop. Understood?”
Chris stands at attention. “Yes, sir.”
“Beecher?”
Toby presses his lips together, manages to meet McManus’s eyes. “Got it,” he says shortly.
“Good.” McManus drops into his chair, pulls the clipboard forward and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Back to your pods.”
Chris brushes up against Toby as they exit the room, because he loves watching the hair at the nape of Toby’s neck bristle just before he turns around to glare.
“I really didn’t mean to elbow you in the nose,” Chris says casually.
“Are you really going there again?” Toby bites out.
“It’s barely a scratch.”
“Fuck you.”
“Pussy,” Chris says.
Chris smirks as the door shuts on McManus‘s groan.
.