Welcome to 2014 everyone! I hope everyone had a great and safe New Year's Eve.

I liked the idea of starting the new year with a new story, now that one of my WIP's ("Loneliest Road") has been completed. I hope you will like this first chapter and I look forward to hearing from you.

Summary: Duo is a masterful pickpocket and skilled but small-time con artist who always chooses to play it safe. When his best friend owes the wrong people a lot of money, Duo get pulled into a high-stakes plot to rob thirty-something billionaire Heero Yuy. The only way to succeed and save his friend is to push his own boundaries and get way too involved.

Since I have been unable to contact my beta, Zethsaire and have been getting such good feedback on my previous, unbeta'd posts, I decided it might be time for me to bear the burden of proper spelling all by myself. Hopefully my language and proofreading skills have indeed improved enough to be able to produce properly written chapters. I can't guarantee the chapters to be completely-typo free, but I did my best and I can only hope that will be good enough.

Dirty Job

Chapter One

She took a seat right by the door, her back towards it. She straightened the folds in her skintight dark navy dress before she slid into the red leather seat. She placed her designer purse on the floor next to her feet, squeezed into nude heels. She sat back up and started fixing the chocolate curls framing her face, then thought to lean back down and retrieve a small make-up mirror from her bag. She scrutinized herself extensively, the way a woman only would when meeting a hot date. Probably not for the first time, she fretted so much, she must already be invested in the relationship, however new it may be. When the door swung open and the bell rang to indicate such, she hurriedly dropped the mirror into the purse and struggled to assume a more casual demeanor. She left the zipper of her purse open. A Luis Vuitton wallet was exposed.

A mix of disappointment and relief visibly washed over her when the person who had entered was identified as not her date. The older gentleman who had just stepped inside joined a woman his age in the corner booth. He gave her a delicate kiss on her cheek that made her form a wrinkly smile.

The lady pursed her lips as she secretly observed the endearing scene. Absent-mindedly her right hand moved to pinch the thumb and index finger around the ring finger of her left hand. As soon as her brain registered the touch she disconnected her hands and nervously placed them in her lap. She was used to playing with a wedding ring. One that she wasn't currently wearing. The tan line was so pronounced it was apparent she normally would be wearing it. And that she spent much time at the tanning salon.

A recent divorcee, reluctant to distance herself from her failed marriage even as she attempted to get back on the horse? Or an adulteress, hit with unexpected guilt? Judging by her anxiety that surpassed the regular date-nervousness, the latter seemed to be case.

She was older than she looked. Appearance was important to her. She took good care of herself and took pride in her looks. She was wealthy, that much was apparent, not just because of the tailored wardrobe and expensive accessories, but the novelty in her expression as she observed the common man's diner and the fact that she was completely taken aback by the informality with which the elderly waitress addressed her. She could barely suppress an indignant, judgmental look that tugged at the corners of her mouth and threatened to furrow her delicately shaped eyebrows.

There was an expensive convertible sedan parked across the street. He hadn't seen her pull up, but the car was likely hers. It looked as out of place in its parking space in the downtrodden downtown street as she did in her bench in the musty diner.

Suddenly, she looked at him.

She could not have known he had been staring, no one ever noticed his prying eyes. Her gaze must have found him at random, after eying the older couple once more, seated in the booth behind him.

At first she looked away, caught off guard by the unexpected eye-contact.

He kept his gaze affixed to her. Waiting for her to turn to face him again. He knew she would. A woman like her enjoyed being looked at. Some would grow suspicious of a staring man, but she would be disarmed by his interest, mistakenly thinking she was in control.

She did and this time, flattered and made more confidant by the notion that he was still looking at her, she smiled; friendly but with a seductive glint. She was proud and vain and couldn't fathom any man staring at her with any other intention than admiring her beauty.

He returned the smile in similar fashion – amicable but controlled, and watched her take a deep breath before she purposefully looked out the window. But he knew she could still feel his eyes on her. She self-consciously crossed her legs and turned her body in a way to present him with her best angle. She liked him looking at her. It was a kind of attention she craved and probably exactly the kind of attention that drove her to pocket her wedding-ring and seek out the company of someone other than her husband. A husband who probably long ago stopped taking notice of her toned calves, perfect curls and the way the red lipstick temptingly accented the cupid's bow of her upper lip.

The door opened again. The bell rang again. She was struck with nerves again. But again the visitor would not be for her.

He gazed past a darkly clad silhouette as it approached him, keeping his eyes on the lady, then let his gaze drop to the wallet peeking out of her purse, that she had naively placed at the aisle. Regulars would know to keep their valuables a little closer to themselves, out of reach from others. This was not the kind of neighborhood where you carelessly place your designer bag at your feet. This was not the place for designer bags at all.

"Am I interrupting a hunt?" A nasal voice wondered once the black silhouette blocked his line of sight.

Duo looked up at his guest. He replied routinely: "I told you... Never hunt in a place that you frequent. You can practice, but you can't follow through."

"You know, I'm pretty sure you could get the same bland scrambled eggs and burnt bacon at any diner in this town." He nodded at the breakfast plate on the table, untouched. "What's so special about this place?"

"No one bothers me here." He looked up at him meaningfully.

"Well, seems to me then that you have to switch diners anyway. Might as well follow through on the chick."

"Sit down, J.J. Before you pass out."

With a groan J.J. plopped down in the seat across from Duo.

"You look like hell."

The younger man sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. His black, medium long hair was a mess, unwashed and unkempt, there were dark circles under his red eyes, his nostrils were red too. His lips were dry and the front of his shirt was wet. He reeked. "Didn't find my way back to a bed last night." He called out to a waitress as she walked by them. "Can I get a black coffee?"

"Sure thing. Want some breakfast?" She asked as she reached for her notebook to scribble down the order. His disheveled appearance was of no surprise to her.

"Just make it a big mug," He requested with a tired smile. He turned back to his friend and explained: "There was a deal going on at the club tonight and I decided to stick around, party a little. Girls were hot as hell tonight, you should have been there." He chuckled but it turned into a wheezing cough.

Duo took a sip of his lukewarm coffee.

"Big brother disproves," J.J. observed with a mocking tone.

"You know I do. Now more than ever."

J.J. gratefully accepted his coffee then wondered after the first sip: "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I have known you for twelve years and I can tell when you are pissed and when you are high and right now… you are both."

J.J. snorted. "I barely had a sip. And... okay, maybe a line or two, but it's a perk of the job, you know?"

Duo shook his head at the younger man's nonchalance. "And does he know that 'a line or two' are perks of the job?"

"You worry too much." He slouched in his seat. He produced a packet of cigarettes but pocketed them just as quickly as the tall man across the table gave him a stern look. "Komarov does it all the time." The black haired youngster continued. "He suggested whipping out some of the product to make it a party." He bared yellowed teeth with a grin.

"Komarov is a fuck-up," Duo bit, "But he is his cousin. He is blood. That is about the only thing he cares about. Money and blood. You can't afford to be a fuck-up. Because nothing is going to make him inclined to be lenient towards you when you mess with his business… Jesus, you're not even Russian. You aren't one of them. They don't give a shit about you." His arms flailed about making angry gestures to emphasize his point.

J.J. sighed, frustrated with his friend's judgmental attitude. Nowadays every conversation between the two of them seemed to end in a debate about this. It was why they both chose to see less and less of each other. "It's not as bad as you think it is. We got each other's backs. We take care of each other. That is better than being out there by yourself, pickpocketing stock brokers on the metro," He spat disdainfully.

"Have I not taken care of you? Have I been writing all those checks to you to improve my penmanship?" Duo shot back venomously in a low hiss.

J.J. chuckled bitterly. He scratched the back of his head with dirty fingernails. "Oh big brother, always a flare for the dramatic."

The taller man pointed a finger across the table. "Don't you dare make a fag joke right now."

"I wasn't going to," The other replied earnestly. "Not everyone is as judgmental and inflexible in their judgment as you are. You may think you are always right because you're always right about that," He pointed his thumb at the lady by the door who had been joined by an attractive, younger man, many flirtatious smiles between them, "But you're not. Three years ago when I decided to start working for Tsubarov, you were all high and mighty right off the bat. Lecturing me about what a big mistake I was making and that I was going to end up with my legs broken and my ears cut off, eating through a straw in a hospital bed. But three years have passed and nothing bad has happened. When was the last time you had to write a check for me, huh?"

Over two years ago, Duo quietly thought to himself. J.J. may consider this a victory, but nothing could ease Duo's concern and it was that same concern that made him lash out so harshly. He was just desperate to get through to him, desperate to get him out of that life. He would much rather go back to the days when he was paying J.J's bills, that was a much lighter burden than knowing that the local Russian mob was paying for his expenses. Tsubarov was a merciless, sadistic man who enjoyed the darker side of his drug business. No major charges ever stuck to him but all across town the drug lord was known for making people disappear, including his own people, if he ever even considered them as such. People were expendable tools to him and none as expendable as unreliable, single-purpose tools like young, naïve J.J.

The younger man released a deep sigh. "Let's not waste our friendship on this. Haven't we fought about it enough? Can't we agree to disagree?" He tried to warm Duo up to him with a crooked smile.

"This isn't about a difference of opinion on who should have won a football game, or which brand of cereal is better," Duo pushed. "I'm never going to be okay with you working for him and I'm never going to stop trying to convince you of how stupid an idea it is."

He shrugged. "It's too bad you feel that way. Someone with your skills could make so much money if you joined."

"Not this again." The older one grumbled. "I'm doing just fine, as you would have if you weren't so damn impatient."

J.J. shook his head. "I'm not good at it like you are."

"I could have taught you!"

"You tried," J.J. waved his thin hand dismissively. "And then you had to bail me out twice because I got caught. I'm a lousy pickpocket and I'm an even shittier conman. With Komarov I at least feel like I'm not a screw-up. And I make good money. And I have fun too."

"Fun? Partying all night and getting pissed and shit-faced is fun?"

"Well, yeah…"

Duo played with his paper napkin as he couldn't stand looking at his friend's face any longer, the way the red spider veins stood out in his eyes and the way his reddened nostrils flared, exposing traces of white powder. He thought of him as his little brother. For all intents and purposes they were family and he had always tried to honor that; aimed to protect him. But J.J. was perfectly content following his footsteps down the wrong path, blinded by greed and laziness. Duo admitted that he wasn't much of an example to his 'younger brother', the path he trotted wasn't exactly righteous. The best he could ever do was become a pickpocket and small-time conman. He never stood a chance at anything else, being uneducated, resistant to authority and born and raised into the wrong socioeconomic layer of society; as low as you can get. Rich and entitled people didn't share with people like him, didn't give people like him a chance. But for J.J. he had wanted better. If anything, not the life the young man now lived and considered himself lucky to have.

It was ruining J.J. as it was ruining them; their relationship. J.J. became increasingly distant and defiant. Soon he would be beyond help. Duo knew it would be then that he would need it most desperately, but what would he be able to do at that point? He didn't like the thought that maybe that moment had already come and gone and he was merely grasping at thin air.

"I'm going to go home," J.J. announced, rising to his feet and tossing crumpled up bills on the table to pay for his supersized coffee. "To my apartment. That I pay for."

A hole in the wall in a crack house, Duo thought to himself. With pained eyes he watched the lithe youth go. Some nights he lay awake and wished J.J. would get busted during one of his drug deals at a night club. He would be better off in prison, out from Tsubarov's reach. But he never did have the heart to give the police an anonymous tip. The two of them had been dealt shitty cards all their life, he wasn't about to cheat him, even if maybe it could save him from playing a dangerous hand. He couldn't do anything that would only serve to make J.J. distrust him, that would eventually only push him deeper into the folds of the Tsubarov family.

He had once made a promise to take care of J.J., but he had made that promise unaware of what a challenge it would be. How do you save someone who doesn't think he needs to be saved?

With his appetite gone he paid the bill and got up. From the corner of his eye he casually observed the lady and her male friend as he slipped into his jacket. It was an instinct that he could not suppress. It was probably best to switch diners anyway, he rationalized. It was not good for someone of his profession to become a too familiar sight in certain public places. Most waitresses already knew him by his first name. To be successful – meaning to not go to jail – meant to be invisible. It was time for him to disappear again.

J.J. had been right about one thing: he might as well follow through on 'the chick'.

He got a road map out of the inside pocket of his jacket and started walking towards the door. As he reached the booth where the lady and the young man were seated, he pretended to trip on his own feet and let himself fall to the floor. He engineered the fall so the map would end up folded over the lady's purse at her feet.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" She exclaimed.

With an expertly feigned sheepish chuckle he scrambled to his feet. "Sorry about that." He took one step then pretended to just notice he had dropped the map. "Woops, better take this with me, or I'll be lost in this city forever." He bent over and grabbed hold of the map by the fold. He pinched his fingers together firmly so he could effortlessly pull out the wallet that he had sandwiched between the map. Neither of them noticed anything as they stared at him wide-eyed and a little flustered in the wake of the shock of his sudden tumble.

He casually brushed dirt off the front of his jeans and wished them a nice day.

The lady smiled at him, too vain to suspect anything.

He walked out the door, crossed the street and disappeared around a corner. In a doorway he paused to take the wallet out from between the fold of the map and started sifting through it. The considerable amount of cash he pocketed. He opened the zipper to the compartment for change and wasn't all that surprised to find a golden wedding ring and diamond engagement ring mixed in with the pennies and nickels.

He thought about stuffing them securely in his breast pocket and schedule time to stop by a pawn shop later today, but he decided against it. He rationalized his actions by concluding that it was too risky to pawn items of such value and he never took big risks, thanks to which he had never gotten caught. License and registration he found in the wallet confirmed the expensive sedan belonged to the lady. He got out a notepad he always carried with him and tore off a page. On it he wrote, in handwriting that would not be recognizable as his own: 'Some things are meant to be priceless'.

He tucked away the road map, a tool he always had on him for situations like the one in the diner. He walked back to the street where the diner was located, the paper and the rings he had at the ready. He paused briefly by the car and clamped the note under the windshield paper and hid the rings behind it. He pretended to be leaning against the car for support to lift his foot and readjust the laces of his boots. People walked by without so much as a single glance. Then he stuffed his hands in his pocket and walked off in the other direction.

He didn't really pity the woman. If her husband would have asked her how her rings could have gone missing, it would be her problem. Rich people thought they didn't have to take responsibility for their mistakes. They were raised as entitled snobs. Mommy and daddy cleaned up after them. From dirty diapers to settling drunken hit-and-runs out of court. But Duo wasn't a punisher. He wasn't out to get them the way they were out to get him. Sometimes he liked to prove that – even though they would adamantly deny it – he was better than they were, in spite of what he did for a living. What he had to do for a living. He didn't have a choice. He couldn't go to college, like they did. He didn't inherit daddy's enterprise, or collect his life insurance, like they did. What's a couple less papers in their pocket going to mean to them? They owed him at least that much.

He wasn't a bad person, they just arranged the ways of the world so he had to do bad things to survive.

With his hands tucked deep into the front pockets of his jeans he made his way home. The last cold days of winter fought to make an impression that would last the next three seasons, spitting out snow and gusts of wind. But the promise of spring already hung heavily in the air. Spring was a more opportune time for a pickpocket like himself. The breast pockets of the businessmen's suits were more accessible if they didn't have their cashmere - 'cash' as in: they have lots of it – overcoats layered over them.

Duo was no fool in the street business. The streets raised him, the streets fed him, the streets were the only higher education he had ever received. He was revered as one of the best, a reputation, he feared, had spun out of control and had long left reality behind as it happily indulged on rumors and exaggerations fuelled by J.J. In his opinion he was nothing more than a small time crook, but therein, he deemed, lay his genius. He comfortably flew under the radar and with no 'partner in crime' there was no one to rat him out, or to take a cut of his earnings. He would have gladly made an exception for J.J. but only for J.J. He didn't trust anybody else. Though he was probably an idiot for trusting J.J. Compassion, love and guilt made him weak towards the younger man. But J.J. wasn't a kid anymore, he couldn't just tell him what to do anymore and then proudly observe as J.J. did as instructed without question.

He kicked his boots against the wall next to the front door of the apartment building to shake off the snow that had gathered on the toes and had stuck to the laces. Calloused hands dug around his jacket pocket for the keys. The honk of a car directly behind him caused him to turn around. He squinted his eyes to peer through the falling snow.

In the parking space by the sidewalk was a dark red, dated sedan. The passenger side window rolled down and the driver leaned over to reveal his face.

Duo tucked his keys back into his pocket and slowly walked up to the passenger side door. He leaned his arm against the roof of the car and bent forward to look into the vehicle. "Hey."

"Hey." The smooth, baritone voice warmed Duo's ears that had been numbed by the cold wind. But it stung like frostbite in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" He tried to appear aloof.

"I was hoping to catch you."

"Have you been waiting here long?"

The driver looked down at his watch. "About fifteen minutes."

"Then you've wasted fifteen minutes of your life. Go home." He straightened up and prepared to walk back to the front door. To his dismay he heard a car door open.

"Can't we talk?" The handsome man asked, standing by his car. "I'd hate for things to end this way."

Duo snorted and turned around to glare at him. "It ended. It has long ended," He emphasized. "It ended when the trees were red and the first of the leaves had yet to drop. So what do you want from me now? Did she leave you?"

"No," Was the quiet reply.

"Well, congratulations!" He shot back sarcastically. He stomped back to the front door, grasped his keys and with the grace of the Lord he was able to quickly locate, insert and turn the right key, allowing him to flee behind the frosted glass of the door .

Yes, Duo thought to himself, it is much more preferable to remain invisible. When you are never part of something, you can never be disappointed by something, or abandoned by something.

He dragged his feet through the hall to the staircase in the back, past the bikes and a stack of crates full of empty beer bottles. His boots scuffed as he climbed two flights of stairs. He ran into one of the neighbors, but it wasn't the kind of building where people said hello to one another.

His small studio apartment was befitting of his modest and dishonest means. The severely damaged hardwood floors had been an unwise investment of the previous renter. The kitchen had missing and crooked cabinet doors. The grey couch he had bought at a thrift store, as well as most other furniture. They were in a thankfully decent state. The bathroom was just a sink with cracked mirror , toilet and narrow shower and some sort of mold on the ceiling from an old leak. The bed stood with the high headboard against the back of the couch. The sheets on the bed and the clothes in his closet were probably the only things he had ever bought new – or stolen new.

He shook off his coat and stalked over to the bathroom. Looking at his fractured reflection in the mirror he reached back and pulled his long hair, tied in a loose ponytail, out of his shirt. He always tucked his hair down the back of his shirt, if there was a possibility of a hunt. His long hair was a far too recognizable and identifiable feature. He always wore a scarf or a shirt or jacket with a high collar to hide the base of the ponytail. It was an imperfect disguise, but at least his long hair went mostly unnoticed. And people could never estimate how fair down his hair reached – all the way to the small of his back. Strategically he knew it would have been better if he would just cut it, but he could never quite bring himself to get rid of it, though that mirror had seen him holding a pair of scissors to the back of his head many times.

Some things are meant to be priceless.

He undid the ponytail and started braiding the long hair, his preferred way to wear it around the apartment. Upon completion he scrutinized himself in the mirror. He grazed his fingernails through the dark stubble on his jaw. He made a disproving face at his reflection and then switched off the light and headed back into the living room.

The long haired man trailed back to the front door where he had dropped his coat and picked it up to retrieve his spoils of the day. Over two hundred dollars, excellent, especially considering he hadn't even gone out with the intention of hunting, although it was always in the back of his mind and he was never one to pass on an opportunity. He hid the money under a loose floorboard. He would save up the money for a month, gathering it under the floor, allowing himself only meager rations for daily living. At the end of the month he would deposit the entire sum at the bank. The employees there he had made to believe that he was a caring father who was saving up for college for his sons, but wanted it to be a surprise for his wife. It was the most effective way he could think of to explain away the fact that he did not have another bank account with the bank, with a steady influx of wages and the kind of withdrawals that would be made by a family of four – which he claimed to have. He would have preferred to keep everything in his own apartment, where he felt he had more control, but he used to have trouble leaving his place, fearing a robbery or a fire that would leave him with nothing.

He was saving up for himself. He didn't intend to live that life forever. He wanted to make something of himself. Create for himself the opportunities that the more fortunate specimens of society had denied him; education, a real job, an actual house.

Of course saving up is not an easy task when your best and only friend, whom you consider and feel protective towards like a little brother, keeps getting into trouble.

'When was the last time you wrote me a check?' J.J. had defiantly asked at the diner, ruining his breakfast.

The last time he wrote J.J. a check he had to start all over again with his savings and that wasn't as long ago as J.J. liked to pretend.

The faces of the employees at the bank were unbelievable when I was forced to take out practically the entire sum to bail out J.J., thinking the father of two was cashing in his sons' college money for an illegitimate reason.

Following a hot drink Duo took a cold shower – the warm water never did work – and shaved his face, returning to his appearance that boyish quality that gave him a particular air of innocence that never made people suspect he was up to no good.

He toyed with his wayward bangs, fretting as they always seemed to fall precisely how he didn't want them to. From his closet he picked his finest shirt and his most flattering pair of slacks. He owned a pair of shoes that he only used for occasions like these. He didn't want to mess them up. He slipped back into his jacket and headed outside. Not in possession of a car – there was nothing of value that he owned – he had to walk the twelve blocks to his destination.

The tall man rounded a corner and the church appeared like a lighthouse in the storm, it's solid walls promising protection, safety.

He never went to mass anymore. He didn't feel like he belonged. He never felt as much of a crook as he did in those hard, wooden benches, listening to the priest speak dedicatedly of Christ's suffering for our sins.

He wiped the snow off a bench in the park flanking the humble church, and took a seat. He looked up at the tower. The bell was quiet. Memories of a past life were inevitable. Any other time of the day he would push those thoughts from his mind, but enveloped by the warmth of the house of God – a house that was once, quite literally, his home – he felt safe enough to allow those memories to overcome him. He smiled at the ghost feeling of gentle fingers braiding his considerably shorter hair.

He made an effort to go to the church as often as he could bear that kind of influx of memories, but he never came to pray. The definition of stupidity was to do the same thing over and over again, expecting a different outcome. He had wasted a childhood and adolescence on unanswered prayers. He wasn't about to make a fool out of himself by continuing that pattern. He didn't think God to be a bad guy, he had been taught to think differently, but he had come to understand over the course of many difficult years that God was powerless. Otherwise, he had to believe he would have intervened at some point. God was like any other father – but the only father he ever had – in the sense that he is loving and protective to the best of his abilities, but ultimately powerful against the unfair hardship of life.

Tsubarov had it right. There were only two powers in life: blood and money. Blood - or genetics - determine whether you are going to be smart or not and whether you are going to be part of a wealthy family or not. And your wealth will shape the rest of your life; money is a stepping stone under your feet, if you have it, but an eternal uphill battle with a massive boulder, like the mythical Greek Sisyphus, if you don't.

The Haves and the Have Nots. The right blood and the wrong blood. Money and no money.

Duo had accepted his fate as one of the Have Nots. He was remarkably observant, but not academically smart – at least not smart enough to transcend the world he was born into -, he was born the son of a crack whore mother and deadbeat dad, who dropped him off on the granite steps of a church in the dead of night. He was homeschooled by the nurse who ran the adjacent orphanage, but spent most his time on the streets begging for money as the orphanage went broke. No one with stuffed pocket books ever cared enough to keep the boys orphanage afloat. Once his home was gone, set alight one night, his life on the streets began; sleeping on cold pavement, having his shoes stolen and wiping his ass with yesterday's newspaper taken from the garbage.

You can't fight odds like that.

The bells started to chime. The sound reverberated in his chest and echoed through the empty street, bouncing off the facades of the empty buildings as this part of the city went to hell, poverty and crime reducing it to a ghost town.

The three rings alerted him to how long he had been there. Snow had gathered in his lap and on his broad shoulders. He dusted himself off and rose off the bench. His quiet moment of contemplation had to end, he had to return to the unhinged chaos of his life.

The seasons continued to change – although nothing else ever did. Spring brought the trees lining the streets back to life. Summer brought the people back to life. Tourists returned to view the uptown marvels in the improved weather conditions. More expensive cars passed through the streets on their way to the country club at the city's perimeter. The warmth erased the memory of the harsh winter and soothed the pain of the daily grind like a mother's kiss on a skinned knee. The city's shopping district was packed with women in short skirts and men with short thoughts; both smiling.

It was a hot night, with the windows wide open and the curtains barely moving in the faintest hint of a breeze, that was interrupted by the shrill cry of the phone.

At the offending noise Duo shoot straight up in bed, his hair every which way, his shirt on the floor and his sweats around one ankle as he had worked his way out of them during the night, barely conscious but driven crazy by the heat.

The sound continued and it took him a moment to identify it after being awoken from a strange dream that he had instantly forgotten.

He rolled to the other side of the bed where the phone stood on the single nightstand. He picked it up and brought it to his ear. Absent-mindedly, struggling to shake the effects of deep sleep, he wondered who was calling while his burning, squinted eyes looked to find a clock, curious to find out exactly how ungodly the hour was.

"Duo, I'm in trouble," The person on the other line breathed shakily, foregoing an introduction.

Duo rubbed his eyes. The phone call, in spite of its nature, had yet to shock him. What was truly shocking was how much he had gotten used to distressed calls like these, even after not receiving them for the past few months it didn't frazzle him. "J.J., what happened?" He asked groggily, not overcome with sympathy.

"I'm in serious trouble, serious trouble," His younger friend whispered. His voice crackled through the line.

"J.J., it's four AM," He pointed out when he finally located his watch, that had fallen into one of his slippers at the side of the bed. The moon through the open window was bright enough to illuminate the hands.

"I know, I know! And don't you think I wouldn't be calling at this hour unless I really need your help?"

Duo sighed. "J.J., you sound tweaked out. Go to sleep. Call me tomorrow. When you're sober things might not seem so bad."

"Things will seem worse! Things will be worse! Look, bro, I really need your help," He sniffled.

"Bro?" Duo mirrored, followed by a snort. "You don't return my calls for months and now I'm your 'bro' again?"

"Hey man, you were the one who was being a self-righteous dick at the diner!- But that's not important right now. We're still family, aren't we? We'll always be family, right?"

"Of course we'll always be family, but-" He brought the phone down into his lap and groaned and ran his hand through his hair. He brought it back up to his ear. "Tell me what's wrong."

J.J. breathed a sigh of relief. "I did something really stupid, man," He admitted, his voice suddenly had an amused tone to it.

Duo rolled his eyes. He loved his 'little brother', but he always did do stupid things.

"Can you loan me some cash? I promise I'll pay you back."

J.J. always promised to pay him back but he had never seen a single dime in return for all the times he bailed him out.

"I know I say that all the time, but this time I really mean it. I promise, bro."

"Tell me what you did," Duo demanded to know impatiently.

There was a short pause, then a nervous laugh. "It's actually really funny."

"I'm sure I'll have hoot," He shot back sarcastically, "Tell me."

"Well, there was this really big deal going down at the dock," J.J. started apprehensively. "Me and Komarov pulled up with the coke in the hidden safe under the floor in the trunk and the musclemen trailing us in another car. We waited like two hours for the buyer show up, but he turns out to be a no-show. So we decide to give up on the deal, we send the big dudes home and we were about to take the coke back to the warehouse when we figured we might as well make the best of the night. We had already done a line or two while waiting, so we were pumped man, we couldn't just turn in for the night," He said like it was logical. "So we head for the club. Nobody knows about the coke in the car anyway! But Komarov, he told Tsubarov that he left with the musclemen and told me to take the load back to the warehouse! That is not true, man! He went right in there with me and he got shitfaced on the barstool right next to mine! But now Tsubarov blames it all on me!"

Duo shook his head as he tried to make sense of J.J.'s hurried words. "Wait, what? What does he blame you for?"

"The missing coke, bro!"

"Missing?"

"Well, stolen."

"How can it be stolen? You said no one knew you had it in the car!" He buried his hands in his hair. For the first time in days his body was shivering and his skin was covered with goosebumps.

"Yeah, but the thing is, we figured that we might be able to sell some of the coke to some cats at the club and maybe… maybe in the process one of us ran his mouth and told that we had it with us… Or maybe we were just bragging, I don't know."

Duo cradled the phone in his hands and took a deep breathe to settle his coiling stomach. He had the sinking feeling this call was worse than the usual calls.

"We walked out of the club and headed for the car but halfway there we get jumped on by some dudes and they pummeled us! And you know what a big guy Komarov is, but they really pummeled him too, he didn't stand a chance!"

Of course, Duo thought to himself bitterly, he was drunk and high.

"Then they whip out these cannons of pistols and shove them in our faces!" His voice started to get shaky again, like it had been at the start of the call. As if he suddenly remembered how dire the situation was. "They made us pull out the coke, man! We had no choice, they would have shot us dead!"

At his screaming Duo calmed him down with some sympathetic and understanding words.

J.J. eventually continued. "But like I said, now Komarov pretends that he wasn't even there and that I had gone into the club by myself and that it was all my fault and Tsubarov believed him!"

"Of course he believed him, Komarov is his dimwit baby nephew, he doesn't think he has the theory of mind to lie!"

"I'm really in big shit, Duo…It was a big shipment, man…" J.J. said in a vulnerable, pathetic voice. "I really need you to loan me some cash, bro. I have to pay him back for the coke, or else…"

He didn't need to elaborate on the 'or else'. The occasional newspaper article painted a pretty clear picture of what happened to people who crossed Tsubarov. "Well… how much do you need?"

It was silent for a long time.

"J.J.?"

He said something, but it was indistinct. Though it sounded a little like a number he couldn't bear to trust his ears on.

"J.J., how much?"

"… about a hundred."

Duo's heart dropped into his gut. "About?" He asked, more to deflect his shock than out of desire to actually know.

"One hundred and twenty-five thousand…"

For the third time Duo brought the phone down from his face. Shit! He heard J.J. calling his name through the speaker. He felt sick and overwhelmed with helplessness. His own powerlessness and that of the God he had always trusted to put his faith in were painfully obvious. "Duo, I'm sorry I'm asking you for money again. I know I said I can take care of myself, but I just need your help one more time and I promise I'll pay you back," He heard J.J. say once he brought the handset back up. He felt on the brink of tears. It was probably his own fault that J.J. assumed this problem could be easily solved. He always did make it easy for him, always swooping in to rescue him. No matter how much he wanted to, it wasn't as simple as 'swooping in' this time. "J.J. …" He started after a deep breath, "I don't have that kind of money."

"What are you talking about?" He sounded honestly perplexed. "You are always saving up. You've been saving up for years."

"Yes and I spent nearly all my savings paying back your debt to Tsubarov the last time. Remember? Two years ago? When you were so high you sold forty-thousand dollars' worth of coke for about half the price? The money I 'loaned' you was all I had. And you know I don't do big jobs. I don't take big risks which means I don't rake in the large sums."

"So… so what are we talking about here? Give me a number. Maybe we can find a way to bridge the gap," he suggested nonchalantly.

"Dammit, J.J! You're not listening! I only have about ten-thousand dollars! That's all I got!"

Another long silence stretched. "Are you just saying that because you don't want to lend me the money?"

"Fuck you! Fuck you, Jared!" He yelled and he felt the first of the hot tears stream down his face, erupting in a state of frustration and desperation. "I always clean up your shit and this time would have been no different but I don't have that kind of money!"

"What am I supposed to do now?" J.J. asked pleadingly, his voice getting high-pitched with despair as it started to sink in that 'big brother' really wasn't going to be able to just make his problem go away. "He's going to kill me! He's going to fucking kill me!"

"Shhh, shhh, it's going to be okay," He tried, his heart wrenching. "We'll figure something out. We just have to find a way to get the money."

"How the fuck are we going to do that?"

"I don't know yet, but we'll figure something out," He assured him with feigned confidence. He steeled his nerves and promised him solemnly: "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Thank you very much for reading this first chapter. I'd like to know what you think of it.