Authors note: This series/story is actually probably more than half-written. I expect there to be approximately six chapters. I was originally going to wait and put it all up in one piece, except I suddenly realised that not only was it getting pretty long, it would work a hell of a lot better if it were in sections. So I thought I might as well start posting. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and obviously, I don't own anything you recognise.
Look, I know I said that I'd tell you the truth and wouldn't leave anything out or anything, but there's something you need to understand. Most of this story involves Rusty and Danny in one way or another, and . . . Well. Those guys lie. A lot.
He was pretty young at the time, probably more than a little naïve and still getting used to life outside of academics. It was a Friday night, and for the first time he had managed to scrape together the courage to visit the gay bar two blocks over from his work. This possibly had less to do with a sudden attack of self-confidence and more to do with the fact that he really needed a drink after the day he'd had. Once again the no-necked, self-proclaimed security experts had ignored everything he'd said all day. He'd even caught them making fun of him behind his back. And it had seemed like such an amazing job to walk into after graduation. The reality was, it was pretty much just like being back in high school.
So now he was sitting at the bar, feeling completely out of place. None of the messing around he'd done in college had prepared him for this. There were two guys over there, wearing nothing but leather pants and bow ties and they were wrestling. That couldn't be normal, surely? He couldn't even tell if it was some kind of floorshow, or what.
"If that's what I had, I wouldn't be showing it off." He turned around to see who had spoken without even thinking about it. It was the blond. The one two bar stools away. The one he'd noticed the moment he walked in the place. The one who on a scale of one to ten, if he, Livingston, was a four, was probably about a thirty-eight. And that was even allowing for the fact that he was wearing what might just be the ugliest shirt Livingston had ever seen.
Immediately he looked around, knowing that the guy couldn't possibly be talking to him. But everyone else nearby seemed to be in groups. "Uh, I'm sorry, were you talking to me?"
Still staring at the wrestlers with an expression of vapid fascination, the blond said "Just talking."
"Right. I mean, I thought . . . I don't know what I thought." Well, that could have been more coherent. The blond turned his head and smiled lazily at him, and he felt his heart skip a beat. He had to say something witty and erudite right now. "Well, you know what they say," he tried, nodding over to the wrestlers. "If you don't got it flaunt it anyway."
The blond actually laughed! "That certainly seems to be the rule in this place." he agreed, retrieving his drink from the bar and rolling it against the side of his face –a gesture Livingston found peculiarly endearing. "I hate it here."
"Then how come you're in here?" he asked, scooting up onto the next stool, hoping it would pass unnoticed.
"It's the nearest place where I can get a drink the way I like, and where I won't see anyone from work." He sounded really tired.
"You had a rough day?" he asked, genuinely sympathetic.
"Technically I had a great day. But it began thirty-six hours ago."
Ouch. "You should go home." he suggested, feeling guilty that he was actually hoping for the opposite.
"Can't. My flatmate's having his latest crush over for a nice romantic dinner. Which means that he had me cook a 'three course gourmet feast' and then threw me out for the evening."
Livingston blinked. "That's not right." he said definitely. "You shouldn't let him take advantage of you like that."
For some reason that made the blond laugh.
"I'm serious." he persisted. "You should find a new flatmate or something."
"Yeah, maybe." He was still grinning. "Next time I'll tell him I won't be taken advantage of."
Livingston found himself smiling too, even though he didn't really know why. "You should."
"So how about you?" the blond asked, making an undecipherable gesture at the bartender. "Difficult day at work?"
"Just the usual jerks." he answered, "How did you know?"
"When you walked in here, you ignored the eye candy and headed straight for the alcohol. And judging by your suit and briefcase, you came straight from work."
"You saw me come in here?" he felt compelled to ask as the bartender poured him a fresh drink.
The blond hesitated slightly. "Sorry. I tend to notice things. Bad habit."
It didn't seem like a bad habit. It seemed kind of flattering "Let me get these." he nodded at the drinks, reaching into his wallet.
"Don't bother." It was then that he realised that the bartender had already wandered off. "They'll go on my tab."
He glanced to the side of the bar at the large sign that read 'No credit given. Absolutely no exceptions.' "You have a tab in bar that you hate?"
"I'm just that good." the blond replied, deadpan.
He sniggered. "I'm Livingston by the way. Livingston Dell."
"Rusty Ryan."
Yeah, I know you saw that one coming. I wasn't trying to keep it secret. What do you mean I've no idea of narrative structure? Look, if you don't want to hear the rest of the story . . .
"So what do you do, Livingston?" He hated that question. It was inevitable in any social situation, but no-one was ever really interested in his answer – they just wrote him off as a geek. For a couple of seconds he was tempted to lie, say he was something more glamorous. A stand-up comedian, maybe.
"I'm in computers. I work for a security firm, setting up and programming surveillance systems."
"Yeah? Sounds really interesting."
Livingston glanced at him sharply, but he appeared to be serious. "It can be." Encouraged by the other man's attention he carried on talking, describing the problems he'd been having in the last week with the centralisation of the system at the Citibank on West Street. To his surprise, Rusty seemed to understand everything he was talking about, and asked quite a few intelligent questions. Apparently the blond stereotypes didn't hold water.
I know what you're thinking. I mean, you think I didn't wonder too, later, when I found out? But that bank was never robbed in any way that'd have anything to do with Rus'. So either I managed to design a system that he couldn't get through – unlikely – or he just chose not to hit it. Maybe he just wasn't comfortable using the information, after everything. Then again, as far as I remember, the questions that he asked – they were pretty general. Not the questions you'd ask if you were fishing for information. I don't know.
You think I'm going to ask? Are you crazy?
When he finished the story, he realised he'd been talking pretty much non-stop for about twenty minutes He flushed and gulped his drink back. "So what do you do?" he asked quickly.
"Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid. I'm in logistics." Rusty answered easily. "Mostly I spend my days figuring out the most efficient way of moving things from one place to another." He didn't volunteer any more details and very smoothly changed the subject. Understandable, in Livingston's eyes – he'd already said he was avoiding seeing his workmates tonight.
So they started talking about the films they'd seen lately – which, led naturally enough to a discussion of who would win in a fight between Batman and Indiana Jones; whether or not Twins was really the worst film ever made; and if Bill Murray was sexy or just funny. They were laughing and joking together and for the first time he could remember, Livingston was conscious of receiving several jealous looks.
A few hours went by, and just as they finished discussing the secret evil plots of seagulls, Rusty looked at his watch. "They'll have finished dinner by now, and be doing whatever it is they do that I don't want to know about. Think I'll head on home."
Livingston swallowed. "Right." he agreed.
Rusty stood up, stretched and turned round. "So you coming with, or what?"
That was a really bad idea, right? He'd never thought of himself as the kind of guy who indulged in casual sex. He should refuse politely. Go home. Get some sleep. Regret it for the rest of his life.
Screw that. "Yes." he squeaked.
They got hotdogs on the way home. It was far from any romantic ideal that Livingston could think of, but on the plus side they were really tasty. Just as well, since apparently they'd walked five blocks in the wrong direction to get them.
Eventually, however, they arrived at a spacious fifth floor apartment in a large brownstone. Not the sort of place he could imagine being able to afford any time soon. He looked round, a little envious; there was a huge TV, a leather sofa that looked like it had been chosen for comfort as much as style, and a stereo system with the largest speakers he'd ever seen. Apparently logistics paid pretty well. Or maybe Rusty had rich, doting parents or something.
There was also a mass of empty plates on the table, what looked like the remains of a Tiramisu with two spoons sticking out, and a trail of discarded clothes leading from the table to what was presumably a bedroom door.
Livingston saw all this, and then Rusty leaned forwards kissed him, and he stopped looking. Or thinking. Or breathing.
"Want to go to bed?" Rusty whispered in his ear.
"God, yes."
Uh, I don't think you really want to hear the next part, right?
. . . Oh.
Well, that makes me kind of uncomfortable, to be honest.
Anyway, let's just say it was amazing and leave it at that. It's not like there are enough adjectives in the world to describe it.
So, what do you think? Next part's written and will be up shortly.