47redbirds | After the fires before the flood, my sweet baby, I need fresh blood

After the fires before the flood, my sweet baby, I need fresh blood

Mike is a number of things. Secretive, oddly retentive about the chore wheel, Brigg's second-in-command, and smart as a whip. He also trusts Billy. Maybe not implicitly, but he does. It's been a while since Billy's first task, and while he still stays by Mike's side for the most part, the crew's beginning to respect him, too. Not just Johnny--Jakes had made a point to shake his hand after a particularly hairy getaway between him and the Chechens.

Mike starts drinking with Billy after a good run. He's damn good at pool and can hold his beer for someone who looks so straight-laced, even with scruff. Boy-band or not, the only personal thing that wound up causing a stir outside what they do is Mike punching someone in The Drop because they were harassing a girl. For a criminal, he's oddly well put together.

It's one o'clock in the morning when Mike texts him. It's nothing but an address to a motel and a room number, but when Mike texts it's mandatory Billy shows up. Another exercise, maybe. Another deal. The whole Graceland group had been very careful with Mike--most of the stuff he was a part in he either never got to actually see the transaction or it was far too minor. Not all the heat is off of him, it seems, but he's trusted. Mike trusts him enough to send him the text. It's the room to the corner, and it's run down and shitty. When Mike opens the door, it looks like he hasn't slept in days despite the fact that Billy was asked to get him out of bed since Paige wasn't there. He's also smoking, which is both disconcerting and never seen before.

There's something else, though, and it's not just his hair pushed back from his face. The white tank top he's wearing is spattered with red liquid, as is his chin. His hands are covered, even the one holding the cigarette while he exhales and lets the other in. It's blood.

Once Mike closes the door, it's immediately apparent why: there's a girl in the bathtub, the tiles covered as someone stabbed her more than a few times, and on the bed a man. What is probably a man judging from the fact that he's naked--his face has been mangled, it seems, by a rather large number of bullets to the face as well as a champagne bottle.

Mike takes another drag of the cigarette.

"Thanks for meeting me here."

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"Billy," Mike's other hand moves to the other's shoulder, squeezing him. He can't lose someone he needs, not right now. Not with all the shit going on with the Chechens and the Sarkesians.

Fucking Armenians.

"I need you on this with me. Please. Johnny and Jakes are out, the girls are doing something else. You gotta give me a hand until the cleaning crew comes."

Billy looked at Mike. Stunned. How wrong had he been? Had he misread Mike that poorly? He couldn't see even the faintest glimmer of sympathy or remorse in the man. It wasn't as though he were looking for anything blatant. Not even a muttered "It'll be okay." Just a look that Mike might actually feel bad for asking Billy to do this. Some hesitation or doubt.

Had Billy been wrong, or had something happened here that shifted Mike to be this cold? He'd seen it before. Where most people shut down or cried or went catatonic, some just switched off that part of themselves. Made themselves numb and cold. Was that what Mike was doing, now? Was this some sort of shock? Could Billy find a way to do the same?

His eyes watering, Billy finally nodded. Slowly. If he stuck close maybe he could see what had happened. It would be a trial to just move a step closer to the bed, but he'd do it. "What...do you need me to--"

In trying to accept it, his control slipped. He ducked out of Mike's grip and just barely made it to the bathroom. Dropping to his knees. Thank god the seat was up. There wasn't anything in his stomach, so he just dry-heaved. But it wasn't any better.

Mike frowns. The thing is he doesn't really know what to do in the situation. It seemed so long ago that he did it for the first time, almost distant. He's just gotten used to doing it on occasion. To dealing with other people. To dealing with other people's situations like this.

To not really care about human life.

Billy dashes for the bathroom and Mike follows a few moments later, quiet except for his footfalls. They're heavy. Tired. He watches the other on his knees, hugging the bowl, form the doorway for a moment.

Mike's hands are oddly still as he pulls out another cigarette. Puts it in his mouth before stepping to the tub and pulling the shower curtain closed so Billy doesn't have to deal with a second body right away.

Part of Mike wants to pat the other on the back. Soothe him. Tell him this is a one time thing, even though it wasn't. Explain that his first go, he didn't have a toilet to throw up on. Actually threw up near the body. Wants to be someone that Billy can lean on.

Mike never had that, though, so why should Billy, part of him thinks. It's a selfish part of him, but he knows Briggs would do the same thing, too. If you coddle people all the time they're soft. Instead, he digs for his lighter.

"There's a part of you you have to just switch off. Just... Put it in a box. Don't look at it. That's what gets you through this stuff."

Billy just nodded, his eyes closed, as if agreeing. He knew that's what he should do. But how could he explain it? It wasn't the normal sort of punch-in-the-gut reaction people got upon seeing such death and gore. He'd stood among dead bodies before. Rifled through their pockets. Dressed them up to be decoys. He'd killed people himself. Broken noses and limbs. Snapped fingers to get people to talk. But there was something about blood that was neither his own nor caused by his actions that made his skin crawl. Anything else, he could push down and ignore until he had time to deal with it. But each thing in its own box. But not this. It was like he tried to put it in a box, wrapped up neat and tidy like anything else. But them moment he tried to put the lid on, it exploded into a million swarming spiders. It seeped into every inch of him and he couldn't contain it.

But saying it was a phobia, a true and honest phobia that he had no means of controlling, still had Mike telling him to just get over it. And again he found himself wondering what could have happened to Mike to make him so cold, so calloused. Yes, he was the second in command of a rag-tag mafia. But nothing before this had seemed truly cold.

Taking a few slow breaths, Billy finally got to his feet and flushed the toilet. He took his time going to the sink. Rinsing his hands. Using cupped hands to get water into his mouth, clearing out the vile taste. He just needed to build a wall. A box wouldn't work, but maybe a wall. He splashed water on his face and ran his hands down over his scruff. A wall. Between him and all emotion. For the sake of the mission. Slowly, with slightly unsteady hands, he unbuttoned his blazer. A wall to contain everything, to get through this. With slightly steadier hands he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. A solid wall. Brick. Leaving him on the outside alone. Methodically, he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. A wall as high as the eye could see. Nothing could get through or over. Finally, he shed his vest. Leaving him in his suspenders. The vest he hung with the jacket.

More or less composed, he looked at Mike. "What do I need to do?" Calm. Almost cold. Straightforward. He'd see if this would work the moment he stepped out of the bathroom.

Mike smiled faintly, and it was something similar to proud. He pulls the other into a not-quite one-armed hug--instead an army-like pat on the shoulder, stiff but thankful.

Whatever had happened, he had gotten through to the other. He wouldn't be a complete dick, and he makes sure he and he alone deals with the grisly, grisly stuff. The blood. He just gets Billy to start collecting belongings and the like, make sure there's nothing personal in the place, and a few other seemingly menial tasks that actually take a load off of Mike.

The cleaning crew are nice, simple folks. Low-end with a gardening center van and uniforms. They all greet Mike and Billy with 'sir' and one of them looks at an item of clothing.

"It's Whistler," they say, and Mike nods.

"Walked in on him like this. We're thinking Ahri did it, so keep an eye out for the Armenians, alright?"

"Yeah. Shit, that guy was gold. I mean a junkie, but damn."

"Girlfriend, too." Mike jerks his thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

"Are you going to tell Chuck?"

"No, and neither are you guys." She'll flip. That seems to be the end of the conversation, and Mike gets a phone call. It lasts all of 'Okay, see you in 10, bye,' before he's done and looks over at Billy.

"We're done. You still up for driving?" No 'are you okay,' no nothing. Mike's in one of his moods.

Billy goes through the work with methodical focus. Intent on each task, doing all he can to not look at the blood. Not think about the blood. And any time he has to be even near it, he tries to think of it as something else. Stage dressing. Something Farmer put together as a ruse. It works. Mostly. There's a few moments where he has to stop, gagging hard and pressing his wrist to his lips to calm himself. He went above and beyond what Mike asked for. He didn't need much direction, as he was far too accustomed to wiping away traces of a person having been somewhere--usually himself or his team. He checked every crevice, every corner something could end up. Treating it any other spy job made it easier. He even found himself looking for bugs at one point.

When the cleaning crew came in, he listened as he finished up his own tasks. Whistler. Chuck's junkie? He'd heard mention of the guy before. Not enough to get a full read on the situation, but enough to know she cared about the guy. Hearing that Mike found him like this didn't put him at ease. Was he just telling the cleaning crew that? With how cold Mike had been, he couldn't trust it. Why did they need to clean it up if Mike hadn't had a hand in this?

As Mike made his call, Billy ducked into the bathroom to grab his jacket and vest. He gave a cursory glance around to ensure nothing was left behind, and went to rejoin Mike. He just gave a confirming nod to the question. The way out was so close. He went for the door, digging for his keys in his blazer pocket.

"I hate doing shit like that," Mike says once they're both in the car. He exhales, loudly, and doesn't seem to realize his cigarette has actually gone out. His seatbelt goes on and he's running his hands through his hair, pushing it back--he's washed his face and hands so they were blood free at least. Had a hoodie on him, too, so he's covered. Still annoyed, apparently.

"Hey--good job, by the way. I know that shit isn't easy." He means it, too, and starts to rub at his chin. "We have to make a stop before home, though. Real quick one." He's pushing Billy, he knows. He has to push everyone, though. Has to. Especially if they're getting a little too close to him. Or he's getting a little too attached.

"You alright to do that?"

Billy said nothing at first. Keys in hand, he tossed his jacket and vest into the backseat, leaving him in his shirt and suspenders. He didn't even seem to hear Mike at first. Focused intently on getting the key in the ignition, buckling himself in, and checking his mirrors. It was the intense focus of a man on the verge of cracking, slow and deliberate. But where most would have been nervous and unsteady, he was as firm as ever. There was no tremble in his fingers. His gaze remained firm and confident, not flitting toward every sound.

He'd built a wall between himself and everything. A wall that he'd patched as he worked, making it stronger. To keep everything at bay. A wall he didn't dare try to crack now. Not until he was alone. Not until he could be sure of what was building up behind it. Because once he pulled it down, there would be no putting it back.

"Sure," he said, as terse and cold as Mike had been at the start. "Where to?" Not a word about what had happened, nor a question of fault. He seemed calm and cold as he started the car, squinting as the headlights flared on. Before Mike could answer, he was already backing out.

Mike had never felt more thankful about that. That there was silence. It gave him time to patch himself up, though the truth was that he'd shrugged all of this off the moment he walked into the door and saw Whistler there.

He was planning. Figuring things out, running ideas through his mind. Probabilities of things going right. How to save this or possibly even use it to his advantage. How to put the right fires up, or see if this gives him the angle on anyone. His brow is perpetually furrowed, mulling everything over.

He knows one of the Armenians Ahri looks after. Drug runner, not too unimportant he doesn't know anything, not too important so Ahri notices right away. Has him delivered to a sound-proof room the Graceland group sometimes detains people in--a former now deceased member's house who had a penchant for being the next recording artist.

They arrive at the fairly nice house,and Mike has stopped smoking completely, even tossing his packet of cigarettes away as he cracked his neck.

"You coming?" He asks, getting out. "Don't bother locking it, even, this won't take long at all."

Billy didn't say a word the entire way, apart from asking for clarification on a direction. He drove with the same determined focus he always did. Perhaps more so than usual. He didn't look at Mike. He tried even to keep from thinking of why they weren't going home. Just part of the job. Just part of keeping the mission in play. Focus, observe, don't think. Analysis comes later.

He just gave a curt nod to the question, and got out of the car. Grunt work meant doing as you were told and not asking questions. He just shoved the door shut and followed Mike.

He was stiffer than usual. Not to the point of being nervous, but nowhere near his easy, casual self. This would be quick, Mike said. They could get whatever this was done and over with, then he could deal with everything when they got home.

Mike unlocks the door. Casually motions behind him to say Billy should lock behind him, but not actually saying a word. Stops to pick up a wooden baseball bat in the hallway, gripping it lightly with one hand casually.

Time to get out his aggression. Time to channel every piece of anger and morality problems into this whole exercise and then be done with it. Put it somewhere else.

Mike entered the room, motioning for Billy to follow, and didn't bother to wait for the door to be closed. There was a man tied to a chair, a too-scrawny Armenian in a tacky suit and gold chain. Middle age.

Mike wasted absolutely no time in taking the bat and swinging at the other's jaw like he was hellbent on getting a home run. The small-time dealer immediately broke his nose, blood flowing and bruises showing all over his cheek from the impact. He already looked like a mess.

"Red Socks win again. Hi, Petros. Long time no see."

"You FUCKING white boy, piece of--"

"Billy, do me a favour and grab that bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard in the kitchen?"

Billy locked the door as he was told. Followed Mike as was expected. Closed the door behind him. Stood like a sentinel, hands in his pockets, waiting.

In forcing himself to not process anything, he didn't notice that it was a man tied to the chair. And he didn't connect the bat to the man until it met his face. And Billy was the one who flinched. It felt as though that bat were a sledgehammer colliding with the wall he'd built. Not enough to break it, but enough to shake him.

Don't think. Patch the wall. Follow the order. Think later. And he went. Mechanical and quiet. He found the bottle after a moment and returned. Holding it out for Mike to take when he was ready. He didn't even look at the man in the chair.

"Oh," Mike looked like he was having the most childish argument in the world with a five year old, throwing a hand up as he talks and glancing over to shift his hand to the bottle, "I'm sorry--you just said you saw Whistler. Before you just said he texted you, so which one is it, Petros? You have me really confused." A beat. Mike undoes the cork and takes a small swig. Offers the bottle to Billy as Petros begins to stammer his excuse.

Mike, opening a closet door, pulls out a thin towel.

"Not sure that's good enough. Just want to know where you last saw Whistler and what your boss told you. I know he told you something or you wouldn't be so jumpy, now, would you?" Mike places the bat on the other's cheek, patting it before lining it up for a new shot, it seemed.

Billy took the bottle back, trying not to listen. He didn't take a drink, or even look at the bottle. When Mike went for the closet, Billy returned to his post by the door. Waiting further instruction.

But try as he might, there were cracks in that wall he'd built that he couldn't quite patch. The smallest trickle of panic started to leak out and he started putting things together. Mike's words. The bat. The interrogation. The towel...no, Mike had it to clean up the blood. That's all. But this man, were his crimes really worth this treatment? Even to someone like Mike?

The mission. It was a mission. Mike wasn't his friend, he was the mission. A very bad man, reporting to an even worse man. When this was over, they'd both be locked up. Shut it off and don't think about it.

The two say a few more things back and fourth--mainly Mike catching the other's inconsistencies, and he finally sets the bat down. Petro face is cut and swollen and bruised, nose broken, and Mike sighs.

"Petros, you know I can't let this go. Help me help you here--you fucked me over with bus 82 and ran to your boss, so he trusts you. Just wanna know where Whistler in particular fits in there. Guns? Money? Whistler's girls?"

"I swear to god--"

"I need a name, Petros. Just a name."

"I don't know."

"You're...what. 5 years sober?"

"6."

"Right. Six." And Mike grabs the towel and the bottle back. "Billy, hold his head still."

It all clicks into place as Mike takes the bottle back. Billy lets it go, nearly dropping it. His mind works too fast for him to hit the brakes and he sees what's coming. The towel. The alcohol. Six years sober.

Billy doesn't move. The first order he'd hesitated on since shrugging off his jacket back at the hotel. He just stares at Mike, as if he can't believe what's in front of him.

"Mike, you can't...there's other ways."

"I just hit him with a bat multiple times, now's not the time for good cop bad cop."

"Cops? You guys are fucking cops?!"

Mike looks down, and for a moment he looks mildly insulted as he stretches the towel over the Armenian's head. "Come on, now, you know cops can't do this, Petros, it's just you and me and our new friend Billy." A jerk with his head. 'helping or what?,' as brows raise. Petros, of course, is struggling. He's even began to scream, panicking, but Mike has him in a fairly good choke hold as the other struggles against him.

"Just take my place so we can get this over with, I'll handle the rest."

Billy hesitates still. This wasn't just getting answers out of a guy. This was pouring his demons back down his throat after he'd been rid of them. He was just a grunt, probably less important than himself or Johnny. He'd just been following orders, even if he did do something....no. He worked for men worse than Mike. Billy had done this exact same thing in the past to men like this. Water. Alcohol. It didn't matter.

This was no different than any mission. And with only a minimal amount of blood involved, he could get his head back into the right place. It was no different than getting details out of a French terrorist.

Resolute once more, he moved to join Mike. He couldn't patch the leaks in the wall, but he could ignore them for now. He took the towel from Mike. Adjusted it. Made it more secure. He just gave a nod. Ready.

And so Mike does. Mike pours and pours and occasionally smacks the other, watching him groan and jerk and kick and do pretty much everything he could to get free. Begging.

Mike glanced down, and wasn't sure if it was alcohol or urine on the guy's pants, watching with almost zero emotion unless he gives the other a chance to speak up. He keeps insisting.

Mike, sighing, pours the entire bottle onto the other's head and watches with an odd sort of fascination as Petros tries to yell and claw and honestly things he's drowning for a few more moments.

"You need a rest there, guy, but when I come back and you don't talk, I'm going to have to introduce you to someone you probably know real well, hnn? You know about Briggs? He's gonna say hi." He pulls the towel away, smacking him to force eye contact. "You hear that, Petros? I fucked up once and Briggs had a plastic bag over my face at different intervals for a week. You wanna deal with that, alkie? Think about it."

And just like that, Mike leads Billy out of the room, closing it and locking the sobbing man in there. Once the door closes you can barely hear any screaming or yelling at all, and Mike pauses, stares at the wall, and takes a deep breathe. Keep it in.

"You did good. Let's head home, there's Hector's Tacos waiting for us."

Billy holds it together. Cold. Clinical. Focused. This was the sort of disconnect he was used to. Disengage. Torment. Get the answer. Return to reality. He'd done it more often than he could recall. But he didn't have the excuse of national interests to hide behind. This wasn't for anyone's safety. This wasn't saving lives. But still, he held it together.

Until the mention of Briggs with a plastic bag. He looked up at Mike, as the towel was pulled away. Was that the reason Mike was like this? Was Briggs torturing him, too? The ground shifted beneath Billy's feet, threatening to drag down the wall. He pushed it all down. Later. he could think on it later.

He followed Mike out of the room. But he didn't stop when Mike paused to close the door. He brushed passed, heading for the front door at a brisk stride. For the car. So they could go home. So he could be alone. So he could process all of this and figure it out.

"I'm not hungry," was all he said, almost automatically, as he stepped out of the house.

"Right. Your thing with blood." Shit, he'd almost forgot. Of course he didn't want to eat. Mike felt oddly insensitive, waiting until they're out on the highway before speaking again.

"Thanks, Billy. I really mean it, thanks. I'll make sure you're around when I figure out what happened. You're loyal, man. I won't forget this." He really won't, either, and he exhales loudly before rolling the window down and screaming at the top of his lungs, trying to push all the nerves and emotions and chemicals and feelings out.

It's late, when they go into the beach house. No one's up, not even Johnny, and Mike tosses the keys onto the counter with a clack. He's at the fridge, all ready to grab his share of the tacos and just eat them cold. He needs to decompress. Needs to process what has just happened in the last few hours.

Billy hears it, but he doesn't really grasp the weight of those words. He was so desperate to keep that wall up, to hold it all in, that he missed that tiny bit of praise that he always longed for. It was just words. He nodded in response to confirm he'd heard it, but said nothing. He just drove. They were almost home.

Inside the house, Billy tossed his jacket over the back of the couch. Usually so chatty, especially once they were clear of any danger, he hadn't uttered a word. He pried his shoes off by the couch and left them there. Not even bothering to make they neat and tidy as he usually did.

"I'll be in the shower..." he managed, terse and rushed. He didn't look at Mike. Didn't say anything else. He was focused. Very precise and deliberate. Hall. Stairs. Landing. Stairs. Bathroom. Door. Shut. Water. Hot. Suspenders down. Shirt untucked. Sleeves down. Buttons...

He got three buttons undone before his resolve finally gave. The wall cracked beyond repair. He couldn't take it down piece by piece and control it all. The blood, Whistler, the woman in the tub, the cleaning crew, Mike's behavior, the house, the alcohol, his hands on that man's face. It hit him all at once. He staggered back in an attempt to stay upright and his back hit the door. Slowly, he slid to the floor. His head in his hands. Was the mission really worth all this?

Billy's using the spare bathroom--he's not allowed upstairs, not yet, and Mike is putting salsa verde on his tacos when he hears it. The thunk from someone against a door, heard to him even with the shower running. He's not waiting to hear it specifically, but he notices it because it's familiar. Legs giving out. Shock over.

Mike stops what he's doing and makes his way to the bathroom. Pushes the door open, gently, and looks at the scene. Shower running, hot. Steam already fogging up the mirrors. Billy directly below him, having leaned against the door. His heads in his hands.

Mike has fucked Billy up and it it's him. He nothing, instead closing the door and sitting on the floor. There's a long while, just letting billy either compose himself or break down further.

And, after a beat, he wraps an arm around the other's shoulders and pulls him close.

Billy didn't move. Didn't notice Mike was even there or that the door had opened against his back. The only sign that he was aware that anything had changed was that he curled up tighter, pulling his head closer to his knees.

The strange thing was he wasn't shaking. His breath was unsteady, but his hands weren't. He was completely still, huddled on the floor. All of his effort going into salvaging that wall. So he could process everything. But he was trying to save a sandcastle from the tide and it was slipping away from his fingers. Only it wasn't just any tide. It was a rip-current that threatened to drag him under. The very ground under his feet shifting and sliding away.

But that arm around his shoulders seemed to break that final thread that held him up. That was keeping his last pieces together. His entire body shuddered. An involuntary reaction that fell just short of a sob.

Why had he gone with it? Why hadn't he tried to stop it? It wasn't saving any lives. It wouldn't stop Whistler from being dead. For all they knew, that thug was innocent in this. How would he explain his actions to his team? He'd helped torture a man for no other reason than he was told to. He was just following orders. Oh god, he was as bad and broken as the soldiers of the governments they fought. Just a mindless minion doing as he was told. A pawn. Carrying out orders regardless of who it hurt. Is this what he was becoming? Just for one mission? What else would he have gone further if he'd been told to? And overlaying it all was that blood. Blood everywhere. On his hands. On his clothes. He swore he could see it on the floor even now. He could still smell it. Blood on Mike's hands. On his clothes. He was covered in it. So much blood.

Slowly that shudder grew. And it seemed he might just shake apart at the seams. Why wouldn't it stop?

Mike knows he shouldn't be helping him. No one helped Mike, not with his first kill, not with his first cleanup. Not even when he saw a man with so much conviction that he blew his brains out, right in front of him. Mike didn't have help. Why should Billy?

...because Billy still has a chance, Mike realizes. Notices it the moment the other starts sobbing. With his free hand, he locks the door from his position an then draws Billy into an actual hug. The most intimate he's ever been with anyone not Paige.

Billy, at his core, isn't tarnished. Not yet. He's bad, and he does bad and immoral things, but he's not corrupt. He's still white, still whole. And now Mike was chipping away, creating a grotesque version of the Billy he once knew. He couldn't even stop himself. It was part of the job.

"When I saw my first dead body," he says slowly, "I was 8 and I didn't really understand what was happening. "

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You didn't say the door was locked so I assumed

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