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 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. "

It was only when Mike spoke that he realized what was happening. He didn't really hear the words at first. He just connected that it was Mike beside him. Arms around him. And for a split second, thought he knew what would happen next. A knife, maybe. Or those hands going for his throat. Mike was an ice-cold killer and Billy was weak. It was an irrational flash before reason caught up. But it was enough to make him jerk back, out of Mike's embrace. To stare at him, before he calmed down. Mike was still Mike. He wasn't always a ruthless killer.

Billy nodded. Slowly. It wasn't until his third mission that he ever saw a dead body. That must have been devastating to a child. But he couldn't find a way to engage the statement. Billy, who was always so charming and always knew what to say, was stumped on how to carry a conversation.

So he went with something he'd been unable to say earlier. "What I said before, about the blood..." he shook his head. "It's why I drive." No, that wasn't what he wanted to say. But he couldn't seem to piece together the right words.

Mike lips his lips, not because he doesn't know what to say but because he's trying to say it. It's not that he was comparing himself to Billy, or wanting his sympathy. One-upping the man's tragic night. Just trying to relate, trying to tell Billy he's not alone. Sometimes when he tries to express himself, though, he hits a brick wall. Can't really find the right words to say.

Information, he can get. He can whittle. He can charm and manipulate if he really wants, but heart to hearts were hard.

He's still holding Billy, strangely intimate, strangely welcoming, the shower running.

"I understand. If I could have gotten anyone else, I wouldn't have." There's a truth to that, too, and Mike is still holding his shoulders. Still trying to word it. To make Billy feel safe.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. We won't call you in until it's absolutely necessary if it's that bloody. But, Billy..."

No. He can drop that. Ask again later.

"Never mind. Here." And Mike is already carefully undoing the other's shirt.

It had been his idea at one point to outright seduce Mike. To not only earn his trust, but a way into the man's bed. But he'd pushed the idea to the back burner. First because of Paige, second because he wasn't entirely sure Mike as interested in men in that way. And those hands on his shirt, Mike's tone, it was all a perfect set up. The sort of situation he could turn into something very useful.

And yet, that was the furthest thing from his mind. Because when he looked down at those hands, all he saw was the blood that had been on them. Drenched in it, like he'd run his hands through the blood on the bed. Carefully, he reached up to urge Mike's hands away, his own hands resting on the man's forearms. Not touching where the blood had been.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather be alone right now..." His voice wasn't exactly cold, but it was very much detached. As he started to realize just how little he knew Mike.

Billy prided himself on reading people. Picking up the things people thought they'd hid. And yet in all the time they'd spent together, he hadn't seen even a glimmer of what he'd seen tonight. And if he didn't know Mike, he couldn't do his job. He couldn't stay on task. Not until he got his head on straight.

Mike only did the first few buttons--only to make sure the other would actually get out of his shit before the shower, with the state he's in. It would be worrying if he hadn't gone through it himself with the Bello incident.

He looks down a few seconds, gaze on the tile. He's not surprised if he's the last person Billy wants to see now: Mike's the one that ask him to do it. Clean up what he could.

He nods, then, to himself. Presses a hand on the other's chest, over his heart, as if to check it wasn't beating too fast. The other wasn't having a heart attack, but till.

"You going to be okay?" He asks. Still touching him.

Billy's heart wasn't racing too terribly, but that hand pressing to his bare chest certainly did the trick. Billy tried to ignore it. It was such a strange gesture to make. He tried to not let the reaction show itself on the surface. But the hand lingered, and Billy swore he could feel the sticky, half dried blood on it. He could even smell it. He couldn't see it, but every other sense told him it was still there.

After a moment, he tried to pull away, still not looking at Mike. But his back was against the door. He didn't have anywhere to move. He brought both hands up to Mike's wrists, trying to keep his grip gently, pushing one way while he shifted the other.

"I will be..." Billy managed to say, leaving the "once you're out of the room" unsaid.

"Okay." Mike took a breath, not bothering to hide the worry in his voice or eyes. "Can you--" No. Mike is in no place to ask anything of Billy. He dips his head, trying to be cognizant of the other. Trying to be understanding.

He sounds like a sociopath, even to himself when it comes to that reasoning. Still, it's the truth. He lowers his eyes, finding himself staring down at Billy's chest instead. For some reason, eye contact wasn't working for him.

Guilt?

"If you feel up for it, head upstairs? Second door on the right. I'll leave you alone, but please come see me. Please."

That got through to Billy. It was one of the few stumbling blocks of this mission. He hadn't been allowed upstairs. The space reserved for house residents alone. There was no chance of getting even a casual glimpse of what was up there. And now, he was being invited up?

He lifted his head, torn between being afraid of Mike and his own job. This is what he'd been waiting for. But at what cost had it come?

"...upstairs?" he asked, obviously stunned. Wouldn't Briggs strangle him for even setting foot up there? And all of a sudden, he was reminded of what Mike had said earlier. About the Briggs and the bag. Before Mike could reply, Billy shook his head. and lowered his gaze again. "That's not a good idea."

"It's fine," Mike assured. "Actually, I really want you to. I'll call ahead and let the house know if you're really worried about it, but everyone knows what you did today. They know you're here to stay."

It's meant to be comforting--meant to be something, and Mike chews at his lip, wondering if it's okay. Wondering if any of this is okay.

"Please, Billy." He's worried about Billy, he really is, and expressing it isn't the easiest thing to do. He takes a small breath. "Just come upstairs. My door will be open. I want to give you your space right now, alright?"

Again, Billy shook his head. Not looking at Mike. Not moving from his spot on the floor. He'd been through hell before. Captured by the enemy. Tortured. He had the scars to prove it. But what he imagined might happen...he wasn't sure he was prepared for that. What could possibly pass as an initiation in this group? With what Mike had said to that guy after the bottle ran out...Billy shuddered at the idea.

"Briggs, he..." Billy cleared his throat, dismissing the idea. No, don't even mention it. "I think it'd be best if...if I stayed as I've been. For now." He flicked a glance up at Mike, then back to the floor. This is what the mission had been for. Earning trust. Earning his way upstairs. Into the inner circle. And now that it was offered to him on a silver platter, he couldn't take it.

Mike's eyes widened, and he can't help himself. He actually laughs, even if it's a light chuckle. There's no humour. "Briggs? Briggs thinks you're alright. I'm the one that didn't trust you."

It's the truth. Honest to goodness, and Mike tries his best to smile. It's one of his dashing ones, oddly charming and boyish but at the same time handsome. It's also the same smile he gives when he's giving a false sense of assurance.

"Please. If not for you, then for my sake of mind."

Billy looked up again. That bright smile he'd once found so endearing seemed almost sinister. A mask hiding the monster he'd found in that hotel room. Did Mike forget what he'd said before? Or was he hoping Billy wouldn't wouldn't bring it up? Neither side seemed appealing. What was Mike hiding? What followed now that he was supposedly trusted?

He couldn't think of an argument that didn't twist his stomach. So he just nodded. Agreeing with no intent to follow up. He just wanted to be alone Truly alone. Maybe after his shower, he'd go out onto the beach. At this hour, it would be empty save for clusters around fires and even those would be scarce now. He could go out on the pier and look up at the stars. Where it was quiet. He could imagine that it was not the Pacific ocean before him, but the Firth of Forth. Where it mingled with the North Sea. Just like when he was a kid. When things made sense.

With that in mind, something to help hold himself together, he moved. Just enough to allow Mike to open the door.

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

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