Anything ragged or rotten or rusty Yes, I love trash!

[47redbirds]

His fish tank is moving.

More specifically, his fish in the fish tank are moving. Talking. There's a puffer fish that Mike swears is fucking beat boxing, and he's sitting in the middle of his cramped trailer, right on the floor as he watches his tank.

He doesn't have a tank--it's his kitchen sink, for once devoid of any dishes. There's no tank and there's no puffer fish and it's not even filled with water, but Mike sees beyond that. He sees the certain truth that many people don't find. The difference between reality and what's fake and everything that's in between. He swears the fish are just from another universe. Another dimension, transposed here and Mike is the only one who can see them. The only one who knows who and what they are.

He's also on a lot more than Oxy today.

His dealer had provided him a lot of goods today. Out of respect, he says, for keeping the marshals out of his hair. Mike just pointed them the other direction so he'd still get his fix, it was as simple as that. The world isn't about who's nice and who does things from the kindness of their hearts and who doesn't. The world is about who's left with what they want.

Mike? Mike has everything he wants right now. Even if he's on the floor and has been for nearly two hours, staring at an empty sink he can't really see, convinced that he's just opened a new doorway to another world. That he can see the truth.

He hears the knocking, knows it can only be Tim. He doesn't get up to open the door--instead, with a surprising amount of grace, he throws the keys out the window for Tim to pick up. He can't look back, not now. He can't look away.

The RV is in a slightly better state than usual, at least--relatively clean, although Mike's hair is still long and unkempt. There's a pipe and a pill bottle on the kitchenette's table, and a few dimebags of his usual weed. There's also small dime bags of tablets, too: a regular smorgasbord.

Mike says nothing as he hears the door open. He smiles.

Comments

[comfortablyerect]

Tim's seen Billy.

And not in the fucked up, drugged out way Mike is currently seeing fish. Billy flew down for a visit, like a long distance booty call, and figured Tim out in approximately ten seconds, the way he always does. It's not easy to hide anything from somebody like Billy. Especially when you happen to be in the very beginning stages of withdrawal.

Billy convinced him to get clean. Convinced, guilt tripped, whatever. It worked either way. And it was painful and rough and not something Tim ever wants to go through again, but he fucking needed it. He's better than that, better than the level Mike had dragged him down to. The level he'd let himself get dragged down to, because it's his fault, really. Might might have taken advantage of his vulnerability, but Tim's the one that was weak enough to cave. Weak enough to keep caving, over and over again.

And he's better than that.

Tim hasn't seen Mike since. He hasn't taken himself off the case yet either, and he probably won't, no matter how much he needs to. It'll be better for him, probably, to redirect his focus. Let Raylan be Mike's handler. Or, hell, let Rachel be his handler. She's stronger than the rest of them combined. But taking himself off the case would be suspicious, not to mention it feels like a weak thing to do. Like a surrender.

But he needs this closure. Needs it like he needed to get clean. It's a one step at a time sort of thing, and this is the next step. He knocks on Mike's door, and the only answer he gets is the keys thrown out the window. So it's gonna be one of those kind of days. Great.

He gets the keys, unlocks the door to the trailer and goes inside. It's a little cleaner than usual, admittedly. But Tim's too distracted by Mike sitting on the floor to pay attention to that.

"Hey." He nudges Mike's leg with the toe of his boot. "Get up, Warren."

[47redbirds]

"Heeeeeey, Tim," Mike greets, and he's still staring up at the sink, still damn sure he's learning about the moon's tides at the moment. It's not usually fish, though--it's usually birds. A lot of birds. This is the exception.

Five yellow fish in exchange for 47 red birds.

That brings a half-smile to his face, even as Tim's boot nudges him. Tim's back. Tim always comes back-or sometimes it's a hotel room if they have to lay low, but it's always the same. They're always going to wind up high and on the beds. Sometimes it's slow, sometimes if Tim is angry it's fast. Mike has long since learned that all that matters is getting high and having incredible sex.

"If you help me up," He intends to make a deal, "I'll share with you."

[comfortablyerect]

Jesus Christ. He'd spent so long getting fucked up with Mike that he forgot what it was like to see somebody fucked up when you're sober. He used to use words like 'junkie' and 'pathetic' to describe Mike Warren. Right now, the only thing coming to mind is 'lucky son of a bitch'.

This is going to be harder than he thought. Between Mike's current state and the drugs on the table, it's hard not to remember what it feels like. How fucking great it feels to let go. Better than any bourbon he's ever tasted. He's been drinking a lot more to compensate for the sudden lack of drugs, but it's still better. He can't lose his job for drinking, but he sure as can for smoking oxy. He's always been a drunk anyway. At least that's not new.

He faces away from the drugs on the table. He can't let himself look at them. He wishes he were here to take Mike up on his offer. He wishes he could be that weak again, but he can't. He fucking can't.

"No." He does help Mike up though. By grabbing him by the back of his shirt and hauling him to his feet. "I'm done with that."

[47redbirds]

Mike is hauled unceremoniously to his feet and he nearly trips over himself--not because he's uncoordinated because of the drugs, which he surprisingly isn't, but rather because he hadn't even realized his leg had gone numb in the entire process.

That's why he grabs the other by the shoulder for a few seconds, eyes wide as he blinks it out, and breathes low and hard through his nose.

"Done with what?" He asks, and it's so casual he's already reaching for the hitter he has out and ready, grabbing the prescription pill bottle and opening it. "Wanna hand me a spoon?"

[comfortablyerect]

Mike isn't even going to make this easy. And not because he's high as shit, because he'd be difficult about this even if he were sober. It's because Mike is a fucking tool, and no wonder the only time he didn't want to punch the other in the face was when he was high as shit, too.

How the fuck did he let all this go on so long?

"With this," he says, and his patience is already gone, already beyond worn thin, and it seems like the only person who can do that to him is Mike. He takes the hitter and the pill bottle and tosses them back on the table, sending pills scattering. But he doesn't care. He just needs them out of his hands, out of sight. "The drugs. And you."

[47redbirds]

Mike only really cares about his next fix, ultimately. He's smart enough to play the game and just observant enough to keep himself out of water, but in the end he just needs his Oxy. He can run circles around the cops and the robbers and make himself valued in each circle but Tim...

Somehow, Tim managed to read him like a book. So he gets high with him and forgets the world and they fuck and it's fantastic, and that's all Mike really ever intends to do asides from give the other a line on something to get him off his back. It's probably mutual.

Still doesn't mean Mike snaps when Tim tosses the drugs. Scattering pills like that in front of a junkie is something Tim should know better about doing, and Mike reacts accordingly.

He tells himself it's just the drugs. Not 'and you.'

"What the fuck is your problem?!" He snaps. Takes a step forward, glare weakened only by how he can't seem to properly glare at him with how unfocused his eyes are.

[comfortablyerect]

Mike steps forward and Tim shoves him back. It's reflex. Or, it's that Tim's angry, riled up in a way Mike can only get him, and it's always with just a few words, a few actions. Never anything special, it's just Mike. Mike makes him angry.

And Tim's definitely angry now. Because Mike is getting in his face, because Mike is the entire reason he's here, physically forcing himself to not look at the pipe or the drugs, to not focus on the way the other's pupils are blown wide and how fucking great he must've been feeling just a few minutes ago. Because Mike is the reason he wants a hit, even now, as he's actively fighting against it. The reason he needs this closure in the first place.

Apparently, closure mostly means shoving Mike backwards again and moving in closer, crowding the other's personal space in the cramped trailer. Closure means picking a fight. Because that's the only thing he knows how to do with Mike when he's sober.

"My problem is you," Tim snaps back. "It's always been you."

Maybe he can goad Mike into hitting him first. At least that way he has a slippery claim at self-defense. It'd be more satisfying, he thinks.

[47redbirds]

He's trying to quit. Tim is trying to quite and Mike would have laughed had he been a little bit sober, a little bit more aware, he would have laughed.

As it is he still somehow manages to be observational, even while hallucinating. It's dimmed now, but Mike can visibly see the light bending through the window and blinds.

Tim, though, Tim is pushing him back against the wall and his back hits it, a calendar that hasn't been turned since July toppling down. Mike doesn't care. Mike grabs the other's flannel shirt and pulls him closer, breathing heavily and somewhat irregularly.

"You gonna blame me for all your shitty problems go ahead but we both know that's not true, Gutterson." Tim is infuriating right now and Mike realizes it's because he's completely sober for the first time in a while.

"What's going to get you through the night now? God? A higher calling? Nothing is. This isn't about me, this is about you trying to quit the only thing that helps you from waking up with sand an ash in your mouth."

[comfortablyerect]

He's not trying. He has. He's fucking quit. There's no room for trying, he can't afford to try. He had to do it, and he can't look back from it. He can't consider a one last time, or maybe just a little. He did it cold turkey and fought through the withdrawal and he's not doing it again. Never fucking again.

Of course, Mike knows all the right buttons to push. Knows just what to say to push Tim's anger further. Honestly, Mike knows more about him than Tim ever cared for him to. A lot of shit gets said when you're on a three-day bender of oxy and God knows what else, and they had quite a few of those. A lot gets said when you wake up from a haunting nightmare and somebody is there to put a pipe in your hand.

Mike knows a lot and there's no doubt in Tim's mind that the other will use it against him.

Mike grabs him by the shirt and Tim's fingers wrap around the other's throat. there's no pressure, but they're there, holding the junkie against the wall. A warning, or maybe a promise. Maybe it's Mike's hands fisted in his shirt or maybe it's the proximity, or maybe it's the scent of oxy in the room, but either way, Tim's hard in his jeans.

That's another thing Mike's so fucking good at. Getting Tim hard without ever trying.

"No, this is about you bein' nothin' but a piece of shit junkie, poisonin' every single thing you touch. What are you without all the drugs? Huh? You're nothin'. You're worthless."

[47redbirds]

Tim doesn't have as much dirt on Mike simply because Mike doesn't have much beyond this. He's good, even while fucked up, at not letting people know who he's playing and pitting people against.

Then again, there have been many instances of Mike, paranoid and alone, convinced someone was going to kill him. Maybe a few phone calls to Tim while in a drug induced frenzy, but never a paranoid break down. Those were always to himself.

Tim grabs at his throat and Mike looks up because Tim fucking knows, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He swallows, aware of his pulse beating against Tim's carefully placed fingers. No pressure.

Yet.

"You want to talk about worthless?" Mike spits, and it's harsh and cold and he's well aware of Tim's hard on. His pushes one of his feet between the other's legs, and his glare remains.

"Let's talk about the broken little boy who never got enough love in his life, Tim. Let's talk about why you joined the army in the first place."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim's fingers press into the sides of Mike's neck, not cutting off his air supply, but getting a good grip on him. And it's just to bring him forward off the wall and slam him back against it roughly. Who cares how much trouble he can get in for roughing up a CI? Honestly, who cares about Mike Warren?

He doesn't ever remember telling Mike about his childhood, about the army, but that's not surprising. There are entire black spots in his memory from the days that laced together with too many narcotics, nights that he can't remember, but is relatively certain they involved being curled around Mike and talking softly into his shoulder or chest. Tim doesn't know half of what he's told Mike, and it's fucking frustrating.

Liquor is definitely safer. Even when he's drunk enough to fight or spill his secrets, he at least remembers doing it.

Right now, he's stone cold sober. Completely alcohol and drug free, and it's honestly painful as hell. Used to be, he only needed a few drinks to get him through the night. These days, he tends to put more bourbon in his coffee than actual coffee. And it's especially rough standing in front of Mike, who he's started associating with getting a fix.

"I suggest," he says, his voice low and sharp. "You shut the fuck up."

[47redbirds]

"I suggest you stop fucking around," Mike growls, and it's low and surprisingly angry. Even if he can't physically bat the other away, he sure as fuck can stand his ground and look intimidating.

Even if he's impervious to the feeling in his back at the moment, far too much oxy in his system. It'll bruise and it'll hurt, no doubt. Like most of the time when Tim comes over rough as hell and pissed as shit.

Fucking idiot.

This is the first time he's actively said he'd quit, first time he's said he's done with everything. Mike's not worried. The sex is going to be great if he just keeps pushing.

Because every time Tim shows up, they're going to fuck. Tim knows that, Tim's associated this place and the drugs and Mike's face with coming and coming hard. Mike's alright with that, and one hand is removed from the other's flannel and moves down.

"You're going to come right back to me. We both know that. We both know you're going to come," And he emphasizes this by cupping Tim's hard on through his jeans and rubbing his thumb over his dick.

[comfortablyerect]

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

He can't. He really can't sleep with Mike, no matter how fucking incredible the sex always is, high or not. He can't because that's a slippery slope, and one thing will lead to another, and Tim doesn't trust himself not to fall off the fucking wagon. Not yet. He's not as strong as he'd like to pretend he is. Hell, he couldn't even get clean without someone holding his hand.

Which means he probably should've waited to do this. He should've waited until he was a little stronger, a little less likely to backslide. It would be so easy to give in to the wanting ache. Just like it would be so easy to arch his hips and rock against Mike's hand

He doesn't. Instead, he stays very still.

He presses his palm against Mike's throat, putting pressure on his windpipe. He knows where Mike's sensitive at, remembers that much through the haze of drugs they often fooled around in. They're both sensitive at the throat, but in different ways. Tim wants teeth bruising his skin and Mike wants fingers cutting off oxygen. He knows how to make Mike get it up.

"I'm better than that now. Better than this. Than you." But even as he says it, he's pressing his hand harder against against Mike's neck.

[47redbirds]

"Sure," Mike says, and it's so flippant and dismissive he knows it'll raise Tim's hackles up. He's already down to go--that much is evident in how he's already got a boner. It's always been easy to get Tim to give in, though.

Tim isn't better than Mike by any means, and the fact that Tim pushes his hand onto his neck is proof of that. He feels the pressure, just enough to get him incredibly aware of everything. Forget the fish and the hallucinations--Mike's attention is solely on Tim now, and it shows with his hand still on Tim's jeans.

His other hand moves down, too, and he's already slowly, painstakingly undoing the other's zipper. Mike smirks down at Tim, leaning forward. Daring him to press further with his hand.

"Of course you are."

[comfortablyerect]

Mike knows exactly what to say to get Tim riled up. Or, to get him more riled up, as it is, since he's already riled himself up enough. To be honest, he was angry even before he arrived. He's been angry since that night in the hotel room with Billy, angry at Mike and angry at himself. It's not something he can let go of, but something he needs to release.

Preferably by roughing Mike up some more.

So when Mike leans forward, Tim slams him back against the wall again, hard and unforgiving, the palm of his hand pressing harder against the other's throat. His other hand drops down, too, finger's curling around Mike's wrist to stop him.

He's not going to give in that easily. He won't.

"I'm not some worthless piece of shit junkie. I'm not like you."

[47redbirds]

Mike feels it, now--the lines Tim is crossing. The reminder on his neck turning into a warning turning into actual fun, now. He can still breathe, just with a little effort, and he smiles.

His hair is already falling onto his face, now, but it doesn't stop him from taking his other hand not being grabbed by Tim and dipping it past Tim's underwear, groping, feeling for Tim's long, hard cock. Mike's got a proper boner, too, and it's uncomfortable in his jeans but that adds to the thrill.

"Your dick says otherwise, Tim." Blue eyes match blue, and Mike silently dares him. Challenges him. Tim's furious but he needs a dipping point. Mike, grabbing Tim's dick again, gladly provides.

"It's not my fault you haven't had sex as good as this before. That's on you and your lack of skill."

[comfortablyerect]

No-- he is going to give in that easily. Because when Mike pushes, he pushes hard and unrelenting, doesn't hold back or slow down, and it's not something Tim is able to resist. It never has been. He has all the patience in the world, but it all seems to run out within seconds when he's faced with Mike. And that challenging look saps up the rest of it immediately.

Not the mention the fingers around his cock feel amazing. They're too hard to ignore.

So he gives in. And that's fine. Giving into sex is different from giving into drug use. One isn't necessarily going to lead to the other. He's horny, not weak.

In one swift, graceful motion, he turns Mike around, shoves him up against the wall again, but doesn't let go of his wrist or his neck. His fingers stay pressing against Mike's throat and he twists the other's arm behind his back, threatening to pop it out of place as he presses forward, grinding his hips against Mike's ass.

"Last I check," he says, voice low in the other's ear. "This is a skill I'm not lackin'."

[47redbirds]

He nearly topples and it's the hand moving his wrist to his back, his shoudler blade already feeling like it's on fire, that actually saves him from doing so.

The hand on his throat, constricting, the pain in his shoulders, pressing up, and that dick hard against Mike's ass is one hell of a sign. So are those words, hissed in his ear, and his dick grinds against the wall of his shitty place.

One hand moves to steady himself on the wall, already breathing heavily thanks to Tim, and after that it moves behind him and he grabs at Tim's hair as hard as he can.

"I've had plenty better fucks than you," he challenges.

It's a lie.

"Without this you can barely get it up."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim groans, involuntary and low in his throat, because the fingers in his hair are almost better than the hand on his cock was. Not as good as teeth on his throat, but pretty damn close.

He already knows Mike's full a shit, just lying between his teeth. He knows it's just a challenge, just a way to get Tim to be rougher and harsher. Logically, he knows all of that, but it doesn't seem to make a difference. Because it works, and Tim practically snarls when he lets go of Mike's wrist to undo the other's pants.

"Like the way you can't get it up unless there's a hand around your throat?" His fingers squeeze around Mike's neck briefly for emphasis. "Can't get off unless you can barely breathe?"

His hand shoves past Mike's underwear, fingers curling around his cock firmly and stroking slow.

"Like that's not fucked up."

[47redbirds]

Mike knows it's fucked up. He's well aware he's fucked up, too, but Tim presses on something verbally that causes Mike to go from goading him to letting out a low, warning noise in his throat that sounds an awful lot like a growl.

He can get off, of course. It's just harder--but with Tim, it's always hotter and faster and angrier. Rougher and now that those hands have found his dick, Mike can't help the long, drawn out moan.

No. He has to fight, has to find some way to show Tim he hasn't won, that Mike is now just as angry and pissed off as him, even if his cock is erect and sensitive and Mike is all too aware of his air.

"I'm the only one who will ever do this with you," He challenges. Takes his free hand and grabs at Tim's hand around his throat--he wants to move. Preferably to the bed.

"You love it just as much as I do, you sick fuck. Probably jerk off at your kill count."

[comfortablyerect]

Playing with Mike is like playing with a fucking rattlesnake. Poking it with a stick and jumping back when it lunges, until it moves just a little too quick and sinks its teeth in.

Of course, Mike fights back, and he plays to win. He knows the source of Tim's nightmares and uses it against him. His hand moves from Mike's cock to his wrist again, yanking it back behind his back, further and harder than the last time. Not hard enough to dislocate it, but hard enough to strain it further, put a little more pressure on it. He knows exactly how hard he needs to pull to snap it out of place, and the weight he puts on it is carefully controlled.

He doesn't plan on doing it, but he can. He knows how. And that's the reminder he gives as he tugs on it a little harder. He's capable of destroying Mike, and this is just a warning.

"Don't think I won't turn you into another number to jerk off to."

It's an empty threat, and a lie to boot, but he doesn't care. It sounds real enough with the rough edge to his voice and the fingers tight around Mike's wrist.

He yanks the other away from the wall, pushes him roughly towards the bedroom without letting him go.

[47redbirds]

He hisses, pained as the hand moves from his dick to his wrist again and he's about to say something, about to fight again but Tim presses a little bit more back and Mike has to shut his eyes through the pain it sends up and down his arm. Even on pain killers he can sense it, numb and rough. More things that will hurt and bruise.

More things to soothe with Oxycontin.

"Either way," He laughs, and it's scornful and mocking even as he's shoved to the small, cramped bedroom, "You're going to be thinking of me."

He knows Tim would get just as riled up if Mike points out that his balancing act between being a CI and an actual criminal means he can fuck Tim back in every possible way, but he doesn't say that. Instead, he stumbles and tries to twist himself around, stopping and wincing only because of his arm.

"I didn't know you cared, sweetheart."

[comfortablyerect]

This is a bad idea. He knows it is, even as she shoves Mike to the bedroom, his thumb pressing slightly against the pulse thumping hard in the other's throat. He should back off, leave Mike to get himself off and go find somebody harmless and pretty to fuck. Instead of the guy who got him hooked on oxycontin and fucked up his life.

But it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be as hot or intense or rough. He can fuck Mike without worrying about hurting him because he doesn't care. He can't do that to somebody else. He can't work his anger out on somebody else.

So it's this. It's this and then he's gone. And next time he comes back, it'll be for work, and he won't have any anger to work out, and it'll be a normal cop-CI interaction. There won't be drugs and there won't be sex. There will be information exchanged and that's it. This is the last fucking time.

He shoves Mike face first down onto the bed, lets go of his arm to flip him over onto his back.

"Shut the fuck up," he snaps, yanking Mike's pants down just enough to bare his ass. And just to make sure Mike stays quiet, he puts a hand on his throat again and leans in to kiss him roughly.

[47redbirds]

"Fuck you," Mike snaps, and it's about just as much as he can say. He's flipped from his back to his stomach in a matter of seconds and he finds even if he wanted to not comply, he wouldn't be able to.

There will never be a last time, he thinks, because not only can Mike take everything Tim gives him, he can dish it out twice as bad. They're doomed to claw at each other's throats until one of them dies.

The rough kiss is responded in kind--Mike bites down on Tim's lip, hard, and while he can't speak he can definitely moan appreciatively. It's that hand on his throat, that fucking pressure that's just right.

His hips raise up, wanting. Needing, despite himself, though he's at that stage where Tim could do just about anything and it would be hot.

So he kisses back a second time, rough and wanting, and his hands move to the other's throat, pressing into the flesh and knowing damn well where he's going to mark.

[comfortablyerect]

Teeth dig into his lip hard enough to bruise and Tim groans low in his throat, fingers pressing a little harder into Mike's neck in response. He's distracted, for a moment, just by kissing back hard, being as rough and harsh as possible.

Mike's hips arch, and it's enough to bring Tim back to the real goal: fuck until he's not angry anymore. He pushes them back down with his free hand, pushing the other's legs apart to kneel between them. He doesn't bother with undressing, not with anything that's not completely necessary. His own jeans get pushed down just enough to free his cock.

It's ignored, though, in favor of curling his fingers around Mike's dick, stroking firm and slow like he did earlier, leaning forward to murmur into the other's ear.

"No, I'm gonna fuck you. And I'm gonna keep my hand around your neck just like this--" He presses his palm harder against Mike's throat. "-- until you come so hard all you can do is moan."