Imprint - 6. Chapter Two: The Black Wolf

I

It seemed the impossible had finally happened: Alexander Cain opened his eyes to find himself alone in an empty bed after having not gone to sleep that way. Even more impossible still, he was actually angry about it.

He rolled on to his back, glaring blearily at the ceiling, cursing his shitty luck. How many times had he closed his eyes, hoping against hope that the dumb twit who followed him home that night would just take the hint and disappear; did it ever happen? Oh hell no, he'd wake up and they'd still be there, wanting something else from him; whether testing how open he might be to some sort of relationship (ha! No, just...god no), if he was interested in a second round (I never wanted to touch you in the first place), or just thinking he was obligated somehow to cook them breakfast (if I could throw you out the apartment window and splatter you on the sidewalk, I'd do it in a heartbeat, now leave me alone). It figures the one time he found someone he actually wanted to stay, that would be the one to go.

And that was the best sex I've ever had, too. And that is really saying...not much of anything at all, actually.... Fuck my life.

He pulled himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and reaching for the bottle of extra strength Advil he kept on the nightstand where some might keep a glass of water; he shook a few out on his palm, didn't bother checking how many and swallowed them dry. He had been eating that shit like it was Pez since he was about fifteen, he knew logically it probably did little at this point for his frequent tension headaches, but it was habit now and hey, there is always the placebo effect. It was still better than his previous habit, which involved biting his nails until his fingertips bled, and all that did was draw attention, worry people and make the headaches worse.

His body felt tired and sore, muscles strained, at least one may have been pulled, and he could feel the dull throb of bruises in places he didn't remember getting them. It felt amazing, might have brought a smile to his face except that he knew it would fade and he'd likely never experience that again...and come to think of it, the painkillers would bring an end to that quicker than it would the knot of tension at the base of his skull. Well, fuck...

Look at it this way, at least that's one fantasy that lived up to expectations. You'll always have that.

(and now I'll never know why...why I thought...thought what?)

Xander stared at the far wall, at his cell phone lying on the floor there. He had some vague memory of hearing it ring, pausing to shut it off and throwing it across the room; seems it survived the trip, how unfortunate. He considered going to retrieve it, but why bother, he knew what he'd find. Five hundred messages from Jeff, like the nagging wife he never remembered marrying: what happened last night, where'd you disappear to, why'd you leave, what was her name and was she any good, heh heh heh. At least this time he wouldn't have to risk a ruptured blood vessel faking enthusiasm. And maybe if he was really lucky there would be something from his parents, too, making their near monthly check that he was still alive; wouldn't that just be the cherry on the shit sundae that was this morning.

Times like this, I wish I could get drunk. Maybe a pot of coffee will do something...

His eyes wandered, catching sight of something black crumpled on the floor at the bottom of the bed, just sticking out around the corner. Frowning, he leaned to the side, just managing to snag it up between his fingers and pull it over toward him.

A pair of leather pants, not his, a bit too small for that. That fine, silver chain link belt was still threaded through the loops, thin flat metal strips dangling down from the top of each circle. He had spent a ridiculous amount of time staring at those decorative tassels last night, like they were a puzzle to be solved, and maybe they were. He idly ran his thumb over the metal, finding it oddly warm but thinking little of it.

(wouldn't leave this behind)

And so that would mean...

...he's still here.

His eyes moved over to the closed bedroom door; he couldn't hear anything out there, but it was a big apartment. His lips curved into a grin, his bad mood forgotten, the knot of tension at the base of his skull gone.

Well then, maybe for one something can go right after all.

(maybe I can get those answers now)

---

The club was called Sekrets, because the owner had spent a whole five seconds thinking up the name, and it was spelled with a K because they were just that fucking hip. It was a self consciously trendy hellhole where boring rich kids paid too much money to come, drink, dance to giddy electronic noise someone decided was music, and try to get laid. The place grated on Xander's brain, assaulted each of his senses without mercy and yet here he was again for, what was it, the fifth time this month? All because one of the bartenders (was it Greg or Gary? And did it even matter?) was one of Jeff's pretentious college buddies, which meant Jeff wanted to come here. And apparently, Xander was still on probation from deciding where to go after what happened last time; last time being about three months ago, mind you, and yet Jeff was still whining about it.

“I like it here,” Jeff had insisted as they stood outside waiting in line and he had grumbled something like this place again. Jeff's carefree tone suggested he thought Xander was joking as opposed to truly annoyed; Jeff had always been oblivious. “Good music, hot girls, and I've never once gotten my nose broken here.”

And there is was, right on fucking cue. Xander pinched the bridge of his nose, “Still butthurt about that, huh?”

“Facehurt, more like it. My nose is in my face.”

Xander thought he groaned aloud, but as Jeff had nothing to add he must not have. It was at a mosh pit, a bar with an ugly reputation he had heard rumors of here and there, mostly from people who wouldn't cross the street in front of it but he had been intrigued, sounded like an interesting change of pace. He had also never actually invited Jeff, just made the mistake of mentioning his plans to him and Jeff had assumed the invitation was implied. He bitched the whole time, too, and some time after he had finally managed to lose him in the rioting crowd, Jeff had gotten hit with a stray fist and there was blood pouring down his face; Xander hadn't even gotten to see it happen. Jeff reacted exactly like a sheltered little baby who had never experienced real pain in his life, and he seemed determined to milk it as though it were a gem of real worth.

(maybe I ought to cut it off for you...use a small knife, make slow, careful, precise incisions to the flesh and cartilage, cause as little damage as I can, make you suffer for an hour, then reattach it...maybe then you'll be so grateful to have it at all you'll finally just shut the fuck up)

Why the hell am I still hanging out with this dipshit? Surely it had served some purpose at one point in time, but hadn't that time passed yet? Jeff fucking Anders, an Omega male to the core; shy, timid, with a weak personality, he was destined to latch himself on to the first stronger man that came along, and unfortunately for all involved that man happened to be him. Or boy more like, he was in grade school when they met if not kindergarten; the Anders' lived next door, his parents had some dinner party and invited the neighbors, Jeff sat next to Xander at the kids' table and his fate was sealed; Jeff clung to him like a barnacle and refused to let go, just wanting to exist in his shadow. And when Xander announced his intention to move to Manhattan and take some time off after high school, well what a coincidence, that was just where Jeff decided to go to college! A fucking coincidence indeed; Xander wondered if he bought a boat and went to live in the middle of the ocean, he'd find Jeff rowing desperately after him in a dingy.

But people had approved of their friendship, encouraged it even, they were such a good influence on each other (how so? He had always wanted to ask but never did). And besides, everyone needed friends, at least one good friend; it was normal, it was expected, noncompliance would draw attention, make people concerned, make them nose into your business wanting to know what's wrong and we can't be having that. Its not like Brighton had provided any better and he could have done far worse; at least Jeff knew his place, knew how to mind his own business.

The need for that sort of shield had passed; at this point if he wanted to wall himself up in his luxurious apartment and never see the light of day again, who would notice or care, much less take it upon themselves to stop him. But there was still habit, and that could be hard to break without a compelling reason to do so. What else was there to do with himself anyway?

They reached the front of the line and he had to suffer a good ten minutes of Jeff trying to flirt with the girl at the door, just like always. And just like always the girl flirted back, with her words and her smiles and her coy little laugh, but none of it ever made it into her eyes; she probably had assholes flirting with her every day, she probably responded just to keep them coming back, that might be why she was out here in the first place. Not that Jeff ever noticed or cared, but he was oblivious. Xander tried to tune him out, tried to reach deep down and pull up some enthusiasm for the night ahead, or at the very least a numb tolerance for what he was about to be put through. His unfocused gaze raked over the girl in front of them, leaning against the blocked half of the double doors, arms crossed on her chest and her hip cocked way out; he noticed a canister of mace attached to her belt there, probably just in case anyone tried to push the harmless flirting a bit too far.

(I bet I could rip that thing off your hip and empty it right in your eye before you even realize that I've moved...pathetic, what's the point of arming yourself if you're going to be that careless about it...someone should blind you with it, you could use the lesson)

After a moment he grabbed Jeff's arm and steered him inside. He saw the girl look at him and a quick flicker of gratitude came into her eyes before she returned to her job and he turned away, not really caring.

Once inside, Jeff made a beeline for the bar and his idiotic friend; Xander hung back and let him get lost in the crowd. History has taught him the sooner he extracted himself from Jeff the easier his night would go; he knew what would happen here, Jeff would immediately start trying to chat up any female he could find, and if Xander was within eyesight he would get dragged into it. Jeff joked that Xander was his wingman but that was bullshit, Xander was the bait; whatever pair of women he found (and they always came in at least pairs, thus requiring two of them) were usually more interested in him than Jeff (and don't ask him to explain that one), they'd go along for him, arm wrestle or whatever over who got the dubious honor of leaving with him and, he assumed, Jeff could coax pity sex out of the one that's left. He didn't want any part of that, he never did, but he couldn't exactly say that, could he? It wasn't normal, men his age wanted to fuck, all the time, with anything, even if that thing was stupid or boring or utterly useless, none of that is supposed to matter. The few times he even tried Jeff ignored it, excused it, talked right over him and he just let it go before it became some big what is wrong with you, man type thing that he didn't want, didn't want the scrutiny, not now.

Jeff was happy enough with the situation as it was, and why not? He finally had what he never did in high school, a sex life. He talked all the time about how great things were now, this was the dream, man. If this was any body's dream, they should kill themselves. How he hated that, listening to Jeff talk about how enviable all this was; he knew it was probably true, and it really shouldn't be.

Slinking along the perimeter of the room, avoiding the dance floor, wishing he could avoid the soundtrack as easily, he glanced over his shoulder toward the bar, quickly picking Jeff out as the man dressed like he was color blind and brain damaged. And there he was, already trying to talk up some brunette waiting for her drink.

Wasting no time tonight, is he? Fucking great, I knew I should have stayed home. I'll be spending the whole night trying to avoid him.

Xander tucked himself into a darkened corner and tried his best to make himself invisible; it was a talent he had always wanted but never possessed, and sure enough it wasn't long before he felt that uncomfortable pressure against his aura that told him someone was staring. He waited for Jeff to break through the crowd and drag him off to some new torture, but it didn't happen; which meant it was someone else but that was okay, strangers were easier to rudely blow off.

He never quite understood it, he never tried for attention and yet it came to him anyway. Xander had been blessed with facial features that were perfectly average, not ugly but not head turningly attractive either; he looked like a thousand other clean cut twenty-one year olds and should have been able to blend into the crowd...except for his eyes, they just fucking ruined it. The left eye was a pale, pale blue, so light it was near colorless; the right one a pale, pale brown, like muddy water. His eyes alone made his face into something exotic, something that would be noticed, remarked upon and remembered; most people told him they decided they loved how it looked, once they got used to it that was.

And then there were his scars, impossible to miss. If people didn't come already staring at the line bisecting his throat, wrapped halfway around his neck, they certainly noticed it when they went to shake his hand; they never failed to jump at least a little at the surprising, alien feel of that trench dug through the middle of his palm, stretched across his hand, several layers of skin gone, burned away almost down to the bone, healed over pink and perfectly smooth. He had similar marks along his fingers, around the first knuckle of three and the top of his pinkie, but they were fainter, far less dramatic. The scars made him interesting, made people want to know what happened, complete strangers come right out and ask him like they had a right to know. When he was younger he used to tell elaborate lies, knowing instinctively they didn't want the truth, they wanted an action movie, and since the truth was none of their business give them what they wanted. Of course now he had much less patience to entertain than ever before, so he just responded with sarcasm (“Oh, that. Tragic masturbation accident, never jerk off on speed... Oh, that. That's where I cut my throat the last time someone asked me a stupid question.”); it never helped, their minds just filled in the blanks.

At least here there were no more comments on his dark, brownish red hair and light olive skin tone, just a touch too dark to be a hundred percent Caucasian. No, that was only ever noteworthy at home, while standing in line next to his perfectly Aryan family; people wondering to his face what sort of recessive genes he must have gotten, speculating behind his back that he was the mail man's kid.

But it went beyond that, even without recessive genes and weird scars and heterochromia, he still couldn't hide. His reluctant high school girlfriend Gina used to tell him he just had a presence, just something about him that was impossible not to notice. Though his first instinct had been to scoff and insult her intelligence, he hadn't done so because, somewhere deep down, he thought it made a degree of sense.

(“people will always see you...can't look away...they know what you are.”)

That's how he became an Alpha male at school without even trying, elevated to a local legend against his will, saddled with the so called hottest girl on his arm, the one everyone wanted to fuck, everyone but him (which of course meant he couldn't turn it down). He always had to hear about how fucking lucky he was, when all he ever wanted was to be one of those faceless masses. If he had been unremarkable, if he could have stayed in the shadows, he could have just been himself; with this unwanted spotlight shining down on him he's had to be careful, watch himself, work hard to fit in, to be normal when he knew that he wasn't, that he couldn't ever be.

One thing he did have going for him, that presence could make him very intimidating when he wanted to be (when he could get away with it, never as often as he would have liked) and Xander turned that on the crowd, hoping to send whoever that was scampering out of the club with their tail between their legs. The crowd was thick in front of him, a herd of morons giddily bouncing around and he couldn't see anyone looking specifically at him, until they shifted left and

(….?)

One person not moving with the crowd, standing still in the middle of the dance floor; blond hair and black leather, eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, but those were the ones he was looking for, the ones staring at him

(...you?)

if any confirmation was needed, those lips curling into a slow, satisfied smile when their eyes met did it nicely

(...you)

and the crowd moved again, the gap closing, that face disappearing from view.

Xander was moving before he quite realized it, before he had a second to think, barreling his way into the throng, pushing people out of his path, who gives a fuck if someone doesn't like it let them say something, he just knew he couldn't, couldn't, let that person get away from him.

(he was...he looked...)

A hand on his bicep stopped him; he turned quickly, ready to kneecap whoever had the nerve to touch him, a small spec of hope that it might be the face he wanted to see

(he was...he looked...)

“Shit man, there you are! I've been looking everywhere for you.”

And of course it was the last person he wanted to see.

Xander glared at that hand on his arm, following it up to that goofy looking smile and oblivious brown eyes. He knew that look and it never meant anything good for him; he was in even less of a mood to deal with it now than ever.

(grab that hand, wrench it back until you hear that snap; when he screams, tilts his head up and back, slam your other hand into his nose, drive it up into his brain...three, four hits max ought to do it)

“Get your hand off me, Jeff,” his voice was low but it could carry, Jeff was close enough to hear it.

Though naturally he ignored it, “Dude, you got to come with me. I met these girls, Amy I think and-”

“I don't care,” spoken louder and this time it got Jeff's attention, as did the cold eyes and the clenching jaw; that obliviousness could be defeated, it just took a fucking chainsaw to do it.

“Are you okay, man?” Jeff actually looked concerned, which would have been nice if he gave a damn. “You seem...I don't know, kind of-”

“Are you going to get your hand off me, or do I need to make you?” The second option, please god.

Jeff's hand disappeared in a hurry, fluttering around a moment like he wasn't quite sure what to do with it now, before tucking it out of sight in his jeans pocket. “Seriously though, man,” he saids, still concerned, “what's up with you? You're acting weird.”

(hit him, just hit him, right in the throat, crush his windpipe, sweep his legs out from under him, stamp on his skull until it splits like an overripe melon)

“I'm busy,” he mumbled in response, pushing forcefully past him, disappearing into the crowd again.

If I miss that guy because I was busy dealing with you, I'll be coming for your brain stem.

Xander pushed his way forward, heading in what he thought was the right direction, only to come out on the other side of the dance floor empty handed; he didn't even feel those eyes on him anymore.

Fuck. He could feel a hot, burning rage bubbling up in his chest and he knew it was irrational, there was no good reason for it, but at the moment he didn't care. All he wanted to do now was find Jeff and peel the skin off his face, cut his cock off and ram it down his throat, thanks to it and the even more useless head it was attached to, he was

(I thought...for a second there, I thought...he was...)

he didn't know.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there wasn't anything. A split second, a face in the crowd, he might not have been looking at me, maybe no one was. Maybe I'm just bored as shit and want something to happen.

But that didn't make sense and he knew it; his mind was clear, his instincts more fine tuned than that. He wasn't mistaken, he didn't make mistakes like that. There had been something, someone, and...

And now I'll never know.

Upset by that thought and uncertain as to why, Xander tried to shake it off and contemplate his next move. Slinking back to his corner was his first thought, but frankly he wasn't sure he had the patience to even pretend he wanted to be here. He should be able to sneak out without being noticed; yes, he'd hear about it later, but later he should be in a better frame of mind to continue this ridiculous charade for reasons he didn't entirely remember anymore.

As he turned to go, Xander's eyes quickly scanned over the bar where a crowd seemed to be gathering because self preservation was apparently not one of the common senses. Slightly away from the crowd, close to the edge of the bar, his eyes alighted on a man waiting there, unnoticed by either bartender because he wasn't screeching for attention. Blond hair and black leather; Xander's breath caught in his throat.

Its him.

He knew, logically speaking, there was no way he could know that; he had seen that face for a split second, less than that even, and he wasn't even seeing it now as the man's back was turned to him. There was nothing remarkable about the thin, knee length leather coat he was wearing, nothing unusual about the shade of his short, light blond hair; yet there was something that was...

(familiar)

The feeling that surged through him was both fire and ice; you'd never know it to look at him, as he took a deep calming breath and his eyes burned holes in the back of that blond head, that he was feeling anything at all. He was a master at controlling his outward expression, keeping himself contained. He silently willed the man to turn and look at him again, but he wasn't moving; his body language was casual, leaning against the counter, waiting with a quiet patience no one else was exhibiting, but he knew, he could tell, the man was paying better attention than that, he knew he was being watched. He was controlled, contained, waiting....

That's it, isn't it? You got my attention, now you're waiting for me. That made more sense in his mind than the image of the man waiting calmly for a drink, something in his mind insisting this wasn't someone who had patience for trivial things.

(familiar...something...about him...familiar...)

When he felt certain he was calm and collected, Xander started making his way to the bar, no question in his mind, all previous thoughts of escape forgotten. He went straight for that empty spot just to the left of the man, intercepting another patron that had been about to step in with a hand on the shoulder and his very best get out of my face or I'll rip your throat out with my teeth grin. The alcohol, heavy in the prick's system if his flammable breath was anything to go by, caused him to hesitate and actually consider jumping into that snake pit before what was left of his wits kicked in and the guy wandered away; Xander wasn't entirely relieved by that.

(and he so considerately had a pen sitting in his ear, easy enough to pluck it out, jam it in his eye, the underside of his jaw, through his jugular stick it in and break it off...might not kill him but it will be painful and humiliating, sometimes that's worth more than death)

Quietly, he slid into place next to the stranger.

Xander wasn't sure exactly what he had expected to happen, some strange part of his mind thinking of earth shattering dramatics; but nothing happened at all, the man didn't even turn to acknowledge him. He leaned against the bar with his hands folded in front of him, his head tilted just slightly toward Xander and his face turned just slightly away, watching the two bartenders serving customers further down. Xander cast a few subtle glances in his direction, refusing to come off like he was staring, trying to get a closer look at that face he caught only a glimpse of before. Turned away as he was he couldn't get much, the man looked young, older than Xander was but not out of his twenties yet he was sure; he saw a straight nose, full lips, fair skin, eyes hidden behind those sunglasses with some sort of fringe around the lens and...no, wait, that wasn't the glasses that was actually on the man's skin, he had some weird tattoo around his eye; couldn't make much of it from this position, just small black curls and colored dots. The man's light blond hair was cut short, just enough length to cover the tops of his ears; the rest of that ear as he could see was heavily pierced, small metal hoops in a tight line down the cartilage, and on the lobe four silver hooks on which thin, shiny strips of metal dangled.

The silence had an awkward feel to it, a new experience for Xander who often sensed other people's discomfort but rarely gave a shit himself. He was growing aggravated, with the stranger for his stubborn silence, with himself for not knowing what to do, one would think after years of forced socialization with people he wouldn't want to give the time of day to he would have some fucking idea what he was supposed to be doing here, but he was coming up blank. He was feeling out of his element, something about this situation digging uncomfortably at his mind

(familiar...do I...)

throwing him off his game, leaving him confused

(...know you?...seen you before?...)

something that occurred so infrequently he frankly wasn't sure what to do about it, how to handle it. And if there was one thing he hated, it was being confused, being out of control, not having a plan.

And yet, in spite of all that, he didn't move, didn't leave.

(I know you?...seen you before?...)

Trying to distract himself, hoping it may help, Xander raised his gaze beyond the blond stranger, searching for the other familiar face he expected to see, letting out a sharp whistle in their direction. The two bartenders glanced up from their work, annoyed at first but it melted away slightly when they saw him. The woman on duty tonight, whose name he didn't know and didn't care to learn, only just recognized him, had little more than a vague idea who he was; the man though, good old Greg/Gary, nodded curtly, finished up the drink he was currently mixing and grudgingly wandering over like the good little boy that he was.

“Jeff said he had dragged you out tonight,” Greg/Gary said as he came just close enough to be heard, smiling that tight terribly professional smile of his. “How you doing, Bateman?”

He couldn't contain his eye roll and on this point he barely cared. That stupid nickname had been following him around like a bad smell since middle school, everyone so smug and self congratulatory about it, like they made it up themselves, like they're so fucking original. It was, usually, for the most part, a joke, yeah he wasn't a particularly warm and friendly guy, ha ha so funny; except with Greg/Gary it was less of a joke, not obviously so but there if you knew where to look, in the eyes, the slight edge to his voice, the small strain in the smile. Greg/Gary didn't like him very much, he'd never say it as a friend of a friend, he'd pretend as best he could, but that fascination and admiration that was present in so many others just simply wasn't there. This of course made Greg/Gary the favorite of all of Jeff's new college friends that he was, by association, forced to socialize with; if Greg/Gary already thought he was a psychopath, then Xander didn't have to play nice with him.

“Sober,” he answered, deadpan voice, not bothering to screw an expression on his face. “What about you? Employed?”

Greg/Gary's professional smile wilted for just a moment, then came back again smaller but a bit more genuine, a little relieved; it is always nice to do away with empty, meaningless niceties. “What can I get you?”

“The usual. Make it quick.” Xander didn't much enjoy drinking, the idea of chemically numbing your senses distasteful to him and doing it in an open, unknown environment surrounded by strangers suicidal; that was yet another thing he wasn't allowed to get away with and had to concede to at least one drink when he went out to avoid the bullshit. It wouldn't affect his functionality, which fact he learned his sophomore year thanks to an asshole named Drew that played football with him and thought it would be funny to get him drunk specifically because he wasn't interested. He had spent hours of a party at the asshole's house unknowingly drinking heavily spiked punch, and it did nothing aside from amaze everyone present, said amazement what finally clued him in to what was going on. The lesson did allow him to back off from his one time hard stance, though only as far as one drink simply out of principal and that seemed to satisfy people well enough to knock off the crap. During their next football practice, he gave Drew a concussion, an accident just one of those unfortunate things that can happen; even Drew couldn't be certain it wasn't accidental, but he wondered and kept his distance from then on.

As Greg/Gary walked away to do his job, quiet delighted laughter reached Xander's ear, after a moment realizing it was coming from the stranger beside him. His head had raised a little to track Greg/Gary's retreat. “Now, that was impressive.” And finally, finally, the man turned to look at him.

His breathing was shallow but remained calm as he replied, “What is?”

The man smiled, he had a nice, disarming smile. “The way you have that man trained like a pet. Comes when he's called, goes off to fetch your house shoes at a word, must be very convenient having one of those around.” His grin grew wider, “Impressive.”

The man's voice was sweet as honey; not very deep, warm and seductive, pleasant to listen to. But he thought he detected a warning edge hidden deep in that honey, a deadly trap waiting to spring on anyone blind enough to underestimate him. Like Halloween candy with a razor blade center, a beautiful thing to his ears.

Xander's mouth curled into a small smile that actually wasn't forced. “Yes, well, I live to impress.”

The blond returned his smile, revealing a row of slightly crooked teeth. It was then Xander saw the note of uncertainty in the man's expression, wiping away what was left of his earlier annoyance; the man hadn't been ignoring him, he, like Xander himself, just didn't know how to proceed.

“Does he do any other tricks?”

Oh what a wonderful question that was, it actually made him laugh; he hadn't thought he could do that. “I don't know,” he raised his eyes in time to catch Greg/Gary coming back in their direction, “Let's find out.”

His drink was placed in front of him, no need to pay he was on Jeff's tab, one thing the twerp was good for. With the understanding stranger beside him, Xander was very tempted to have a bit of fun, cut loose and unleash some of what's been bottled up for years; not subtly but right out in the open where everyone could see and hear, maybe he would never be allowed back here again, oh wouldn't that be nice. But doing so would likely only encourage the twit to linger near by when he just wanted him gone; he had better things to focus on right now.

However a trick was promised, so before Greg/Gary could retreat, he fixed the man with a look that pinned him in place. “Now get him whatever he wants,” jerking his head toward his companion.

Greg/Gary blinked stupidly at him in surprise and confusion, before turning hesitantly to the blond who seemed equally surprised. His hesitation and the answer he gave confirmed Xander's suspicion that the man hadn't been waiting here for a drink. “Um...I'll – have whatever he's having.”

Greg/Gary stood still a moment longer, some question clear in his face, wondering if he should ask, if he could ask, what might happen if he tried – really, this required more than a second's thought? People were so fucking pushy and nosy, little wonder he hated them all. Greg/Gary did have a spark of something that passed for intelligence, so he just nodded and walked away to do his job. Probably he would just ask Jeff, and Jeff would let Xander know whatever it was, just like he always did.

The stranger flashed him another smile. “Appreciated.”

He smirked back. “No problem.”

The blond turned his head away, watching Greg/Gary work at the other end of the bar; Xander's attention was immediately drawn to the perfect view of the man's neck. There was a scar there, something he hadn't noticed before the way the man's head had been angled; started at the left of his throat, just under the jaw line where a pulse could be felt, angled down the side of his neck, bit into his collarbone and there disappeared from view. It was pink and puckered and jagged looking, definitely no surgical scar. It looked like it had been deep; from what he knew of wound patterns it looked like it could have been fatal, maybe should have been fatal. And suddenly Xander gained some understanding into people's interest in his own scars as he found himself fascinated in turn, wanting to ask, wanting to know; you don't get marked like that living the same boring, empty, plodding life that everyone else does, something interesting must have happened at least once and he wanted to hear all about it.

He wanted to run his tongue over it.

Xander's eyes roamed downward, lingering oddly at the man's left bicep, as though there was something to see there but there wasn't, just an arm in a leather sleeve. Further down and he saw tight leather pants and black steel toed boots. Back up and he focused on the man's hands resting on the counter, tapping a lazy rhythm as he waited; those might have been elegant pianist's hands at one point in time, but they were banged up and well weathered by now. His knuckles looked permanently enlarged and there were random pale white scars all over, lingering reminders of small nicks and cuts.

Receiving his drink (Greg/Gary not staying a second longer than necessary), he took an experimental sip, seemed satisfied and pivoted at the bar to face Xander more fully. He saw the man's other ear looked the same, tight line of hoops and dangling metal pieces, though the tattoo around the left eye did not have a twin on the right. The bright light above the bar (one of the only places here that was well lit) allowed Xander a hint of the man's eyes behind the dark glasses, could see their shape and that they were watching him. Hard to judge the color, perhaps a light brown, like his own right eye; that would look nice, with the light hair and fair skin.

It dawned on Xander that this was a man that would be considered attractive; tall, blond and willowy, not terribly masculine or at least not in the way most think of the term, he was what you might call pretty but without crossing the line into effeminacy. Beauty was not something Xander cared about or would normally even notice, but that was yet something else he realized early on, around middle school when suddenly everyone he knew wouldn't shut the fuck up about it, that would be seen as too eccentric, too wrong, would draw notice. So he learned to fake it, paid attention to what others commented on and filed it away, made sure to make comments of his own, not so frequently as to be obnoxious but often enough as to appear interested; he never could get into the act well enough to come up with a particular type as everyone else seemed to have, breast size and hair color seemed such piddling shit to fetishise over, which lead people to think he wasn't picky. Hilarious really, nothing could be further from the truth.

Which was why he didn't realize at first that he was attracted to this man; didn't recognize the feeling right away, it had only ever twitched to life a couple of times, never in response to a real person, one he knew that was standing in front of him, never quite this strong either. He wasn't sure what it was...still not the surface beauty, that much hadn't changed. The scar at his throat, the honey and razor blades voice, comments made and questions asked, the way he stood and carried himself, the aura that surrounded him that spoke of

(me...he's like me...)

something different

(I know you?...)

intelligence and power

(...seen you before?)

And even if he couldn't quite figure it out, didn't that just make it worth pursuing all the more?

Trying to break out of that annoying uncertainty, he figured the best place to start would be introductions. So he inclined his head politely, “Xander Cain.”

The man cocked a blond eyebrow, “I thought that man called you Bateman?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, its just a stupid joke.” Getting no response, he prodded, “You know, as in Patrick Bateman?”

The eyebrow went back up, “What?”

The surprise he felt was momentary, easily pushed aside. “Nevermind.”

The man's lip quirked upward. “I like Xander Cain better anyway.”

“As do I.” It was one thing he could thank his parents for, they didn't burden him with a ridiculous name but one that felt...almost...right.

Xander's eyes drifted down again, catching on a flash of metal that was a chain link belt around his waist. And there his eyes stayed however hard he tried to move them, to remind himself what it would look like and that it might not be appreciated. Then again, maybe it would.

“Ever been here before?” He was speaking absently, not fully aware of what he was saying, a talent he developed years ago in order to keep up the normal act while avoiding insanity or blinding homicidal rage. Those were the times he whipped out his mental catalog of things you're supposed to say to be polite and show interest, while he had to pay no more than the minimal amount of attention needed to avoid saying the wrong thing or laughing at an inappropriate moment.

“Nope, first time.” he took a sip of his drink, sneering minutely, “Probably last time, too. This place, its very...”

“Its a migraine inducing cesspit,” he filled in, still staring.

“That's putting it mildly,” the man turned to look at him; if he noticed the staring he gave no sign. “So why are you here?”

“A combination of apathy and arm twisting,” he answered honestly. Then, “Have you ever been to The Rubber Room?” That had been their regular night club haunt before Greg/Gary's unfortunate and inconvenient employment. He preferred it to here, slightly less annoying music, slightly less grating breed of assholes. Though that was still like saying you preferred gonorrhea to herpes.

“I don't know what that is.” He smiled, “So, I guess that answers your question.”

And then Xander finally saw what he was looking at. The belt itself was made of that too shiny cheap silver metal you see on a lot of crap, but those tassels dangling in the center of each link, those were made of something different. Something more durable, or at least that's what he thought with his admittedly untrained eye. Which meant he must have modified it, but why?

That's the same metal that's in his ears.

And why did he care about this?

(because it means something...something...?)

Bizarre, dedicated fashion sense?

(“The best part of it is, I can pack more of this shit on my body than you can strap knives on yours. And most people don't know what they're looking at, don't know to be afraid until I start blowing shit up.”)

“I'm kind of new to the area,” the blond was saying, absentmindedly stirring his drink, “So, I'm not that familiar with everything yet. Sorry.”

“How new?” he asked.

“About a week.”

Xander made a quick mental calculation; it had been a little over a week since he last left the apartment, needing that long to recover from Jeff's last little outing. Seems he was more invested in the pleasantries this time around.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

The man shrugged, “Around. I travel a lot. Don't tend to stay in one place very long.”

“Have you ever been upstate?” he asked, mind poking at...something...?

The man nodded, “Sure.”

“Brighton?”

(I know you?...)

A small smile curled those full lips, “Yeah, I have. Like, a year ago.”

Again, a quick mental calculation. He left home at eighteen and pretty much never looked back; his visits were rare, the occasional Christmas, the occasional Fourth of July (the block threw a big cook out, Jeff liked to go and drag him along), once to his mother's birthday. Only when it was convenient and he was bored; there was an unspoken understanding that, while he was always welcome to visit, he was also perfectly welcome not to. He hadn't been back to Brighton is over a year.

(seen you before?...)

“Have you ever-” he began, feeling the curl of something almost desperate peeking into his tone.

The blond cut him off with a lazy hand gesture. “Sorry,” he tapped at his pierced ear with a scarred finger, “Can't hear you too well. Its loud as fuck in here, isn't it?”

Bullshit... It was indeed loud in here, but Xander somehow doubted the man suddenly had trouble hearing him.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Hmm...seemed Xander didn't particularly care one way or another.

The man grinned, seemed that was what he had wanted to hear. “Sure,” he sounded perfectly nonchalant, “Where to?”

Xander was equally nonchalant, years of practice hiding his emotions (or lack thereof) making it practically second nature now. For the first time that he could think of, he found himself wondering if another person was feeling the same, doing the same. It was a surprisingly heartening thought. “I know a few cafes near by that are open.” And then, before he had time to think about it, another suggestion came out of his mouth, “I don't live too far away either.”

The man smiled again, Xander couldn't help but think that looked very satisfied; again, he had to think the blond heard something he had been hoping for. He quickly downed what was left of his drink and calmly proffered his hand. “Whatever you want.”

Xander's eyes moved to that offered hand, held out palm up. What do you know, there's something else they have in common; the blond also had a line of scar tissue cutting across the palm of his hand. Not a deep furrow like Xander's, a slash mark thick and raised; a second glance and he saw it wasn't one injury but several, scars on top of scars. This just keeps getting better.

He reached out and grasped hold of that hand, habit making him pause to get the ridiculous reaction out of the way. That expression didn't even twitch; hmm, that's a first. His fingers automatically clamped tight, yanking him away from the bar, closer to his body.

(mine...)

The man didn't protest or stumble, stepped gracefully forward with a smile and a laugh, like he had been expecting it.

(mine...I do know you...I have seen you before...just – I...don't...where was...)

It was a faint itch in the back of his mind, easily pushed aside.

The man's head cocked up, his eyes were no longer visible but Xander could feel them on him, focused on the couple extra inches he had over him. “Okay, weird question,” there was some reluctance in his tone, a slightly nervous smile; just slightly though, this was a man that knew better than to show his hand any more than he had to. “But...is that actually your hair color?”

He raised one dark brow, now that was a weird question. “Do I look like I dye my fucking hair?”

“...I guess not,” he shrugged, “Had to ask.”

And why did you? All the comments he had ever gotten on his odd features, never before had anyone suggested they were fabricated.

Again, that itch in the back of his mind.

A light pressure on the back of his hand brought his thoughts away from it again, the man watching him with a raised brow and a playful smile. “So, are we leaving?”

There was never any question in his mind where exactly they were leaving to; he just acted automatically. Judging by the silence during the fifteen minute drive, the blond had felt the same way.

---

Xander had slipped on a pair of pajama pants he kept for no reason except wandering around the apartment, and stepped quietly out of his bedroom, moving carefully around the broken table in the hall. That might have held their weight better if they had been more gentle, but...well, fuck that. There was a dent on the wall there above where the table leaned forward on two shattered legs; that had been the blond's head slamming into the wall, apparently just as hard as he had thought at the time. He remembered, hearing that sudden crack, hearing one of those meaningless apologies knee jerk its way out of his mouth; he remembered the words being cut off by the loud moan from the other man, and a demand to do that again. Amazingly, things had only gotten better from there.

He found the blond in the den (in his parents' home it would have been the family room or parlor; he liked den, monsters lived in dens), standing on the far side of the room at his so called entertainment center, looking over the contents of his shelves. Xander had been quiet, the man didn't seem to notice his presence and so he hung back in the hallway, leaning his shoulder against the wall and watched.

The little bastard had stolen one of his shirts, probably only buttoned halfway and hanging loosely off of him; it was, oddly, a good look. Xander let his eyes roam lazily over the man's body, his first actual look at it; the night before the blond had quickly killed every light in the apartment in a way that brooked no argument, though he had been tempted to ask what the fuck do you have to hide? Eh, it was more fun that way, as a tactile experience; soft, smooth skin was so overrated, every couple inches he moved down that body he'd find some new mark for his fingertips to toy with, try to trace and imagine. That scar on his neck extended almost down to his armpit, thinner and fainter as it went; a star shaped mark on his left shoulder, about the size of a silver dollar; burn scars up the back of his left calf, pink and shiny in the morning light; faded lines across his back, perfectly straight, only two visible to the eye now but he knew there were more further down, like nothing he had ever seen before or at least not in real life, but in movies...damned if those didn't look like whip marks. And the tattoos, no typical skulls or barbed wire or pot leaves here, the closest to standard would have been the gold scaled snake curled around his left bicep (...hmph). The rest were more...tribal, in appearance. A black band, two, three inches thick, wrapped like a horseshoe around his right thigh, the bottom curve coming just above his knee on the inside (that must have been unpleasant), the ends closer to the top of his leg; small designs in lighter gray could just barely be seen at the corners and along both edges. Something smaller, more delicate, resembling Celtic knot work, wrapped around his left ankle and left wrist, which was raised, fingers skimming along the line of books. There was something larger on his back, Xander had felt that like a heat signature last night, from right shoulder to left hip, sadly right at the same angle his shirt sat so he could see little more than the black line running down, the sharp hook at the bottom curved right, pointing up (he knew from feel there was a similar hook at the top, curved left, pointing down).

Xander had never seen anyone so fucking gorgeous

(...never?)

didn't think he could possibly be so attracted to one person. Overnight, half asleep, he had thought his memory had to be exaggerating that; yeah, sure, the guy was interesting, more so than the average useless waste of oxygen, but so the fuck what? Would that really be enough to keep him at attention like that? Apparently yes, and apparently having satisfied himself the night before did nothing to dampen that fascination, that allure; it was all he could do to keep himself from crossing the room and pushing the blond up against the wall. It was unusual of him, a little concerning for all that but only a little; it was more exciting that anything else.

We'll be keeping the lights on next time, too, I don't give a fuck what he wants. Next time?... Hmph, breaking all my rules here.

Those scarred, elegant fingers stopped on the shelf, pulling a book down at random, idle curiosity. Xander knew what book that was from the size, its placement on the shelf; he felt his breath catch in his throat, anticipating the reaction that would come as the blond cradled the volume to his chest (now out of view), opened it in the middle.

Laughter; that toe curling honey and razor blades laugh, sounding genuinely amused and...relieved, maybe. Xander released his breath, finding that he oddly was not surprised though logically he knew he probably should be. He was also turned on, which was not surprising either, watching the blond start to flip through the pages, turning his body to the right, leaning his side against the shelves.

And Xander saw something he hadn't noticed before that made his cock twitch hard. He hadn't planned to speak, the words came unbidden. “Is that a fucking knife on your leg?”

Goddamn it, it was. A dagger it looked like, six inch blade maybe, strapped to his toned thigh in an old, battered leather sheath. The handle looked designed to fit perfectly in your hand, meant to be used not hung on a wall in a pointless collection to trick acquaintances into thinking there was something dangerous about you (Walter Cain, Xander's father, comes to mind); the worn leather wrapped around the handle looked done by hand, the metal guard blackened with age.

Hmm, so that's why the long coat, he thought absently, then, Where the fuck was that last night? Wasted opportunity.

The blond's head raised and turned casually in his direction, not even a little surprised that Xander was there, which was annoying. Speaking of which, those sunglasses from last night were, inexplicably, back on his face again. He smiled calm and easy. “Yeah,” he replied, as though this were normal, “No offense or nothing, but I don't go anywhere unarmed.”

He couldn't take his eye off that leg, wondering what it might be like seeing him in nothing but the weapon. That should not be as hot as it was, better still that he doubted the blond would mind much. “You know how to use that thing?” he asked absently.

The smile that curved his lips was smug, confident. “Oooh yeah,” he drawled, turning back to the book, flipping another page.

His hand had curled into a fist at some point, short nails digging into his palm. “Have you ever?” he asked, “Used it, that is.” He noted two other prominent scars on that thigh, one uncomfortably high up, both of which could have been stab wounds.

The smile broadened; a page turned. “Wouldn't you like to know.”

His blood shot southward so fast it was a wonder he didn't fall over. God but this was fun, he had never been so turned on. And to think, people like Jeff threw this away on anything that smiled at them for half a second; he had a new appreciation for just how pathetic that was.

He opened his mouth, fully intending to order the little tease back into the bedroom before he went and dragged him in by the, “Is there a snake carved on the blade?”

Xander's jaw snapped shut, his mind freezing in shock at himself as the blond's head raised again, a single pale eyebrow raised in a look that was suspiciously mild. “Looking through my stuff, were you?”

He hadn't been, he really hadn't. But when he closed his eyes, he swore he could see it, etched into the off white blade

(“Its not fucking metal, its fucking bone.”)

black dye to bring out the design; a coiled serpent, fangs bared, tongue flickering, not much different from what was tattooed on the man's arm.

(“Oh, you know my philosophy. If someone's gong to call me names, I might as well use them.”)

Xander wasn't sure what to think of that; somewhere in the back of his mind, the itching started.

Distantly, he realized the blond was speaking to him again and he struggled to redirect his attention to less troubling areas; at least it cooled his lust somewhat, so he could think again.

(don't waste it now...think...)

“Its okay if you did, not like I'd have grounds to complain, right?” he turned back to the book in his hands, flipping the page again, “You don't mind, right? Its just you were still asleep and I was feeling nosy, you know how it goes.”

Truthfully, Xander wasn't annoyed at all, which he realized was strange. The last woman he caught rifling through his things (doing exactly what this man was doing now, albeit with less interest and enthusiasm) was thrown out the door in her underwear; he considered it goddamn gallant of him to throw her clothes out after her (five or ten minutes later). Not here though, nothing about the blond poking around his den struck him as wrong.

He shrugged a shoulder casually, trying not to think too hard about it. “I have nothing to hide,” he said, adding, “not where you would find it,” just for kicks. Which was always true, but never the point.

The blond smiled almost fondly, his fingers running lightly over the page. “You have an interesting collection here,” he sounded sincere, admiring.

He turned the page more slowly this time, Xander's eyes could pick out enough details to recognize the photo. A hand, mangled by a table saw according to the caption below; two fingers sliced clean off, a third amputated at the knuckle and hanging by a thin thread of skin. Always one of his favorites, reminded him of

(blue)

“Its a hobby,” he heard himself say, watching those hands continuing to flip through pictures. Shotgun blast to the head, white walls behind the slumped corpse painted a gaudy red; a blackened husk in a burned out car, dumped in a field; a child on an autopsy table, the body having been cleaned of gore so the slit throat could be clearly seen.

“Some hobby,” spoken low and sultry, and his lust kicked right back to life again.

He watched the man gently close the forensic science textbook and moved to return it to its place on the shelf. Xander couldn't help from commenting, “Is it bright in here?”

The blond glanced back over his shoulder with a smirk on his lips and his eyes still obscured. “Blindingly,” he announced all too happily, turning back to the shelves looking for something new to play with. “I'm light sensitive,” he added as an afterthought.

Liar...that itch in the back of his mind flared again, gnawing at...something.

(something...it means something...)

He had one of Xander's DVDs this time, Cannibal Holocaust from the looks of it, peering closely at the cover, fingering around the edge, shaking it a little, turning it over and reading the back with his head cocked in what could be confusion, though who knows why. There were fingertip bruises dotting his neck, beautifully dark on his pale skin, something else the blond had begged him for and he had been all too happy to comply. Xander could remember doing that to Gina exactly once, nothing planned or thought out, just a spur of the moment action in an otherwise boring evening; it had taken more than an hour to talk her back down off the ceiling. He didn't even know what he had said, not now and not then, just pulled out the mental catalog of empty apologies you have to say so people think you care even though they should realize you don't and started from page one (certainly didn't do what he had wanted to do; smack her around the room, tell her to grow up, not as though you thought I was really going to hurt you, like if I was planning on it I wouldn't have done it already?). It balanced though in that she never paid attention to his mood or body language, as long as the words coming out of his mouth were what she wanted to hear. Quite the dream couple they were, and yet she had been surprised, hurt and angry when he refused to follow her to California so she could pursue her modeling career (as tempting as it was to watch her fail, see her face when she realizes thousands of people are pretty like she is, its not worth much and she's got nothing special going on to distinguish her).

A small flash of light drew Xander's attention away from his handiwork and back down to the hands awkwardly holding the DVD, raging lust cut off cold yet again. It would be wrong to say he hadn't noticed the ring on the blond's finger before, as much time as he spent staring at his hands, a band of gold and something black (Onyx? Obsidian? What the fuck is black?) woven together; he noticed it as an incidental detail, the way he might have noticed a freckle, acknowledged distantly and brushed aside as unimportant. Unbelievably perhaps, it wasn't until this moment that it dawned on him exactly what that ring meant.

“You're married?” It came out in a loud, angry bark, wrath flaring hot and bright; he wanted to put his fist through the wall, or someone's face. It didn't make any sense and he knew it, but that didn't stop it from coming.

He couldn't think that he had ever taken a married woman home, or at least not to his knowledge; the idea itself didn't bother him much one way or the other, their lives had nothing to do with him, nothing to get upset about. That was his general opinion, but here...and it wasn't the blond himself he was mad at, he had no thought to accuse or strike out at him. No, it was the unknown person wearing the matching ring that he wanted to find, man or woman, and burn the genitals right off their body.

Yes, and that's very rational of you. Do you have any idea what you're doing here?

The blond had jumped at the question, his playful flirtation wiped away. He looked panicked, for those few open seconds before he pulled himself back together, he looked...guilty (which did do something to appease his anger, not much but something). “...Yes,” he had turned back to return the movie to the shelf, taking his sweet time with it, too. “Technically anyway. Its...its complicated.”

Still perturbed by his overreaction, Xander raised both hands in surrender. “Its none of my business,”

His companion had turned around again, leaning back against the shelves, a frown on his face. “I didn't say that to brush you off, you know,” his voice was stronger, no more uncertainty, “It is complicated.”

He shrugged, “Whatever.” If he couldn't figure it out, best to let it be. The blond was facing forward now; like he had thought two buttons done in the wrong holes, just left hanging that way like he couldn't be bothered. At least he had managed to find his way back into his own boxers instead of borrowing, that would have been...actually, Xander couldn't be sure that would have bothered him either, strangely. He noted the star shaped scar on his back had a corresponding mark on the front, and four evenly spaced lines down his upper left pectoral like...claws? What the fuck?...that should really not be as hot as it is.

“So,” he said, trying to change the subject, trying to fill the silence, trying to ignore how off kilter and out of control he felt. “You often go home with strange men you meet in bars?”

The smile returned to his face, and a laugh at who knows what. He shook his head, “No, I can honestly say I have never done that.” A pause, then, “you?”

“You're not the first stranger here, no.” He thought he saw something flicker through the blond's face, there and gone so quickly; he thought it might have been jealousy, but likely that was wishful thinking, not wanting to be alone in the insanity.

“You sound so thrilled about it.”

He shrugged, “There's little to be thrilled about. Its expected of me and I do it to keep people out of my business.” The blond showed no sign of insult, as though he knew by instinct he was not included in that; Xander wasn't sure where to begin explaining how abnormal this all was. Well, perhaps there was one good place. “You would be the first man, though.”

“Really?” The man sounded faux skeptical, like he thought it a joke and was just playing along. “Now that I find hard to believe.”

“How so?”

“Your mind blowing levels of competency and enthusiasm,” he paused, seeming to consider what to say next, then went for it, “Doesn't seem quite in line with a novice. Don't you think?”

(something...something there...)

He shrugged again, unsure of what to say that wouldn't come off like fishing for compliments; he needed a moment of his own to think. He glanced toward his kitchen area. “You want coffee?”

“Sure,” he thought the man knew what he was doing, wanted to comment but held himself back.

That itch in the back of his mind screamed back to life, more intense than it had been all night, damn near drowning out his thoughts in its bid for attention.

(don't...don't change the subject...keep going...its there, its there, keep going...)

What, though? What am I supposed to...?

“Ask me why.” Xander had stopped just at the edge of where the hardwood floor became black and white tile, his mind working a mile a minute, overwhelmed and operating without his conscious control. That itch, it just wouldn't stop.

(close...closer...keep going...)

“What?”

Good question. “Ask me why I've never brought a man home.”

He could hear a smile in the man's voice. “Okay... Why?”

He moved into the kitchen. “Its not from lack of interest. The first sexual fantasies I remember having were with a man.”

It came as a bit of a surprise, hearing those words leave his mouth; this wasn't something he had ever shared with anyone, didn't think he ever would, even after everything they had done last night it still felt odd. But, opening cabinets and searching for coffee, he wasn't trying to stop himself either; his mind was going somewhere with this, might as well play along.

(closer...closer...its there, keep going...)

“Mind you, its not a fantasy about men really,” he had moved the coffee pot from the counter by the sink to the island opposite, plugging it into the wall there, so he could keep an eye on the blond still lingering by the entertainment center. “It always involved a man, but that was never the point. It was about bedding an equal. Someone as strong as I am, as smart as I am, as capable as I am. Someone I actually respect and admire, what a fucking novelty that would be.” He paused to let the grinder do its job; the blond was watching with calm interest and a smile on his face.

“The sex is amazing. Its like a battle,” he continued, his mouth running of its own accord. “I'm not talking about that pathetic BDSM game play, where everyone acts their role and the outcome is predetermined. No, I mean a real battle. Violent, exciting and completely unpredictable.” He smiled a little, thinking, remembering, “If I win, its because I earned it. And if I lose,” he shrugged, “well, that's okay, too. No shame in losing an even match. Just makes the times you win that much better.”

“Sounds like quite a fantasy,” the blond commented into an extended pause. “Why not go for it?”

Xander snorted, fondness giving way to bitterness. “With who?” he asked, “In my high school, I knew of maybe fifteen men that would have taken me up on it, maybe ten more I strongly suspected.” He shook his head in disgust, “Pathetic, spineless lot, every last one of them. Flashy attitude and nothing to back it up. No challenge, nothing to respect, I could've destroyed them without even trying.” He grabbed two mugs out of another cabinet, glancing back again, “Not that I'm picking on that group in particular. They were all like that, men and women both, it was just that kind of place. I would have preferred sleeping with no one, but teenage boys are not allowed to be celibate. Had to sacrifice one, and the other was more expected and meant less to me.”

That imbalance was something he could never quite make sense of, but it was undeniably there. It wasn't that he discounted the possibility that there could be a woman out there worth his time who could actually excite him; it was that the male fantasies had a certain...weight, prominence, dare he say emotion, that made them more important. Sometimes he told himself it was because first Gina then the series of one night stands arranged by Jeff were such fucking disappointments, it was only natural to over-romanticize the other half that hadn't yet had the chance to let him down...but that wasn't quite right. His decision had been made before Gina even came along, and it had been made for a reason.

Xander wandered back out of the kitchen area, closer to his captive audience, a sardonic grin on his face, mouth still running. “Do you know that I, apparently, have a charmed life? Like the gods themselves smiled down on me and gave me everything that was good in the world? Or at least that's what I've heard, over and over again, until I thought holding back my laughter might make my head explode. Let's see here,” a moment's pause. “There's my parents, wonderful people, don't you know, couldn't ask for better.” He snorted, “A pair of pretty, useless lumps as far as I could tell. Think they're a lot smarter, more competent and worldly than they really are. I can't figure what either of them ever did to earn that regard. They had money because their parents had money, and my father sat in a room in the house in front of a computer, and he pushed buttons and something happened...somewhere, or maybe nowhere at all, and he got paid for this. My mother wasted her time with community puffery, bake sales and flea markets, shit like that, and thought she was something important, vital, like we couldn't exist without her. I used to wonder, daydream really, about their safe little box crumbling down around them, them being forced at gun point, and it would have to be, make them think, get their hands dirty, deal with fucking life. They'd probably piss themselves in terror, but great fucking people.

“And then there's the town itself. Fucking Brighton, such a nice place to live, so peaceful, so fucking boring. Filled with useless people just like my parents, they built an enclave for themselves to protect themselves from ever coming face to face with something they don't personally like. And yet they know so much more about the world they don't live in that anyone else.”

Now that the cork was off that bottle, there was no stopping him until it all came out; no matter, it felt too good to actually say. “And I was some big deal there, partially the family name but also because I was a quarterback. High school fucking football. I swear you'd think I was a war hero the attention and praise I would get, you'd think I was doing something important. I was throwing a fucking ball around a field, and the only reason I was doing it at all was so I could hit people and get away with it. It was barely worth even that.

“And that illustrious position in part won me the so called hottest girl in school. And wasn't I just so fucking lucky of everyone there, she wanted me.” He shook his head, “The only way I could ever get an erection with her was by imagining myself drowning her in a toilet. Whenever she opened her mouth all I heard was shit, seemed fitting.

“And you know, the only thing worse,” he went on, “than being told everything I should be grateful for, than having to nod and smile and act like I agree while biting the inside of my lip and swallowing blood, giving myself migraines and probably ulcers trying to keep it all in, act normal and not scream, explode, kill something. The only thing worse than that, than years of that, was the creeping, suffocating fear that maybe, possibly, they're all right. Maybe this really is the best I can ever hope for, an eternity of this, this sterilized, pampered boring hellhole. Can you imagine? Eternity, with a pretty bimbo like Gina and a swarm of useless, idiot children, wasting my time throwing balls and pushing buttons on a computer, when I should be-”

(“...made you...perfection...do anything...my Knight...”)

And the words dried up, not sure anymore what, where he had been going there. But goddamn that had felt good to say, to let it out after all this time. And the blond was quiet and listening, not arguing but understanding, or at least it seemed that way behind those dark sunglasses and the small curve of his lips.

(he doesn't think I'm nuts, he gets it...that's even better than saying it, seeing that)

There was a point originally and it took his jumbled mind a moment to get back to it. “So as to why...because I needed to have something that was mine. One dream, one fantasy that the world wasn't going to ruin for me, that I could still look forward to. One thing that was going to go the way I wanted it to or it wasn't going at all.” he gave a shrug, “Might have been a stupid thing to hang on to, all things considered, but its what I had. No one knew or suspected, made it easy to keep.”

“I don't think its stupid,” the blond said with some degree of seriousness before breaking into a bright smile. “Well then, I do hope I lived up to your fantasies.”

Xander calmly raised a brow, “You're still standing here, aren't you?”

He laughed, delighted by that, “Yeah, I guess I am. Well, that's good. For both of us.”

(both of us...)

Still, that itch, that feeling of being

(close...almost there...)

“Are you really that unhappy here?” he was all seriousness again, hidden eyes watching carefully.

And doesn't he just sound thrilled about that. Or not...not thrilled...hopeful?

Unhappy didn't quite cover it; it was more...wrong. Everything was wrong, this place was wrong, this life was wrong and he didn't belong in it. But he never quite knew how to put that into words, or the subsequent questions such contemplations brought – if not here, then where? So instead, he just said, “More than I could say.”

The silence was total then, even the coffee pot was stopped. Xander took it as an excuse to walk away a minute, figure out why the man looked so damn pleased with that.

And why did I tell him any of that? Even if I liked it, why? Wasn't important

(but it was)

nothing came out of it

(that's because you didn't finish)

and it was fucking pointless

(you need to tell him everything)

...There's nothing else to tell

(there is...its there, and you know it)

I don't know what

(details...they mean something...)

“You know, I never thought those dreams were entirely random.” There his mouth went again as he poured himself a cup; even if it was just psychological, he was looking forward to drinking it. “Or at least the man wasn't random, but someone specific. Or so I thought, it was hard to be sure, he was...” Xander struggled for words, mind working too fast, unsettling, “blurred, indistinct, like an image that wouldn't come into focus. But there was enough broad details I could make out, just barely, that made me think it was always the same man.”

“Like what?” the blond had moved to the window, his back to Xander again, gazing out at the city below.

Skin and hair color came first to mind, but what did any of that really matter; there was a very limited possible combination, little of it truly so rare. Unlike-

And he stopped. Everything – mind, body, breath – stopped.

It was a good thing he was moving to put the coffee pot away, otherwise he might have dropped it on the floor, iron control or no; it still rattled on its way back to the burner. He reached for the cup he just poured himself and downed half of it, barely noticing the burn down his throat.

Realization was a cold, cold feeling.

“He was marked,” his voice was lower in volume, but calm, collected, always, whatever he was feeling. “Lot of scars. Lot of ink.”

“Is that unusual?” the blond threw back casually.

“I suppose that depends on what you're used to. In my case, yes it was.”

(details...little details...it all matters, it always means something)

“There was one other thing,” he put the cup down, rounded the counter slowly, ice in his veins.

Stupid, so stupid...

“There was something wrong with his eyes.”

The blond didn't react at first, it seemed to take a minute for the words to sink in; his head jerked up, his back muscles tensed. But it was already too late, Xander was already on top of him, slamming him forward into the window. Hands on his shoulders, he spun the the mostly unresisting man around, pushed him back again with a forearm digging into his throat; Xander reached up with his free hand and ripped those glasses off his face, tossing them carelessly behind him.

The man was squeezing his eyes shut.

Xander laughed, secretly admiring the man's nerve even as he wanted to throttle him. “Oh,” he leaned forward a little closer, right in the man's face; ice, so cold it burns, “Are you going to make me rip your eyelids open?” His voice was a purr, “Think I won't do it?”

“Shit,” spoken through gritted teeth, not a hint of fear though there might be anger there, self directed. The man let his eyelids slowly flutter open before, reluctantly, raising them to stare directly at Xander.

Not the light brown Xander had earlier imagined. They were gold; a pale yellow ring around each pupil, a few shades darker than his blond hair.

Xander was a little taken aback by that though not, he realized, as much as he probably should have been. “Well,” he spoke slowly, lowering his forearm from the man's neck, backing away half a step but keeping him crowded by the window. “Not wrong, per se. Unusual though.”

“That all depends on what you're used to, doesn't it.” The blond raised a hand to rub lightly at his throat; his yellow eyes locked on Xander's glittering with challenge.

“Yes, I suppose it does.” That look was thrilling at the same time it was maddening. Xander leaned forward, stemming his hands on the window at either side of the blond's head. “No more games. Who are you?”

The blond raised one eyebrow, more intrigued than intimidated. “Who do you think I am?”

He growled, still caught between wanting to beat the man into the wall or fuck him up against it...or both, at the same time...and now was really not the time for this shit, his head was clouded enough as it was. “I told you, don't-”

“I don't know what makes you think I'm playing games here.”

“Oh, you don't?”

(the feel of eyes burning into you...a split second glance, a face in the crowd, there and gone...)

“You were watching me.” He spoke very carefully, wondering how well he could be heard over the pounding of his own heart. This isn't possible, “In the club, you were watching me. I could feel you staring, that's why I came over. Why were you watching me?”

The blond shrugged, maddeningly calm, his tone flippant. “Oh I don't know, why does one man watch another? Maybe I just happened to see you there, thought you were hot and wanted to fuck you, hmm?” He smirked, eyes glinting dangerously, “Or maybe, maybe, I tracked you there. Maybe I've been tracking you for a long time now and last night I finally saw my chance to introduce myself, trick you into taking me home so I could fuck you and drive you wild with my scars and freaky eyes.” He grinned broadly, all sharp teeth and inner fire, “Now that was me playing games.”

Not possible, its not fucking possible. “The whole night,” he went on, “the whole fucking night, I...I keep thinking...I think – swear that...” Both the blond's brows were raised, a clear spit it out already on his face; he wanted to strangle him, whether to his enjoyment or not was still debatable. Xander glared, “Kept thinking I knew you from somewhere.”

The blond didn't respond but his expression didn't change either, which was answer enough. That brought up another hot flash of rage, he was getting really sick of this fucking confusion. “Where do I know you from?”

And finally, the blond's golden eyes lowered in defeat, the attitude and confidence seeping away. “You tell me,” he mumbled.

Xander almost rolled his eyes, unable to believe the childish turn this was taking. “Don't fuck with me, boy, I swear to god I'll-”

“You don't need to tell me,” yellow eyes flicked back to him again, “I know what you're capable of.”

And yet still no fear, no concern; Xander's jaw tightened. “Where do I know you from?” Nothing. He grabbed the man by the shoulders again, slammed him back into the window, “Where do I-”

“I can't!” It was screamed an inch from his face, yellow eyes boring into his own, open now in a consuming desperation. “All right? You want to know, well work it out for yourself, because I can't fucking do it for you!”

The man was impressive in his rage, but he wouldn't back down. “Don't give me that shit.”

“Oh, fuck you.” He smacked Xander's hands off of him, reminding Xander of a curious fact he learned the previous night – the blond was a lot stronger than his willowy frame would suggest. “You don't fucking know. You really think I'd be wasting my fucking time like this if I could...” He shook his head, “Believe me, you don't want to hear it more than I want to tell you.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Yeah, well, thinking and doubting are very different things from knowing, aren't they?”

Whatever retort Xander might have made died before it could even fully form in his mind.

The man shrugged helplessly. “I don't know what I'm doing here,” he said, quiet, almost lost, “I wasn't prepped for this shit, I don't know where the line is and I don't want to fuck it up. So I'm going with what I was told and leaving it up to you. You got to do it yourself, okay?”

Xander wanted to grab the man again, shake him until he does what he's fucking told; that he didn't do it was not for the usual reasons, the repressive instinct was not in play here, not with this man. No, it was because some part of him actually believed this shit. Kind of. Maybe. Or at least believed violence would get him nowhere, clearly the man can and has survived worse; he would never break and his vengeance would be terrible...

He backed up a step, watching the man carefully. “But I do know you?”

Golden eyes watched him back, seemed to think, and softened just a touch. “Yes. You do.”

It can't – its not possible. Xander's mind whirred back to life, trying to think, think back, remember something he likely never thought to take note of because really, who would have ever thought it would be important? When was the first time he had that dream? Thirteen? Twelve? Younger? Around then anyway. Was it always the same man, same indistinct man with the same blurred but obvious features? Was it always a grown man, did he start out as a teenager and age as Xander himself did? He wasn't sure, couldn't be, but he wanted to say no, he wanted to say it had always been the same. But that wasn't possible. Wasn't possible that he had met, or even laid eyes on this man in recent years, no fucking way, he would have remembered; even thinking it happened ten years ago felt like a stretch but more plausible. Even assuming he may have mentally aged him for some reason, how to explain the things that are the same, familiar? The man was older than him but not by that much, five, seven years at most; those scars could not all be from childhood injuries, and even if they were, how to explain the tattoos? He couldn't have had them ten years ago, he definitely couldn't have had them all ten years ago. It didn't add up; nothing about it made sense.

Nothing that's happened since I saw him in the club has made any fucking sense. I ought to throw him out of here, before it gets any worse, if it can get any worse. Oh, who was he kidding? Confusing or not, he had never felt more alive.

“Hey,” the somewhat gentle voice drew his attention back; the man had taken a step forward in compensation and was trying for a smile. “It might not really be as bad as all that, you know. I mean, maybe you know more than you think you do.” Xander's eyes narrowed in a silent demand for clarification; the man laid a hand on his cheek, keeping eye contact. “Say my name.”

“Xander Cain.”

“I thought that man called you Bateman?”

“You never told me your name.” A fact he had been only marginally aware of before, it was not the sort of thing he was used to paying attention to.

The man's grin widened. “No, I didn't. And yet you called it out last night. More than once.”

His eyes narrowed again. “I did not.”

The man scoffed, “And why would I lie about that? What would I have to gain?”

He had a point, he supposed. He tried to think back even as he knew it was hopeless; his most people's mouths and brain completely disconnect during sex, it was that much worse for him. How could he be expected to remember one thing he might not have even said-

Two hands clamped down on either side of his head, yanking him forward. “Stop thinking about it,” those yellow eyes were less than an inch from him, his stare powerful, penetrating. “You know what you want to call me. Turn off your mind, open your mouth and just fucking say it.”

The man kissed him, all teeth and tongue and fire, and fuck was he good at that. Xander played along, letting himself focus on physical sensation, burning desire, the tongue in his mouth; when he man pulled away again, playfully tugging his lower lip along, Xander said the first word that came to his mind. “Strife.”

The man laughed lightly, which Xander had expected and was about to knee jerk an apology, not that he had anything to be sorry for, then, “See, told you you knew it.”

He stared hard at the man in disbelief. “Strife? Really? That's your name?”

The man grinned, like he got that a lot but still found it funny. “Its not so much a name as it is a title. And I earned it.”

(…?)

(familiar...is that familiar...)

(the dark robes hanging off his body were fine, well made, foreign; showing just enough skin to be enticing, not enough to be crass. the body underneath though was certainly not something sculpted from a life time of laying in rich men's beds looking pretty...no, that, though he was sure he was not supposed to notice it, was a sign of training)

(“Strife? Curious name, for a whore.”)

(“Or a very promising one. Depending on how you want to look at it. Sir.”)

(the body language was all right, too perfect even – hands folded demurely together, shoulders just slightly slumped, head lowered, lids at half mast...those eyes though were too sharp, calculating, taking in everything, paying way too much attention to you...watching you, making certain that you see him, that you're intrigued, you're attracted, you want him as much as he wants you to...you certainly do, though likely not the way he would prefer)

(who do you think you're fooling here?)

(there are bruises on his face you're willing to bet no one with you put there, willing to bet the former lord of the manor, if you could have asked him, hadn't put there either, but don't they just make him look that much more defenseless?...he wants to go, he wants you to take him, he begs for it in every way except directly)

(and why is that?)

(it is so rare now, to come across something that interests you, a person so intriguing...it could be fun, to test his resolve, figure out what he's after, what he'd be willing to do, to sacrifice, to get it...his eyes, they're like hornets nests, promising death to any who step the wrong way, a much sweeter siren song than this submissive act could ever be...he won't break easy)

(“I'll take the whore, too.”)

(a split second flash of genuine satisfaction in those golden hornet nests, an easy to miss moment of honesty before they lower in a too good imitation of resignation)

(“...I'll get my things.”)

(oh, this is going to be fun)

(….....)

(he looks good in leather, thickened armor, not too thick to hamper his speed which is one of his greatest assets; looks good with that giant sword strapped to his back that looks like he shouldn't be able to swing it, chosen because he is not a swordsman...he looks good out of them, stained blade propped against the wall, leather armor tossed aside somewhere, his bare back shining with sweat in the fire light)

(do love to watch him work)

(he is leaning over a table, arm bent and jerking back and forth erratically, digging down to whatever he sensed that he wanted...nothing to warrant careful extraction, quick and crude...the sounds are wet and rhythmic, the heady scent of metal thick in the air)

(always loved that smell)

(he pauses in his work, straightening, stretching...his arm is red up to the elbow, thick and black near the fingertips which rub the back of his neck, up through his hair, dying blond to red, causing a guilty twinge of desire through you that he would not be happy about if he knew of it, but after all those many years what else could be expected)

(always loved a man in red)

(….....)

(drip...plink...its a maddening sound with nothing to distract from it)

(“Look what I found here by the bed. What do you think they were saving it for?”)

(bottle, some gold liquid within...alcohol, who cares...two long stemmed glasses clasped between elegant red stained fingers)

(drip...plink...)

(“No idea.”)

(“Well, hate to see it go to waste, right? I mean, you guys don't mind, do you? Huh?”)

(drip...plink...a rope creak...some faint scratching...drip...plink...)

(“How long is this going to take?”)

(drip...plink...popped cork, pouring liquid...drip...plink...)

(“Patience is a virtue, my love.”)

(“I was not bred for virtue.”)

(a laugh...a swallow...love to watch his mouth work...)

(“True. But I've never disappointed you, now have I? So have faith.”)

(drip...plink...scratch...what is that scratch?...)

(“If its the wait, then stop fucking pacing around, get over here and let me distract you.”)

(a thin line of red, liquid ribbon running down a smooth bare leg, bisecting those delicate black burn lines at his ankle, snaking downward between his toes...oooh...fucking tease...)

(drip...plink...)

(leaning down over him on a bed that isn't yours, that won't be here tomorrow; he lifts his stolen glass and touches it to your forehead in a sort of toast...smells sweet, like honey, his mouth will taste the same)

(“One more down.”)

(drip...plink...scratch...)

(“Not down yet.”)

(its the nails...her nails were long and some must have survived the struggle, long enough to brush lightly across the floor...must be a breeze from the open window, making her sway, making her fingers drag, she has no life for willful movement, her life is running out of her, collecting in his metal basin that sits between the path her fingertips and broken nails make along the floor...)

(drip...plink...almost done...)

(….....)

(his hair glows golden in the sunlight, reach forward and touch his face, capture his attention for a quick minute; the ring on your finger, gold and black onyx braided together, so terribly symbolic but you never could look into those wide dark eyes eyes and say no...its aesthetically pleasing though and it is slowly growing on you...he turns his head, leaning into the touch just slightly, yellow eyes glittering, smile determined...he is perfection, filling the void you didn't think could be filled again, and life is exciting once more)

(“I love you, too.”)

The breath was forced from Xander's lungs, leaving him gasping and lightheaded, staring at his own hand that had raised in front of him at some point, for some reason

(reach over, touch his...my hand, it was my...)

He could see the blond – Strife, if that's what he wants – from between his fingers, still by the window watching him; at least he looked just as confused as Xander himself was.

What the hell was I doing? He dreaded to ask, what the fuck was...

...that?

Between his fingers, he saw black around the man's neck,; a thin leather cord, and hanging off of it at his breastbone...a circle?

A ring.

(details, little details...rest period is over now, time to learn to pay attention again)

Black and gold, the larger twin of the one of his own finger.

(Its complicated)

Xander's hand shot forward and grabbed hold of it, honestly not sure what he intended to do. The blond, Strife's, hand clamped down over it, tight and squeezing, that unexpected strength keeping him in place; he probably could have fought it off if he really tried, if he could get his shit together enough to try. Strife knew it, too, his yellow eyes warned him away, begged him silently to stop, not here, not now.

It was enough now to make himself keep breathing.

Strife pried his unresisting fingers off and pushed his hand back, stepping carefully around him with a raised brow and a smart ass grin. Xander followed the sound of his footsteps toward the kitchen, then his voice, “So, what do you got to eat around here? I am fucking starving.”

Xander's hand was still hovering in the air; slowly, he forced it to lower, slipping it into his pants pocket to hide its trembling.