FIC - this might only get darker
Apr. 2nd, 2003 11:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aruanSo, this AU. Hope it finds my brain tasty, because its images are slowly taking over every conscious thought. It's a very good thing I don't have any papers to write this semester.
*
Lord knows I try to be good
I'd keep my promises if only I could
"You're one twisted little fuck, James."
For his part, Lance could barely think past the sound of rushing blood in his ears. His pulse pounded a staccato accompaniment in his head. Whoever was speaking, a man judging by the voice, at least sounded amused. He used the name anyone who only knew him from his driver's license would but Lance had never heard of muggers sticking around to sweet talk their targets.
"I've been around a while but I gotta tell you, every time I come back to New York it never fails to surprise me."
Groaning softly, Lance tried to bring his arm up to shield his eyes. Not that there was all that much in the way of light where he was: a lamp off to his left and moonlight spilling in through open curtains to his right. The comforter beneath him was plush and soft - when he could focus his eyes and make out its interlaid silk stripes, they gleamed indigo where an errant shaft did spill onto them. He blinked - cream walls, quiet hum of a dehumidifier - Lance's heart leapt to his throat. His apartment.
"You'd figure if anyone, a young, successful guy like yourself would have everything to be happy about. And yet, the best you've got to be doing is late-night beer runs for an empty place?"
"Who--" If he could even attempt coordinating movement through the heavy molasses air of the room he'd be reaching for the gun in his nightstand drawer, the phone on his desk, hell, putting those seven months of aikido to good use. As it was his limbs felt incredibly leaden, as if they'd been cast in concrete molds. "What're--"
Dip of the bed, a creak of mattress springs and the man's face suddenly took up most of Lance's field of vision. He looked to be in his twenties, the half-light casting his features in angles Lance would acknowledge as marketable in another context. The distinguished line of his nose, the high cheekbones gave him a sort of ethnically American look all the agencies loved. He was smiling and yeah, finding out your mark lived on the twenty-seventh story of a West Side highrise overlooking the river would make any thief happy. Then again, he wasn't the sick bastard about to get himself sliced open from navel to nose for all he knew yet he was preoccupied with assessing how lucrative his headshots would be for his portfolio. He had to be wasted.
The man's smile widened. "You wanna try finishing a thought there, James?"
Swallowing dryly, Lance managed to make tongue cooperate around a few raspy syllables. "How'd you get in here?"
The man laughed easily, a couple short snuffs of breath. They echoed in Lance's skull like a dislodged memory. "I told your doorman I was your designated for the night and he nodded readily enough." The man's smile widened, revealing white, perfect teeth. "Come on, I know that's not what you want to talk about."
He watched Lance expectantly for a few moments. What the man wanted to talk about Lance could only guess, but he would've liked to start with why he bothered to bring Lance here after attacking him, why he was still here now. But breathing seemed to be taking all the energy Lance could muster; long, slow drags of recycled air that nevertheless didn't reach the bottom of his lungs.
The man's smile gradually lessened, his forehead creasing a little, and he reached out to trail two fingers along Lance's jaw, curving them underneath to press lightly at his neck. Lance flinched slightly at the touch, icy even to his own clammy skin.
The bed shifted again as the man rose quickly, jostling him and Lance lolled his head on the pillow to track his movements. His hands and feet weren't bound at all and he should be able to get up, if not fight back then at least lock his mystery assailant out long enough to call the cops. He could hear the man rummaging in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, a few mumbled curses punctuating each slammed door. Finally there was the sound of the tap running, and the man reappeared through his bedroom doorway. He looked worried. Lance thought about whether that was a good thing, or if it meant he should be, too.
The man shook his head briefly and reached under Lance's armpits to hoist him somewhat upright. "I'm. It's been a while since I've. Without--"
Now who can't finish a thought, Lance wanted to say, but it would've been simply too much wasted effort when his mouth felt so impossibly parched but the man was already tipping the glass in his hand to Lance's lips. Lance drank instead, and swore his eyes rolled back in his head from the sheer joy of relief as cool water flooded his mouth. He gulped greedily, whimpering a little when it was removed.
"Ssh. Sleep now."
The man's lips were just as cold when they pressed briefly to Lance's forehead, tongue only slightly warmer when it touched the base of his throat. Lance closed his eyes and this time welcomed unconsciousness.
*
Yeah, this idea might be haunting me. And practically writing itself, which is yet another new concept. Just going to keep riding the wave, baby, because it's about to pay homage to its source material soon enough, and I can't even coherently contemplate how much fun that will be.
Lord knows I try to be good
I'd keep my promises if only I could
"You're one twisted little fuck, James."
For his part, Lance could barely think past the sound of rushing blood in his ears. His pulse pounded a staccato accompaniment in his head. Whoever was speaking, a man judging by the voice, at least sounded amused. He used the name anyone who only knew him from his driver's license would but Lance had never heard of muggers sticking around to sweet talk their targets.
"I've been around a while but I gotta tell you, every time I come back to New York it never fails to surprise me."
Groaning softly, Lance tried to bring his arm up to shield his eyes. Not that there was all that much in the way of light where he was: a lamp off to his left and moonlight spilling in through open curtains to his right. The comforter beneath him was plush and soft - when he could focus his eyes and make out its interlaid silk stripes, they gleamed indigo where an errant shaft did spill onto them. He blinked - cream walls, quiet hum of a dehumidifier - Lance's heart leapt to his throat. His apartment.
"You'd figure if anyone, a young, successful guy like yourself would have everything to be happy about. And yet, the best you've got to be doing is late-night beer runs for an empty place?"
"Who--" If he could even attempt coordinating movement through the heavy molasses air of the room he'd be reaching for the gun in his nightstand drawer, the phone on his desk, hell, putting those seven months of aikido to good use. As it was his limbs felt incredibly leaden, as if they'd been cast in concrete molds. "What're--"
Dip of the bed, a creak of mattress springs and the man's face suddenly took up most of Lance's field of vision. He looked to be in his twenties, the half-light casting his features in angles Lance would acknowledge as marketable in another context. The distinguished line of his nose, the high cheekbones gave him a sort of ethnically American look all the agencies loved. He was smiling and yeah, finding out your mark lived on the twenty-seventh story of a West Side highrise overlooking the river would make any thief happy. Then again, he wasn't the sick bastard about to get himself sliced open from navel to nose for all he knew yet he was preoccupied with assessing how lucrative his headshots would be for his portfolio. He had to be wasted.
The man's smile widened. "You wanna try finishing a thought there, James?"
Swallowing dryly, Lance managed to make tongue cooperate around a few raspy syllables. "How'd you get in here?"
The man laughed easily, a couple short snuffs of breath. They echoed in Lance's skull like a dislodged memory. "I told your doorman I was your designated for the night and he nodded readily enough." The man's smile widened, revealing white, perfect teeth. "Come on, I know that's not what you want to talk about."
He watched Lance expectantly for a few moments. What the man wanted to talk about Lance could only guess, but he would've liked to start with why he bothered to bring Lance here after attacking him, why he was still here now. But breathing seemed to be taking all the energy Lance could muster; long, slow drags of recycled air that nevertheless didn't reach the bottom of his lungs.
The man's smile gradually lessened, his forehead creasing a little, and he reached out to trail two fingers along Lance's jaw, curving them underneath to press lightly at his neck. Lance flinched slightly at the touch, icy even to his own clammy skin.
The bed shifted again as the man rose quickly, jostling him and Lance lolled his head on the pillow to track his movements. His hands and feet weren't bound at all and he should be able to get up, if not fight back then at least lock his mystery assailant out long enough to call the cops. He could hear the man rummaging in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, a few mumbled curses punctuating each slammed door. Finally there was the sound of the tap running, and the man reappeared through his bedroom doorway. He looked worried. Lance thought about whether that was a good thing, or if it meant he should be, too.
The man shook his head briefly and reached under Lance's armpits to hoist him somewhat upright. "I'm. It's been a while since I've. Without--"
Now who can't finish a thought, Lance wanted to say, but it would've been simply too much wasted effort when his mouth felt so impossibly parched but the man was already tipping the glass in his hand to Lance's lips. Lance drank instead, and swore his eyes rolled back in his head from the sheer joy of relief as cool water flooded his mouth. He gulped greedily, whimpering a little when it was removed.
"Ssh. Sleep now."
The man's lips were just as cold when they pressed briefly to Lance's forehead, tongue only slightly warmer when it touched the base of his throat. Lance closed his eyes and this time welcomed unconsciousness.
Yeah, this idea might be haunting me. And practically writing itself, which is yet another new concept. Just going to keep riding the wave, baby, because it's about to pay homage to its source material soon enough, and I can't even coherently contemplate how much fun that will be.
