Don't speak.

Wooden (Standalone)

Wed, 02 Jan 2008 20:43:30 GMT

Title: Wooden
Author: Fizzy fizzypenny
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen
POV: 3rd
Summary: Pete is an alpine doll-maker.
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing.
Author Notes: So this was written in one sitting after thinking about how if all the bandom boys were dolls, Pete would be the lonely doll-maker. Could be working up towards a Pinocchio AU.

Pete makes dolls.

People place orders, usually for pretty blondes and pretty redheads and pretty brunettes with pretty dresses and big eyes, and he makes those, because it’s kind of hard to explain to haggard mothers at Christmastime that yes, he’s a doll-maker, but no, he likes to make pretty boy dolls. If left to his own devices, he’ll spend all day carving and painting and crafting boy dolls, dolls with personality, with character (That’s a classy way of saying they aren’t always that pretty.) (Well, they usually are that pretty, usually extremely pretty, but not in the same, boring way.) He sells those dolls sometimes, but mostly, he likes to keep them for himself.

He keeps them in his workroom, some sitting on shelves and marionettes hanging loose off of whatever’s around.

(He used to leave them in the store, adding joy and making him feel a little less alone, but then all the bratty little girls would try to pull them down and play with them and obviously their mothers never taught them manners, don’t they know not to grab other people’s things? and say things like “Why is he wearing make-up?” and “This one is fat” and “He’s weird-looking” and “Your lederhosen are really tight, I don‘t think they‘re supposed to be like that” and, yeah, he really doesn’t like little girls, which may be why he usually only makes girl dolls when he’s being paid to. Or maybe he just really really likes pretty boys and, well, you don‘t get a lot of those in an alpine doll shop.)

He has four dolls sitting on his workbench; he just finished them and he likes to enjoy the new ones for a while before giving them a more permanent home. Actually, three of them are new. The first one he carved out of the set is very pretty. He has gorgeous eyes surrounded by painstaking designs that took Pete forever to paint with the smallest brush he owns but were so worth it. He runs his thumb over the little cheek--the feel of wood and paint is a little grainy and a little scratchy, but so nice--and smiles for no good reason. On the second, he got a little overenthusiastic while he was doing his final sanding on the body and it has some extreme hips for a boy doll, but whatever, he wasn’t for sale anyway, and who says he can’t have a little hip action? The third one, well, that one Pete almost scrapped. His eyes were too wide, and his lips were too big, and his hair was completely ridiculous. He had the weirdest expression too, Pete tried hard to remember if he had possibly been extremely drunk while he was carving this head. (He didn’t think so, but if he had been drunk enough to make the doll look like that, he probably wouldn’t remember much of anything anyway.) So he was going to just scrap the doll, maybe use the wood to make some stylish accessories for one of the others, but out of pure ~~stubbornness~~ commitment, he finishes him up, paints him, and sets him next to the other two. And he…fits. He doesn’t look odd at all, he looks beautiful and he looks like he belongs.

Pete’s very fond of saying that doll-making isn’t half as glamorous as all those stories make it out to be, and that his dolls very seldom come to life and, really, there isn’t much magic involved. Just splinters. (He says it a lot, but no one ever hears it because, well, he’s Pete the Weird Doll-Maker. The dolls never get sick of hearing his same lame comments, which is more than he can say for any real person he’s met.) But this, this set is like magic. Because not only does that last doll he carved suddenly not suck now that the three of them are together, but on a whim, he grabs a doll he made months ago who never really had a permanent place and sticks him next to the others. And even though that doll isn’t quite the same aesthetic as the others--less pretty, though still gorgeous in his own way, one of Pete’s only experimentations with painting beards--somehow, he belongs too, and Pete can’t bring himself to separate the four of them. (He likes sets of four, and was already half-started on a fourth member for this little group, but since this doll fits so well, he repurposes the sad little blocky torso into a head for one of his Christmas orders.)

Over on the windowsill, there’s another little huddle of dolls. They’re an eclectic bunch, he won’t pretend they aren’t. Included in them are several of his experiments: there’s the only china doll he ever made--his face came out a little wider than Pete had intended, but with the little turned-up nose, the sweetest smile Pete’s ever seen on doll or man (seriously, he looks at him and can‘t believe he actually created that smile. He tells himself it was some trick of the kiln), and a plush body, he’s pretty irresistible--as well as a failed marionette (a little too sharp and angular even for him, whose limbs get constantly tangled but Pete is strangely fond of him anyway), and one who was the product of a fit Pete had over the brain-breaking minutia involved in carving and painting delicate hairstyles (he just grabbed two generous fistfuls of yarn and glued them on, muttering to himself viciously. He wasn’t too fond of the result, but he’d used an awful lot of wood glue and would have to cut off the top of the doll's head or completely start over, and he was ready for something new. Besides, it sort of suited him.) With another, he was desperate to make something during a summertime lull when anyone who wanted a doll already had one and there were no holidays and barely any money left from Christmas and had just whittled something out of the leftover scraps sitting around the workroom which actually worked out really well (he was adorable. Tiny, but adorable.) and the last, well, he was kind of stern for Pete‘s liking, but his sternness seemed a little more like shielded amusement when Pete put him with the other misfits, so that’s where he stayed.

It’s not really possible to explain why, but pretty much all Pete’s dolls are small. Not in relation to other dolls, but, strange as it seems, if you imagine any of Pete’s dolls as person-sized, it’s hard to imagine most of them topping six feet. And Pete was not about to be put in the “Short Doll-Maker Of Short Dolls” box, so he made one with legs that were as long as any of the other doll’s entire bodies. Of course, Pete was used to the proportions of his smaller dolls, so he ended up making his tall doll way too thin, but he seems happy to be spindly, if his secretive painted smile is anything to go by. Pete discovered that he didn’t really like tall dolls as much, but he doesn’t like any of his dolls to be lonely, so he made two more--one with kind of creepy eyes, the other with a lot of hair and a lazy smile--and the three of them sit on the top shelf, long legs dangling. Pete likes to imagine that if they were alive, they would be some bastard lovechild of the bitchy girls everyone knows and the half-lidded slackers everyone also seems to know.

Right now he has the first two dolls he ever decided to keep for himself down from their usual place of honor next to the door. They aren’t the first dolls he ever made, not by a long shot (which is a good thing, because it took him kind of an embarrassingly long time to become good enough that he actually liked what he made) but they’re the first he ever held close, the first painted eyes he ever stared at and felt the corners of his mouth tugging up for no reason. One is another experiment--he was painted with all-natural dyes, which caused a lot of the color to drift off to parts of him that weren’t strictly meant to be decorated which, Pete won’t try that again, but he looks cool--and the other is just an ordinary boy doll, not particularly pretty, but he’s got a great smile and he makes Pete happy looking at him. They’re down because Pete needs them here while he works. He’s finally going to make another friend for them, someone else who can sit on the shelf by the door and get the first “good morning” and the last “good night.”

It’s harder than it should be, because Pete isn’t really sure what he needs. He’s discovered with his other dolls that what seems like it shouldn’t fit often fits best of all. He wants to try new things with this one, because even running his fingers over the block of blank wood, he knows this one will be special. He wants to try something different from his usual slender-limbed boys, maybe something reminiscent of the faintly lumpy plush body of his china doll but in wood. He fingers the larger knife he uses to carve the first chunky incarnation of a doll before carefully carving away all excess with his more delicate tools. He already has paints picked out, a soft red-orange for the hair and gold to highlight, the perfect pink to put a rosy blush in the cheeks. He knows what he wants the doll to be, even though he isn’t firmly set on how he’ll look.

Pete doesn’t have a lot of people around (there are customers, yes, but they generally show up at the shop, tell him what they want, make sure he has it all written down properly, and then disappear. No one really wants to get to know Pete the Weird Doll-Maker), but he has plenty of friends. The dolls are his friends. They never mock him, or leave him, or accuse him. They don’t expect anything; they sit, and they smile, and they watch. He has fun with them, and even though they don’t have names (not ones he’s ever spoken aloud, though he can’t pretend he refers to them as “the china one” or “the one with the hips” in his mind) they are his friends. He isn’t crazy, he doesn’t think that they think, or talk to him, or move when he’s not around. They’re just dolls. But they’re his dolls, and he doesn’t know why anyone in his right mind would trade a roomful of bright, always-smiling faces for a handful of mercurial, judgmental, sweating, scowling, hateful people. He likes dolls so much better.

So he rubs his thumb slowly over the block of wood that will become his newest friend. His, he has a strange feeling, favorite friend. He thinks, and he smiles, and maybe, just this once, it wouldn’t hurt to give a friend a proper name. He lifts the block of wood delicately, as though it’s already a miniature human and not fresh, fragrant wood that the woodsman’s son sold him two mornings ago, and inhales deeply.

“Patrick,” he whispers, too-close, lips brushing against the grain. And he smiles like he has a secret

Playing Fast and Loose 4/?

Fri, 30 Nov 2007 22:06:52 GMT

Title: Playing Fast and Loose (Or: Gangsters and Bootleggers and Crossdressers, Oh My!)
Author: Fizzy fizzypenny
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ryden
POV: 3rd
Summary: AU Gangland prince Brendon wants a doll. Not one of the dancers from his clubs--a good girl, one he can take home to his momma. Head honcho Pete wants Brendon’s cooperation. And Ryan, well, he doesn’t want to be that doll, but it looks like he’s going to anyway.
Disclaimer: Words cannot express how much this didn’t happen.
Author Notes: This story has kind of become my reward (Reviewed another section of sources for annotation? Good job! You can have some bandslash!) so, if it comes kind of slow it’s because it’s almost finals (oh god) and I have a ton to do, and I wish I could major in slash (with a double minor in bandom and vampires).

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

Chastity Ross--the name made him frown, almost second guess, because, god, honestly?--was supposed to arrive half an hour ago. Brendon has no idea if she did or not, because he’s still embroiled with planning out the Saturday night show for his new jazz club with his brand new bandleader.

He checks the clock on the edge of his desk, and he’s annoyed because he’s making a terrible first impression. Then he’s even more annoyed, because he’s supposed to be this maverick gangster prodigy and he’s worried about making a bad impression on a girl he’s basically blackmailed into seeing him and has never actually met.

The bandleader gestures expansively while he talks, voice just a little gravelly, big hands fluttering like butterflies except much more intense and manly. Brendon has never heard him play, never seen him host, but knows that he’s perfect by the way his coffee-and-cream fingers tend to drum out a beat on the desk and, honestly, his briefcase says “The Real McCoy” in bold white letters and that’s so clever Brendon wants to laugh hysterically every time he sees it. He doesn’t, because proper gangsters don’t giggle, and also, McCoy is really massively big and Brendon thinks that--even though Travis claims he doesn’t want to have anything to do with backroom deals or under-the-table benefits, all he cares about is making music--he could probably squash him. And not with much effort either, which is distressing. He wonders briefly if Pete ever worries about getting smushed by his lackeys, then decides it’s unlikely because, well, it’s Pete, and while he’s short, he’s also very compact.

“Sounds ducky.” He gives a no-holds barred smile, with lots of teeth and shine, and for a second he thinks McCoy is smirking, but then he’s smiling too--nowhere near as bright, of course, but still warm. He offers his hand and it practically disappears inside McCoy’s. Brendon makes a small “oh” of surprise, and stares, fascinated. McCoy chuckles, dark and smooth and friendly, and the two of them head for the door.

Brendon’s “office” is at the top of the stairs in the cozy brownstone he bought with the profits from his first two speakeasies (and a little extra). It’s where he holds his meetings--thugs and dancers and contacts and musicians and rich boys looking for a thrill all stream through the door--and also where he does the things he doesn’t want the rest of his guys to know about (it’s not his fault that he loves Opal! She‘s just so sweet and plucky!).

He can hear voices as they walk down the stairs. Well, a voice, and unsurprisingly, it’s Beckett’s. Halfway down the stairs, he comes into view. Beckett is leaning against a doorframe and looming, like he does, over a girl facing away from Brendon. He’s going to have to have a word with Will about the looming thing. It’s not just that he’s tall--McCoy, for example, is also tall and he doesn’t loom--but he just curves over you until even though he’s standing a perfectly respectable distance away, he seems entirely too close. He’s looking down at her through his lashes, a lazy smile curling one side of his mouth, and Brendon can’t believe his own henchman is flirting with his fake-girlfriend. Except, he can, because Beckett flirts with anything that moves, and some things that don’t--he insists to this day that it was a very attractive coat rack, and if you had seen it, you would have done the same.

“Beckett.” His voice is just a tad sharp, but Will takes his own sweet time looking up, eyes still half lidded and that ridiculous smile still making him look like he could give Valentino a run for his money. He’s utterly stunning in all the latest fashions, except his hair. He refuses to slick down his gentle curls, not even in the name of style. Will, Brendon knows, is bad for business. He’s got the skill and charisma to be a force in his own right, but none of the drive. He’d rather sit and smile, shoot the occasional fella and fuck the chorus girls than make any kind of concentrated effort, any real plan. It makes him useless as anything but a figurehead, but he works pretty well as Brendon’s second-in-command, because he doesn’t ask questions, and as long as he gets his cut he doesn’t argue.

“Mr. Urie.” He doesn’t think he likes the way Beckett drawls his name, but knows mentioning it will only get him drawled into submission, possibly into eternity. “Miss Ross is here.” And she turns.

Damn. His first thought is that she looks an awful lot like her brother. He’s never gotten a very good look at the male Ross, what with his ridiculous obsession with pulling his hat so far down it was like he was nothing more than a pair of lips, but they are totally the same lips. She’s pretty, dressed in cream and pearls, with soft-looking brown bangs peeking out from beneath her hat and god, her figure is amazing. All slender shoulders and smooth lines and slim hips--like a boy, very chic. He’s impressed; he can’t pretend he wasn’t worried that there was a reason Chastity Ross--god, that name. When Beckett came with that, Brendon almost sent him straight back, because Wentz had to be fucking with him--was church-loving broad, one that had nothing to do with morals.

Right now, she’s pursing her lips and looking vaguely peevish, and Brendon figures he’s been staring at her for long enough, and comes forward, all glitz and glamour and teeth and charm.

“I’m so glad to meet you.” She doesn’t look impressed, and when she smiles it’s rehearsed and empty.

“It‘s a pleasure.” Her voice is quiet, a little husky. Smoky. He likes it. She still has her head ducked slightly, and he’s reminded strongly of her brother. Maybe avoidance runs in the family, but as long as that family turned out a choice bit of calico like this, he doesn’t mind if she won’t meet his eyes. For now.

“I’m sure it will be,” Beckett snickers and leers and Brendon glares, because he has no illusions that what happens in front of this doll isn‘t going to end up right at Pete Wentz‘s feet--the brother is practically Wentz’s lapdog, from what Brendon hears--and insubordination does not inspire confidence or intimidation--not that he thinks Wentz is intimidated by him, far from it, but he really doesn‘t have to give him more reasons not to be, right? He’s going to make some retort, then notices McCoy still standing on the last step behind him, watching the scene with lazy eyes and a lazy smile.

“Why don’t you escort Mr. McCoy out?”

Beckett gives him a vicious little glare, a I am not your servant glare, and he‘s going to have to deal with a very bitchy lieutenant later on and will probably end up paying in chorus girls, but right now, he stares right back until Beckett shrugs, lanky shoulders flowing like water beneath his well-tailored (and expensively, too, it takes a lot of alterations to get a jacket to fit a guy with that much height and that little breadth) and smiles tight, one side of his nose twitching in irritation. “I‘d be happy to.”

McCoy rests his hand on Brendon’s shoulder when he passes and rumbles, “Hot jazz” with a crooked smile and a solemn nod. Brendon has no idea how to respond, so he just nods in return. McCoy’s smile grows and he nods again before following Beckett out of the room, so Brendon guesses it was an appropriate response. So he’s gotten rid of the lecherous underlings and miscellaneous employees, which leaves him alone. With the doll. Who still does not look impressed in the slightest.

“Erm, sorry about that.” And he wants to smack himself, because he’s a big shot now, and big shot cold-blooded gangsters don’t say “erm.” She looks away, eyes lidded like she’s bored.

“It’s fine.” She studies the ceiling for a few moments, and Brendon studies the curve of her neck, looped with tiny pearls. “Ryan said we would probably go to dinner.”

“Ryan?” She looks at him finally, except maybe not finally because the flat disbelief in her eyes makes him feel exceedingly dumb. Dumber than usual. Dumber than he was that one time he let Beckett convince him that the Hot Box dancers really needed their measurements taken, no don’t bother about a seamstress, why waste money, I’ll do it as a personal favor for you Brendon. Goddamn cake eater.

“My brother.” Ross. Right. He knew that. He starts to say so, then decides the conversation would be best abandoned right now. If he changes the subject, maybe she won’t remember later.

“Right. Dinner.” He blinks, takes that fraction of a second to breathe, and it’s gone. The awkwardness, the shyness, the openness evaporates. He isn’t Brendon anymore, he’s Urie and he’s got flash, pizzazz, he does what he wants, gets what he wants, and right now, this doll is his. He strides closer, dominating the room with each step. “I’m thinking Dylan’s, maybe drinks back here after.” There’s an easy smile in his words, but more than anything else, there’s control. This is his stage, and she’s little more than a prop.

“I don’t drink.” She looks down again, and he could swear she’s blushing and that makes him grin. Maybe she won’t be quite the flat tire he was expecting.

“Don’t worry, Miss Ross. I’m a gentleman.” And yeah, she was definitely blushing, because it gets even pinker.

“I wasn’t worried.” There’s a tightness, a breathiness to her words and Brendon knows he’s going to like this girl.

“Not worried? Maybe I shouldn’t bother making an effort then.“ He runs the side of his index finger along her upper arm, and she jerks away, eyes wide like a spooked deer.

“I am here--” she doesn’t get above an angry hissed whisper, and somehow, with her voice it makes her even scarier than if she was shrill and loud “--as a favor to my brother. Nothing more.”

And he knows he went too far, he shouldn’t have touched her, shouldn’t have teased like that, not with a doll like this. He’s destroyed any chance to charm her later on, ply her with expensive food and dazzling smiles. But he doesn’t care. Because seeing her like this, eyes wild and dark, face flushed, chewing a little on her lower lip…

Yeah. It’s worth it.

Blood (Standalone)

Tue, 27 Nov 2007 23:06:07 GMT

Title: Blood
Author: Fizzy fizzypenny
Rating: R-- Adult themes, language
Pairing: Mark/Roger, Roger/Mimi
POV: 3rd
Summary: AU Roger is a cop on the trail of a sadistic killer.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author Notes: Written for [Bad username: âxjessica-faithxâ] who provided the plot bunny, which ate my brain and forced me to abandon my Nano >.< Oh well, I don‘t know if this is exactly what you had in mind, but I hope it‘s fun anyway! (I claimed this from my personal journal, btw.)

“Wake up, Davis.” Roger jolts when the file drops onto his desk. He wasn’t sleeping, just…thinking, and his grinning coworker knows it.

“Fuck you, Collins.” There’s no anger in his voice, just tired camaraderie. He slides the file towards the edge of the desk, flips open the cover. “What’s this?”

“Murder. Several.” Collins leans against the opposite desk, and Roger unscrews the cap of his bottled water. Pretentious crap, but he promised his girlfriend he’d try to quit smoking. She said the best way was to occupy his mouth with something else. So far, all the water has done is cost him money and make him piss a lot. Fuck, he was supposed to call Mimi and tell her he wouldn’t be coming home until late. He takes a long swallow and squeezes his eyes shut. She should know by now that being a cop’s girlfriend means a lot of empty evenings, but she still insists that he call her, like he has time for that.

He flips past the reports--overwritten and dull, he’ll look into them later--to the crime scene photos and licks his lips. Despite the water he just drank, they’re suddenly uncomfortably dry.

“Shit.”

“No, blood.” Collins grins, and Roger really has no idea how a guy can be on the force as long as Collins has been and still be such a fucking ray of sunshine. He joined years after, and he’s already found himself becoming grizzled and bitter at the age of thirty-five. He was a prodigy, after all, beloved by the desk jobs who catapulted him into homicide before he could say “jaded.” Collins, though, Collins has a true gift. He’s like Pollyanna.

“This is…this is rough, Collins.”

“I know, right?” He folds his arms, and gives Roger that look no one else can, where Roger thinks maybe Collins is reading his mind, or deeper, looking into his soul. “That’s why I snagged it for you.”

“Me?” Roger toys with the plastic cap from the bottle. “Don’t fuck with me, Collins, I don’t even have a partner. I can’t take on a multiple homicide.”

Collins shrugs, like he already knows everything Roger is going to say, and none of it matters. “You can take a look at it. Don‘t need a partner for that.” There’s an uncomfortable gleam in his eyes, and when he leans forward, his voice is low even though no one’s paying attention to them. “She held you back, man.”

Roger shifts in his chair, scowls. “Fuck off.” But Collins eyes just get more serious.

“She still does.“ And then he’s grinning, cuffing Roger on the side of the head. “You’ve got a gift, boy. Use the force, Luke.“ It’s scary sometimes, how Collins moves from uncomfortable insight to goofy pop-culture references in the span of seconds. Scary in a good way. Usually.

“Freak.” Roger pulls the file onto his lap and returns to the reports. Collins laughs and winks.

“Not that you know.” Then he’s back on his feet and gone, like the goddamn file fairy, off to spread joy and homicide to the rest of the station. Roger smiles to himself, takes one more drink before screwing the top back on and settling in for a wild ride of blood, gore and death. It’s going to be a fun night.

---

When he comes home at 3 AM, Mimi is sitting on the couch in a too-short terrycloth robe, leaving expanses of caramel-colored leg looking pale in the dark.

“Hey baby.” He pretends there’s nothing wrong, but she turns her face away when he leans down to kiss her. “I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were going to call.” He sits next to her, on the very edge of the cushion, runs his hand along the top of her thigh, but she still won’t look at him.

“I got wrapped up in a new case, baby, you know how it is.”

“Yeah.” Her voice is so tired, and he hates it. She was always such a firecracker, such a brilliant burst of color and energy. He loves her, but not like this. Not bitter and washed out.

“Did I,” he tries to think of a delicate way to say it, but there isn’t any, “Did I miss anything?” And she’s not washed out anymore, she’s angry, and he couldn’t truthfully say which he prefers.

“No, Roger, you didn’t miss anything. Just an evening with me, but that’s obviously not important to you.” He reaches out to rest his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugs him off. “I’m going to bed.”

She vanishes through the bedroom door, and he waits a few minutes to follow her, so that she can pretend to be asleep when he comes in. He sits on the couch in the dark room and looks at nothing. Then he gets up slowly and walks into the equally dark bedroom.

She’s nothing more than a lump under the covers, and he strips down to his boxers before climbing in next to her. She’s sleeping on the very edge of the bed, curled in on herself so he can’t even try to cuddle against her. Still, he rests his hands on her shoulders blades and whispers ‘I love you’ to the curve of her neck before rolling back over to his side. In the morning, he’ll pretend he believes that the wetness on her pillow is drool.

---

“Hey.” Roger looks up from his computer screen and smiles, because he looks exhausted and awful but he was once told that he could make the sun come out when he smiled right.

“Hello there, Ms. Jefferson.” She frowns good-naturedly at his teasing.

“I’ve got a briefcase full of files right here, Davis, and I’m not afraid to smack you with it.” She hefts the case for emphasis and he laughs.

“What are you doing down here?”

“I was talking to the DA about how we’ll be approaching the Larson case, and I figured I should stop in and see my favorite homicide detective.”

“Sorry, Collins isn’t here right now.” Roger deadpans like no other, and it’s guaranteed to bring a smile to Joanne’s face. He knows a lot of cops don’t like dealing with the lawyers, but he’s never met anyone who put up with less shit than Joanne Jefferson, and he appreciates that.

“Too bad, can you tell him I came by?” She leans up in the usual place against the desk across from him.

“Don’t you have work to do? Bad guys to litigate, and all that?” She sighs.

“Definitely, but I can’t go back to my office.”

“Fumigation?”

“Worse.” She winces. “New intern.”

“Come on, you know you love having some wide-eyed innocent little law-school student to fuck with.” Joanne sighs.

“This one might just drive me up the wall. Get this, she double-majored in Pre-Law and performing arts. I’m going out of my mind, the girl is a complete halfwit. Not to mention that she’s wearing a top cut practically to her navel.”

“I thought that would gain brownie points.” Joanne eyes him grumpily.

“Not in the office.” He laughs and she stands. “That’s great, Roger, thanks. Please, laugh at my misery, I insist.” She glances at her watch and sighs. “I really should be getting back. Make sure the drama queen hasn’t vaporized my office in a freak accident involving the copy machine and some non-dairy creamer.”

“Don’t be a stranger.” Roger smiles again, and Joanne returns it, grabbing her briefcase. She starts to walk past him, then pauses.

“I,” she struggles with what to say for a moment before exhaling. “I’m sorry about Ericsson.”

Roger’s smile disappears like he‘s been slapped in the face, but only for a second, only long enough for him to cement a painfully fake one in place. “Thanks.”

She knows that she shouldn’t have said anything, that she’s made it all worse and awkward, but it’s too late to take it back so she just walks away.

Roger goes back to tapping the keys on his keyboard, but there’s something empty around his eyes.

---

“How’s it going?” Roger looks up from his notebook, the lined paper dark with blocky black notes and scribbling.

“Victim profile is pretty obvious. Young men, blonds, ages ranging from fourteen to twenty-five. Each one tortured with multiple lacerations before killed, with traces of a tranquilizing agent in their blood. Preferred method seems to be to simply let the victim bleed out, no evidence of strangulation on any of the bodies.”

“I read the file, thanks,” Collins says. “I was asking about Mimi.” Roger flips a page. “How about an answer?”

“Let’s try, fuck off.”

“Nah, I don’t like that one.” Instead of honoring tried and true tradition, Collins shoves Roger’s mug of pens, and several empty water bottles he couldn’t be bothered to throw away to the side, and perches on the edge of the desk. “She pissed?”

“Very.” Collins frowns.

“I shouldn’t have given you this case.”

Roger doesn’t pause in his reading, eyes constantly searching for something he didn’t see before. “Why?”

“I wanted to distract you, not make your home life shitty.”

“I don’t need your distractions.” His eyebrows crease, and he’s not reading anymore, just staring. But he refuses to look up. “I’m fine, Collins.”

“Yeah.” And he doesn’t have to say anything more, doesn’t even need a tone, because he’s Collins and this is Roger and he knows, he’s just not looking up.

They sit in quiet discomfort for a few moments before footsteps and a piece of paper slammed triumphantly down onto his desk break the tension. Roger can still see blue chips at the cuticles on the fingernails on the too-delicate hand that shoots him a thumbs up that almost takes his eye out.

“Is this?” He picks it up before finishing the question and grins. “Schunard, you’re a saint.”

“Damn straight.” Angel is all smiles and sunshine and daisies, and all that good stuff.

“I owe you. What do you want? Danish? Coffee? Sexual favors?“

“I’ll take a rain check, honey.“ And Roger, oblivious asshole though he is, who can’t even figure out how to keep his girlfriend speaking to him, definitely notices Collins’ eyes follow as Angel flounces away. He wonders if anyone doesn’t know what Officer Schunard does on Saturday nights, besides the Lieutenant, who is gloriously oblivious.

“Checking out the newbie’s ass,” Roger hums under his breath, taking a closer look at the sheet Angel--and what an god-sent Angel--delivered. Collins grumbles something but can’t deny it.

“What is that?”

“I had some of the lab geeks run shit on the locations. They’ve got a neighborhood for me to check out.” Collins glances at his watch pointedly but Roger’s already grabbing his coat. “Fuck off, Collins, this could be a huge break.”

“Yes,” Collins says ominously, and his eyes are laser focused. “Yes, it could.”

---

After two hours of driving around, waiting for something to catch his eyes, Roger thinks it’s time to call it a night and go home to Mimi--if she’s even there. He turns down the last street on the grid the lab printed off for him, and the choirs of angels descend. It’s not a lead. Better. Starbucks.

Coffee, Roger thinks, drumming his fingers against the countertop while he waits, is truly man’s greatest treasure. He sighs; how long does it take to pour a cup of black coffee? With all the insane mixes they have, he would think they’d be grateful for this break--just grab a cup, grab the pot, and pour. Easy as one, two, three.

“Um, it could be a while.” She’s got eyes the size of quarters with a shaky line of black around each. “We had to start a new pot.”

Roger rolls his eyes, considers forgetting about it but then he’d have to drive home with the sweet, sweet smell on his jacket and skin and probably would have a nervous breakdown and crash. So he smiles, fake, and nods. Scanning the room, he spots some stragglers sitting at tables, and figures he might as well do his job.

A few brief interviews tell him nothing, and he spots a kid in the corner. Pale, blond, skinny, with glasses. He looks too young to be out this late on his own.

“Mind if I join you?” The kid looks up, glasses pushed too far down his nose, a rosy flush in each cheek.

“Erm, I--” Roger flips open his badge, and the kid hastily thumbs his glasses up. “Oh. Oh, yeah, of course.” Roger sits, glances down the spread of papers on the small table. Stick figures in boxes, mostly. “They’re storyboards.” Roger looks up, and the kid smiles weakly. “I’m a film student. At the college.”

College student, so, not so young after all. Roger nods, disinterested, and pulls his notebook out of his pocket.

“Can I get your name and age?”

“Mark. Cohen. I‘m nineteen.” Roger scribbles--it’s a source of strange pride to him that no one else can read his scrawled notes.

“And have you noticed anything or anyone strange around here lately, Mark?”

“Uh, no. Is this,” he bites his lower lip and leans forward. “Is this about the, you know. The murders?”

Roger’s brow furrows and he readies his pen. “Why do you ask?”

“Just,” the kid sits back in his chair, shrugging a little, “you hear things, right? About. Stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Stuff stuff.” Roger narrows his eyes just a fraction. Was he this ridiculous when he was in college? No, he couldn’t have been, he’d never have survived. The kid seems to sense his mood, because he hurries to continue. “My friend, he says that this girl that he met at the last Fu Zeta thing told him that her roommate told her that she saw some guy lurking around by the quad.” Roger had half tuned out, but he’s back in it now. He hadn’t thought that the killer would have branched out as far as the campus, and this is in all likelihood just some wild he-said, she-said story, and there’s always a multitude of guys lurking around on college campuses, but anything helps.

“Can I have your friend’s name, and the girls?”

“Benny. Benjamin Coffin the Third,” he rolls his eyes a bit and Roger could almost laugh. Seems the kid has some life in him after all. “And, jeez, uh, I want to say Muffy? Maybe not. She lives on Westport second, I think. Pretty sure. And her roommate is, maybe Eva?”

Roger finishes writing that down, and checks his watch, and god, Mimi is going to slaughter him.

“Thanks, Mark. That’s helpful. If I need to contact you again--”

“I’ll be here.” Mark jumps in, cutting him off, then flushes again. Roger wonders if he was ever that innocent, to blush so easy. “I mean, I come here after class to do homework and I’m usually here most of the night. Unless I‘m filming, but I‘m not on a project right now, so I should be. Yeah. Here.” Roger nods and smiles, and walks back to the counter, where the girl has disappeared but left a forlorn little cup waiting.

He picks it up, and it’s practically sludge. He drinks it anyway.

---

The phone rings for what seems like an eternity before someone finally picks up.

“Hi there.” Roger thinks he has a wrong number before he hears a muffled discussion and the voice comes back on, sounding bored and annoyed. He can practically hear hair being twirled. “You’ve reached the offices of Joanne Jefferson, how may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak to Joanne.” He realizes that this isn‘t the normal secretary, who recognizes his voice, and clarifies: “This is Detective Davis.”

“Sure thing, pookie.”

“Jefferson.”

“It’s Roger,” he stretches in his chair, reaching down to retrieve a pen. “You’ve got the intern answering phones? Isn’t she supposed to be experiencing the wide and wonderful world of lawyering?”

“Yes, well,” Joanne’s voice is clipped and he knows her well enough to picture the face she’s making, “Miss Johnson is currently on probation from normal interning duties until she proves herself worthy, yes, Maureen, I know you’re still on the line, hang up now.” A startled “eep,” and a click that almost manages to sound apologetic and Roger is treated to one of the most aggravated sighs he’s ever heard. “Roger, I’m dying here, you can’t even imagine. She‘s completely useless.”

“So date her.”

“She’s not my type.” And, after a beat to consider, “Which has little bearing in the matter, considering that it would be completely unethical, unprofessional, and in all other respects inappropriate. And furthermore, I resent that implication.”

“Was I implying something?”

“I’m not talking about this anymore.” He hears keys clacking, and knows that she’s got the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. “I assume you had another reason for calling besides laughing at my misery and insinuating that I’m only attracted to useless women?”

“No, that was pretty much it.” He waits for her laugh, a short bark, before continuing. “Part of my investigation may involve the college. Do I move in myself, or should I give the campus security a heads up first?”

“You know the legal answer.”

“Maybe I want your boundless ability to worry. I don’t want to step on toes.” A pause of consideration, and she sighs.

“Fine. I’ll write you a nice letter to let security know you’re going to be conducting some investigatory work and would love their cooperation without actually implying you want or need their help.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know you, Davis.” Her voice it flat, but he knows she’s smiling. “You’ll never do anything you can’t get someone to do for you. Lazy ass.”

“I prefer to think of myself strategically incompetent. Good luck with the intern.”

Another sharp burst of laughter. “I need it.”

---

He’s not quite sure how this all happened. One minute he was offering a ride to the scrawny blond kid from the coffee place, because, god, it was cold and it was dark, besides, he‘s talked to this kid practically every other day, so it‘s not like they‘re total strangers, and if there’s a serial killer on the loose going after blond kids, it’s kind of his civic duty. And the next, they’re stopped, and the kid is unbuckling both of their seatbelts.

“Thank you.” The kid smiles a little bit, shy.

“What--” What is this? What are you doing? But he never gets to finish his question because suddenly those pale spidery fingers are fumbling with his belt and the kid--Mark, Roger corrects himself, Mark, because thinking of him as the kid is only going to make this whole thing worse--is biting his chapped lower lip in endearing concentration.

And he wants to say “stop,” or “no,” or at the very least “why,” but he has no words because suddenly the world is black, and white, and light, and hot, wet, yes.

He digs his fingers into the sides of his seat to keep from running them through pale blond hair that he just knows is baby fine and soft. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch, doesn’t have to think--because this is wrong, this is so very wrong, he has a girlfriend, he has a live-in girlfriend and he’s getting sucked off in an unmarked police car by some nineteen year-old film student just outside the glare of an accusing street lamp half a block away from campus--and just feels. It feels amazing.

Mark, well, he’s not great, probably doesn’t have a lot of experience. He’s too loud, and a little too sloppy, but he makes up for all that with puppyish enthusiasm. And Mimi hasn’t looked at him for a month, and there’s something disturbingly great about the whole thing. He never thought that he would be one to get off on the forbidden, the danger of getting caught. He’s been perfectly happy with his nice vanilla sex life, and he’s not sure if it’s the cessation of that or deeper things coming to the surface or some combination of the two, but he can’t remember the last time he felt this good.

A tiny moan, more like a whimper, that sounds nothing like any sound he ever made with Mimi, and it’s over. Mark sits up, wipes his mouth on his sleeve--something in the back of Roger’s mind tells him its disgusting, but the front of his mind is floating and doesn’t care--and smiles.

“See you around.”

Roger sits and watches until Mark disappears behind one of the red-brick buildings, then drives home, his mind pleasantly filled with white smoke.

He walks into the dark living room and sits down on the couch, needing a second, trying to clear some of the haze from behind his eyes. He hears the door behind him, and then arms are around his neck.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Mimi’s voice is honey, and her breath is hot in his ear. “I know you’re stressed, and I’ve been a bitch about it. I just love you, that’s all.” And her lips trace the curve of his neck, from shoulder to wear the stubble starts just below his chin, mouthing secrets he’s supposed to know by now but can never seem to remember. He turns to face her, and she’s wearing the same too-small robe, with miles of legs and the swell of coffee-and-cream breasts.

This time he’s allowed to touch, and it’s slow and beautiful and everything he loves and wants and needs. Except for the moments, the instants, when his fingertips hit caramel curves and he imagines milky angles.

---

Roger’s still at his desk too late--what a surprise--on Friday night, when Schunard appears in his field of vision.

“I come bearing gifts,” he chirps, setting a paper plate with a sugar-explosion of a donut on it on top of Roger’s files.

“Thanks.” He forces himself to smile, and Angel is always the one to call him on his less-than-convincing baring of teeth, but this time he doesn’t say anything.

“Also, I want to cash in my favor.” Normal Roger would waggle his eyebrows and say ‘blowjob in the break room in five minutes?’ or something equally naughty and charming, but Normal Roger is out at the moment, please leave a message and he’ll get back to you, so he just waits for Angel to go on. “Do you think Collins--”

“Yes.” Angel wrinkles his nose, but there’s a light in his eyes.

“You don’t even know the question.”

“And the answer is yes. Definitely yes.” Angel’s smile is like the clouds clearing, and Roger knows that they’ll go through so much shit, and it’ll be tough and painful, but it won’t matter because they’ll have each other. And for that, he hates them. “Any leads on the serial?”

Angel shakes his head, smile dimming at the mention of mass murder though his eyes are still kilowatts strong. “Nada, cariño. No suspicious activity linked, no more bodies, nothing.” Roger nods, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “You okay?”

“Headache.”

“Aw, try your donut. It’s got love in it.” Roger gives him a level stare (with arched eyebrow) and he waves his hand. “Or raspberry. Same thing, honey, same thing.” And Roger can’t help but smile one tiny real smile, and, mission accomplished, Angel has fluttered off again.

He stares down at the file, and wonders if it’s wrong for him to wish for another broken and bleeding corpse, just for the slim hope he could have one more chance to find this guy.

---

There’s nothing but darkness. Darkness and emptiness.

And then there’s light. Blinding, clinical light. And pain.

Roger winces away from the light, tries to cover his eyes, but his hands won’t move.

“Sorry about that.” And he doesn’t recognize this voice, because there’s no awkward rephrasing, no shy near-stutter, no almost-smile in the words. Just dead. Cold. He keeps his eyes closed for several more seconds, more out of cowardice than actual necessity, but then there’s pain. Biting, vicious pain slashing across his chest, and his eyes fly open just in time for him to see, see Mark kneeling in front of him, see Mark with the dripping razor in one hand, see Mark trace his finger up the wound and see that finger disappear into that bow-like mouth, see him suck thoughtfully then nod his approval.

He’s still wearing the same sweater. Roger isn’t sure why, but this makes him angry. He should be upset that he’s been kidnapped, will probably now be messily killed, and has apparently been drinking coffee, chatting and maybe cheating on his girlfriend a little bit with a psychopathic killer. He is, but what’s really pissing him off is that as Mark sets down a cute little red tool kit, he’s wearing the same striped sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows that he was wearing when Roger first met him.

“You’re a little old for me,” Mark tells him conversationally, opening the tool kit to reveal a wide variety of very shiny and very nasty looking things. “But we have such a good connection, I’m willing to look past that.” He selects a screw driver, skimming his blunt fingertips along it--fingernails have to be cut short, Roger remembers Mark saying with one of those tiny smiles, so the film doesn’t get scratched--before resting the head against Roger’s shoulder. He presses experimentally before sighing and putting it back. “Gotta say though, I was hoping you’d be in better shape.”

Roger snorts. “I’m thirty-five.” His chest still burns, though the blood is starting to get sticky and cold. “I’m not going to have a fucking six pack.”

Mark sits back on his haunches, resting his elbow on his knee and his face on his palm. “Older men. I don’t get the appeal, Rog, I really don’t. Who cares about experience? There’s no artistic lines, no,” he runs the heel of his other hand up Roger’s side, “sleekness.”

“Well, you should have thought of that earlier. Now we both just feel awkward.” Mark laughs, reaching down without looking away and retrieving the razor.

“C’mon, Rog. We’ve got something special. I feel it, don’t you?”

And Roger does feel it. For hours. He feels it until his face is streaked with tears (and he hasn’t cried since…he didn’t even cry at her funeral), and his cheeks are hot and uncomfortable with the tightness of drying tears. He feels it until his head feels stuffed with cotton, and his throat burns from screaming. He feels it until his tongue is dry and heavy in his mouth, and his shoulder blades feel like they might crack in half after pushing and struggling against the hard back of the chair. He feels it until his torso is crisscrossed with angry slash marks, nothing but a sticky mess of crusted, half-dried, and free-flowing blood. The razor, though, that still shines like morning, with tiny beads of saliva where Mark’s little pink cat tongue darts out to clean it after every cut.

“You do this--” his voice is raw, scratchy, and he can’t breathe without stretching what feels like a thousand miles of broken skin. “--for all the boys you like, or am I just special?”

Mark grins.

“You have no idea how much you mean to me.” And he takes Roger’s face in his hands and kisses him.

It’s their first kiss, which is a stupid thing to be thinking right now because god, he’s a serial killer and he’s spent the last several hours torturing him, but it’s the first thing that pops into Roger’s mind. It’s their first kiss, and it’s not right. It’s too rough, too hot, too everything. A first kiss should be tentative, soft lips and shyness, not fingertips gouging into the sides of his face, rough half-skinned lips, sandpaper tongue, and the taste of his own blood heavy and bitter in his mouth.

It’s not a proper first kiss, and Roger tries to tilt his head back, but Mark just digs his fingers in deeper and it hurts so Roger tries to sit and let Mark swipe his tongue over Roger’s teeth but god if he doesn’t want this. Mark is fifteen years young than him, Mark is a sadist, Mark is a mass murderer, Mark thinks he can control who lives and who dies, Mark thinks he can make Roger forget all of that with a kiss. And he’s right. All Roger wants to do is kiss him.

Fuck it Roger thinks, pushing away Collins, Mimi, Angel, Joanne, and that last face who never seems to leave his mind, Ericsson (April…), and he kisses back. It’s awkward, because he hurts and his hands are tied behind his back, but he strains forward with everything he has, tries to steal every last drop of blood back.

Mark groans and mumbles something into his mouth that might have been “fuck yeah” and takes a firm grip on Roger’s thighs, slithering himself up into his lap. And that hurts, making every nerve in his body scream in agony, but he doesn’t stop. Mark’s skinny little thighs are hot clamped around his own, and even though his chest is burning and there’s explosions of pain behind his closed eyes he never wants to stop.

But it has to stop sometime, and Mark pulls back but doesn’t move. He watches Roger through wide eyes that are almost more than hollow. Not quite. Roger slumps back a little bit, and the chair wobbles dangerously. It’s a rickety chair, and Roger has the sudden image of it collapsing with both of them on top of it. That would be incredibly painful, but not half as painful as Mark leaving his lap so he doesn’t say anything.

Mark licks his lips, chapped as always, and Roger remembers what that tongue looked like licking long streaks in the blood coating his chest and remembers what it felt like on his, and he considers mentioning that licking your lips doesn’t help and will, in fact, make them dry out even worse--or so says Mimi, when she cheerfully presented him with a tube of chapstick that’s probably still rolling around in some drawer.

He leans in again, and Roger winces in anticipation, but he was wrong if he was expecting a demanding mouth against his skin, because what he gets is the whipping almost-whistle of a blade through the air. The cut is longer, deeper than any of the others, and he knows without seeing, without thinking, that it’s fatal. He waits for Mark to laugh, to walk away, but once again, he doesn’t get what he expects.

He seems almost like a little boy, Roger reflects, right here and now, curled against Roger’s chest, blood sponging into the folds of his sweater. He’s a warm, harsh weight on wounds that reopen under the pressure, but Roger doesn’t care, because, hell, he’s dying and he might as well.

He closes his eyes.

---

When he opens his eyes, Mimi is crying. She’s also holding his hand so tight that he feels like telling her she’s lucky Mark didn’t dislocate his fingers or something like that, but he can’t talk around the ventilator.

“Oh god, Rog.” And Collins is at the foot of the bed with Angel, and Roger--were he not near-deathly injured, exhausted and, as previously mentioned, on a ventilator--would make a crack about “and you were there, and you, and you” although from the (nonexistent) space between Angel and Collins, he’s guessing he isn’t the main attraction. He doesn’t mind, really, who wouldn’t want to take the opportunity to sidle closer with a little “comforting”?

“Fuck, Roger.” Collins just shakes his head, and he says everything he needs to.

“We were so worried about you, chico.” Roger finds it endearing that, in a room with his closest friend and girlfriend, the newbie cop he barely knows is the one who seems to be the most honestly happy, because that’s just how Angel is. He’d like to smile but, ventilator.

None of them will talk about “what happened,” and the circles they go in to avoid it are so obvious it’s almost funny. Roger sits and lets Mimi cry on him some more, and Collins grin and pat his knee, and Angel slip his hand unobtrusively into Collins’ pocket. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to find out how they found him, when they found him, where they found him. He knows they didn’t find Mark. That’s the real reason, he knows, that they don’t want to bring it up. Not because they’re afraid it will cause him pain to remember, but because they’re ashamed that they couldn’t catch the man who did this to him.

When he can breathe on his own, Mimi spoon feeds him when the nurses let her. She talks about what they’ll do when they get home, and how much she loves him, and she cries. Mostly she cries. He doesn’t know if he’s going to have to retire from the force, because there’s no chance he’ll be anything more than a desk job after this much damage. He doesn’t know if Mimi will put up with him much longer, because every time she cries she seems sadder, and shouldn’t she be getting happier, since he’s getting better? He doesn’t know if he wants her to put with him. He doesn’t know what will happen in his life at all.

But none of that matters.

Because two weeks into his stay, he gets a bouquet of tiger lilies.

The card doesn’t have a name. Just a small doodled heart.

Roger smiles.

Playing Fast and Loose 3/?

Tue, 27 Nov 2007 00:27:34 GMT

Title: Playing Fast and Loose (Or: Gangsters and Bootleggers and Crossdressers, Oh My!)
Author: Fizzy fizzypenny
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ryden
POV: 3rd
Summary: AU Gangland prince Brendon wants a doll. Not one of the dancers from his clubs--a good girl, one he can take home to his momma. Head honcho Pete wants Brendon’s cooperation. And Ryan, well, he doesn’t want to be that doll, but it looks like he’s going to anyway.
Disclaimer: Words cannot express how much this didn’t happen.
Author Notes:

Chapter 1
Chapter 2

Ryan has several questions regarding this situation. Why is this whole charade even necessary, considering that Pete could easily sway anyone in the city, and the Urie kid doesn’t exactly have a reputation for being stalwart? How can even Pete be so deranged to think this thing will work? And why does Pete happen to have a wide variety of dresses and stockings just Ryan’s size?

He asks the first two. The third, he decides he really doesn’t want to know.

“It’s perfect, Ross. I get Urie out of the way easy, plus, you tell me exactly what he’s up to. Besides--” he runs a thumb thoughtfully across some beadwork, then grins and tosses the dress to Ryan. “You’re gorgeous.”

Ryan looks down at the dress, then back at Pete, who is making what he clearly believes to be a winsome expression. It’s about three parts lechery, with one part amusement. Ryan sighs, throws the dress down on the bed, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. It’s true that, after Pete first took him in, a few of the guys started calling him “Dollface Ross.” But then Pete caught wind of it, and now no one dared say it to his face (except, of course, for Pete, who thought it was hilarious).

“He’s got a point,” says Spencer, who is sitting on the couch, reading a paper whose headline read “I Married a Jazz Baby!” and promised to reveal the secrets of “Nookie on the Floor: How Those Flappers and Fellas Really Dance All Night!” and how he too could “Be Her Sheik!” Ryan gives him a look which he hopes communicates how little he respects the opinion of someone with such taste in reading material. It does, but Spencer doesn‘t care. “Don’t give me that look, Ross, this is fine journalism.”

“I’m sure.”

“Now, kids, don’t fight.” Pete traces his fingers idly along a carefully embroidered sleeve, smirking. He knows Ryan gets along better with Spencer than any of the other guys in Pete’s employ. Love, Pete likes to say, from first monotone. Spencer is tricky. He isn’t like Patrick, calm and relatively unchangeable until he gets set off, or like Pete, who masks wicked intent with a grin and a glint, or even Ryan, who calm as he may seem is always afraid that he’s about to snap. It takes a lot to get Spencer in a lather, plain and simple. That makes people think he isn’t vicious, which is a mistake. Spencer doesn’t have to be angry, or frustrated, or even annoyed to do serious damage. He just…does. Ryan finds this interesting, and they get along. It’s probably not the most healthy relationship, but whatever works.

He strips off the shirt, and glances as Pete, who is watching him a bit too closely. Grabbing the dress and stockings, he marches into the bathroom. Closing the door halfway, he can still hear Pete sigh.

He’s given up on trying to figure out how to get rid of the bagginess around his ankles and has--with a deep breath to underscore the momentousness of the occasion--just slipped the dress over his head, when there’s a knock on the outside door. Pressing up against the bathroom door, he can just barely see Pete through the crack.

Pete closes the closet door, then turns and jerks his head forward. Ryan can’t see Spencer open the door, but he hears it open and another pair of footsteps entering. Pete’s face doesn’t split into a heart-shattering, earth-melting smile, so Ryan knows that it’s not one of his guys. He doesn’t smile at all, just a stern frown.

“Mr. Urie sent me.” It’s a male voice he doesn’t recognize. And for a second, Ryan is nervous. He knows there’s no reason for it. The doormen don’t let in anyone who hasn’t been thoroughly frisked, most of the bellboys are better shots than he is, the maids have got choppers hidden inside their cleaning carts, and besides, the glitter-obsessed peacock he met last night doesn’t seem like the type to bump off a guy he just made a deal with (but then again, Urie doesn’t seem like a gangster at all, but Ryan’s heard from some of the big sixes hanging around that people who fuck with Urie seem to come down with a bad case of dead). But Ryan, for all his scowls and shrugs, remembers being so cold he thought his fingers were going to fall off. They almost did. And whenever there’s a situation out of his control--he can’t exactly burst into the room, wearing seamed stockings and halfway into a dress, can he?--he feels cold.

But Pete doesn’t get nervous. Or at least, Pete never looks nervous. He nods slightly in acknowledgment.

“He’d like to send a token of affection to his new sheba.” There’s a bite of sarcasm in this man’s voice, and Ryan assumes he’s grinning as he pauses. “But he’s realized he doesn’t know her name.”

Ryan’s eyes widen, and though Pete’s expression doesn’t change, Ryan has watched Pete from the first day Pete took him home, dragged him along on a job with nothing but a wink and a smile and a “keep your eyes on me, kid,” and Ryan can see tension in Pete’s shoulders. They didn’t think of this, not yet. Pete tilts his head a little bit, which Ryan recognizes as his “think fast” posture, but Spencer speaks first.

“Chastity.”

“Chastity?” The unknown man says it just as Ryan mouths it, with the same amount of surprise, though Ryan has the market cornered for outrage. Pete nods, taking Spencer’s lead and running with it.

“Yes sir, little Chastity Ross. Sweet little bunny, like a sister to all of us.” He shoots a wide grin toward the stranger, though his eyes stay narrow and fierce. “You tell Urie bank’s closed. Chastity is a classy doll.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him.” Though he doesn’t sound too enthused or too convinced. The door closes, and Ryan rushes to shove his arms through the sleeves--damn constricting--and bursts into the room.

“Chastity Ross?” Spencer shrugs, and the smile is all in his eyes. Pete, on the other hand, is full-out cackling.

“You slay me, Smith, seriously. That’s nifty.” He reaches over to ruffle Ryan’s hair, praise by proxy since Spencer would never stand for that, but stops halfway through. “Jesus, Ross.”

Ryan looks down at the dress and bites his lower lip, praying not to flush tell-tale scarlet. “How do I look?”

Pete says “Tight” at the same time Spencer says “Like you in a dress.” Ryan glares, and Pete shakes his head.

“Nah, don’t fuss, Ross, I got what you need.” He reopens the closet and produces a little cloche hat. Ryan rolls his eyes, but he runs his fingers through his hair to fluff it up a bit before putting the hat on. He glances at the mirror over the dresser and sees what a difference it makes. Sure, it still looks like him, but with just a few strands of brown hair peeking out from beneath the hat, his features look even softer. “Now all you need is a string of pearls and you’re darb.”

“What’s with the ankles?” Spencer’s already pulling his paper back onto his lap. “You look like my grandmother.”

“They won’t stay up.” Ryan feels a wave of frustration, because who’s Spencer to criticize? He’s not the one wearing stockings and a dress, not the one who has to play sheba to the Urie’s sheik--a doll named “Chastity” no less. It’s ridiculous, and it’s embarrassing, and he wouldn’t be doing it if it wasn’t Pete because how is he supposed to say no? No one says no to Pete, not even his rivals, and Ryan owes him more than anyone else. So he’s going to do it, even though it’s disturbing and wrong, and Spencer doesn’t mean to but it’s bad enough without his smart comments. He might say something, he wants to say something though he knows he’ll regret it, because he always regrets it, but Pete steps in.

“You just need garters.”

And Ryan thinks his eyes might fall out of his head.

Playing Fast and Loose 2/?

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 17:17:42 GMT

Title: Playing Fast and Loose (Or: Gangsters and Bootleggers and Crossdressers, Oh My!)
Author: Fizzy fizzypenny
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ryden
POV: 3rd
Summary: AU Gangland prince Brendon wants a doll. Not one of the dancers from his clubs--a good girl, one he can take home to his momma. Head honcho Pete wants Brendon’s cooperation. And Ryan, well, he doesn’t want to be that doll, but it looks like he’s going to anyway.
Disclaimer: Words cannot express how much this didn’t happen.
Author Notes: Hearts to all who read & enjoyed! You guys are amazing! You have no idea how much I blushed sitting here at my desk. I’m going to try to respond to comments this time around…I wanted to get this part out as soon as possible!

Chapter 1

Darkness. Stained brick walls and rusted bolts in a thick door.

Sparkle.

Ryan squints immediately on entering, momentarily lost. Pete laughs.

“Swanky.” He runs a hand along one of the numerous strings of glass beads hanging down the wall, catching the glints of light from lamps on the ceiling and throwing color and light throughout the room, then wipes his hand on Patrick’s sleeve. Patrick is lieutenant, second-in-command. Ryan doesn’t know a lot about him besides the fact that he prefers his hats charcoal gray, but he knows that this kind of antic is casually and silently accepted.

The club is overflowing with noise, and Ryan wonders if the neighbors don’t complain. The band isn’t even playing, and he thinks that he might be going deaf. He doesn’t go to joints like this, not even Pete’s. It’s not his idea of a good time.

“Good evening, fellas.” Ryan marvels first at how his voice manages to carry over the scratch of chairs, high-pitched laughter and clinking glasses, and next at the man himself. It’s obviously Urie, because just like the Calico Club, he glitters. A flash of diamond on his cuffs, a flash in his eyes and a flash of a smile. Ostentatious. He’s a peacock, which Ryan knew to expect but hadn’t really thought about. He’d never met anyone who could hope to match Pete in showmanship, but this cake-eater comes damn close.

“Evening.” Pete dazzles right back with a grin of his own. “Let’s talk.”

Urie leads them up a flight of stairs behind yet another curtain of beads. The sounds of the club are muffled as they climb, and they come out in a much more sedate room. A table and chairs has been set up in a corner--this meeting was well-planned. They sit, Pete and Urie staring each other down, Patrick and Ryan flanking Pete. Urie’s still alone, but he doesn’t look panicked. Far from it.

“I heard tell you had a business venture to discuss with me.” Pete leans forward, resting his elbows lightly on the edge of the table, and his chin on his hands. It’s his negotiation pose, intense and just the slightest bit threatening.

“I’m reopening Walker’s joint.” Ryan’s watching closely, and he thinks he sees Urie’s mouth twitch. Understandable. It’s a big risk Pete’s taking. Anyone who doesn’t remember the time Walker ruled the streets has heard the stories. No one knows what happened to him. Some say Pete bumped him off, nice and quiet-like. Ryan doesn’t think so, though Pete likes to play on that notoriety. Some say he just got tired of the game and left. Ryan could never imagine that, but then again, he’s got nothing to leave for. Maybe Walker did. And Pete wants to step right back into the shoes of the master. He thinks it will reinvigorate the city. Ryan doesn’t think the city ever stopped being invigorated, but nobody disagrees with Pete, certainly not the recently-homeless new kid.

Urie only pauses for a moment before leaning forward, mirroring Pete. It‘s a direct challenge, and Ryan doesn‘t know where this will go. He thinks he hears a whisper of fabric--is it Patrick reaching for his gun? “Cut it with the chewing gum, Wentz. What do you want from me?”

---

Wentz just smiles wider, and Brendon feels like falling down and groveling his feet. That, or punching him right between his laughing eyes. Pete Wentz is that kind of guy. The two guys sitting on either side of him--the bigger one’s got power, he can tell, and he can’t even see the smaller one’s eyes so he’s hasn’t got a clue--sit like statues, not even flinching.

“Nothing, Urie. Just your cooperation.” Brendon frowns a little, because calling a meeting to procure nothing but an intangible concept seems like bad business to him, and he’s just a newbie. Nah, this is some kind of game, a ploy to throw him off his game. Wentz didn’t get to be king of the darker side of Chicago by wasting his time.

“Tell it to Sweeney. What do you really want?”

“What I don’t want--” Pete says, smile never dimming. After this long, it’s not really a smile anymore. It’s purely predatory. “--is trouble. That includes you, and the suits over at town hall.” Brendon nods in acknowledgment, even though he had no idea what’s going on. Pete seems to sense this, because he leans even farther forward. If Brendon mimicked him again, their noses would be touching. “Here’s what you do, Urie. You lay low for a few months. Don’t stir up any trouble, and you won’t have to get any from me.”

So that’s it. Brendon smiles back, tension only visible in the corners of his eyes. “Right. I’m not going to be left holding the bag. What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?” Brendon wants lots of things--clothes and hats and fame and dough and shiny things and a really spiffy place and the whole goddamn city. Pete can get him all of those things--though Brendon doubts he’ll be willing to part with the city. But the question isn’t what he wants. It’s what he’s going to ask for.

He sits back, folding his arms across his chest. “A doll.”

Pete smirks. “A man of your reputation should have plenty of tight skirts hanging around.” Brendon laughs, good-natured and open without any underlying meaning because well, he never quite learned how to laugh when he didn’t mean it and to not when he did, and it’s true. He can have--he has had, to be on the level--any girl on any of the lines in any of his clubs. Tall ones, short ones, blondes, brunettes, little ones, and the ones with knockers like nobody’s business. But that’s not what he needs. He says as much, and Pete laughs too, though there’s a definite undercurrent in his laughter, though Brendon can‘t quite identify what it is. “No? What do you need, then?”

“A nice doll. Not one of these vamps. A real classy dame, you know. A broad I can take home to my momma.” Pete nods, thoughtful, then tilts his head to the left.

“Ross’s got a sister. Real cute. Church every Sunday.” Brendon looks over at the small one, whose head had shot up, hat sliding back as soon as his name was mentioned. He's prettier than Brendon expected, softer features than most of the baby grands he deals with--though he's not one to talk. His face is calm now, blank, except for the slightest bit of tension around his mouth.

“What’s the trouble, Ross?” He grins, tongue between his teeth. “Don’t trust me with your sister?”

“I--” His voice is so flat, Brendon wonders if he’s not secretly a bad phonograph recording. “--wouldn’t trust you with my grandmother.”

“Too bad, I hear she’s quite the necker.” He winks outrageously at the man on Wentz’s right, who he could swear is holding in a smile. This is how he deals, when he knows he’s out-gunned and out-classed. Wentz could crush him, brush him away, and the city wouldn’t care. He provides the denizens with vice, but it’s not like they can’t find it elsewhere. He could vanish in an instant, and no one would blink. So he’s over-the-top. He laughs too loud and smiles too wide, and he puts people off. But it’s fine, because then they don’t expect anything from him. And he gets to surprise them. Brendon loves surprises.

“What do you need a Jane like that for?” The man on the right speaks at last, quietly, like he knows they’re all listening. And well, he’s not about to tell the most powerful man in the city who just might be his rival someday, if he’s real bad and works real hard, that Momma’s been pestering him for a visit and would be heartbroken if he doesn’t bring home some sweet doll. He may not be able to keep from laughing the truth, but he can lie like all of them, so he smiles.

“Well, if I’m supposed to be living clean while you boys play around, I’m going to need a respectable broad, won’t I?”

Pete nods, sits back in his seat as well and grins. “Very true. I think we’ve got a bargain.” He offers his hand, and Brendon takes it, doesn’t look at Ross and wonder if he’s going to have any say in this, doesn’t look to the other guy to gauge a general reaction, doesn’t hesitate for a blink because when Pete Wentz offers you his hand you take it. “And now all you gotta do is sit pretty while Uncle Pete fixes everything straight.”

The three men rise, more or less in unison, and Brendon thinks it’s probably the niftiest thing he’s ever seen. It makes him feel like a real gangster with these old boys coming to see him, not the little rich kid
dressing up in suits that won’t ever fit him. They’re almost out the door, when Brendon finds he can’t help himself.

“Hey Ross.” The boy glances over his shoulder, though his eyes are more-or-less hidden again. “Your sister a cuddler?”

He sees something working in Ross‘s jaw, but he follows the other guys who only paused for a moment.

“Dry up, Urie.”

Playing Fast and Loose 1/?

Mon, 19 Nov 2007 02:06:47 GMT

Title: Playing Fast and Loose (Or: Gangsters and Bootleggers and Crossdressers, Oh My!)
Author: Fizzy fizzypenny
Rating: PG-13 (may rise)
Pairing: Ryden
POV: 3rd
Summary: AU Gangland prince Brendon wants a doll. Not one of the dancers from his clubs--a good girl, one he can take home to his momma. Head honcho Pete wants Brendon’s cooperation. And Ryan, well, he doesn’t want to be that doll, but it looks like he’s going to anyway.
Disclaimer: Words cannot express how much this didn’t happen.
Author Notes: Every fandom should have a twenties gangster AU. Preferably several.

Chicago.

Gangland.

City of speakeasies and strippers, bootlegging and brothels. Sin, corruption, and crime. A place no momma would want her little boy to end up.

But Ryan’s momma is dead, and he hopes to god his father is too, and when he had nowhere to go, he came to a city full of dead-enders like him. There might have been some maiden aunt he’d never met willing to take him in, but why should he settle for a life of dust and broken dreams when he could go to Chicago?

Chicago is a bad place for little boys with no one to watch after them. Ryan was lucky. He got snapped off the streets by power, wealth and notoriety in the form of the most notorious gangster operating in the Windy City. Well, maybe he wasn’t so lucky, but when he looks back and sees the life he has now or starvation on the frigid streets, he knows which path he’d choose every time.

He won’t tell you which, though.

None of that matters now, because he’s not that kid with the too-big hat and the gloves worn through at the fingertips ducking into an alleyway to avoid the cops. Not on the outside at least.

Now he’s got tailor-made suits in the newest fashions, smart shoes, classy hats, and he lives just below the penthouse in the swankiest hotel in the city, but he’ll always worry that underneath all of that, he’s still that same kid who couldn’t stop crying when momma died and tells everyone he was born with the slightest discolorations on his cheeks so he won’t have to admit it’s the evidence of months of frostbitten tears. Shhh, it’s a secret.

There’s a knock on his door, but it’s just a formality, because Pete’s in the room before Ryan glances up from his newspaper. Pete lives on the penthouse floor. He owns the hotel. He owns half the city, even though his name isn’t on any of the deeds. Just on the checks.

“Evening, Ross.” He grins. Ryan’s never knew anyone before Pete who smiled so brightly and so easily. “Some of the boys and me were about to embark on a little business venture. Interested?” Is what his lips say, though his eyes are saying Now.

“Sounds jake.” He folds the paper neatly, taking care not to get ink on his hands, and sets it on the end table next to him. He’s already wearing his suit pants, because he doesn’t feel comfortable in anything else. (After sleeping on the streets, wearing just his shorts seems like both a dangerous and stupid idea, but everything “casual” reminds him of ragged pants stolen off of a clothesline and he’s not going back to that ever again.) Crossing to the armoire, he slips on a crisp white dress shirt. Pete walks over to the desk in the far corner and flips through the drawers while Ryan dresses. He’d say that Pete had no concept of privacy, but he owns the room after all. Practically owns Ryan.

Ryan wonders sometimes if Pete would have flipped him a nickel, much less took him in, dressed him, and made him--or tried to, at least--into some deranged combination of a Pete the Second and whatever Pete thought was interesting at the moment, if he weren’t pretty. Don’t get the wrong idea, Pete’s got just as many dolls on a string as the next guy, but he has an unmatched appreciation for beauty. He likes to look. Not just at dolls. No one says anything, because they don’t want to get gunned down in some desolate, dirty alley. Ryan doesn’t mind.

He finishes tying his shoes, and grabs a simple black fedora. Pete slams the drawer closed--he won’t have found anything interesting in there. Ryan doesn’t have letters or much by the way of personal belongings besides his clothes--and places his own fedora--much more flashy: white, with a black band. Pete always goes for the show if he can--on his head. It’s interesting that Pete always wears his fedora at a rakish angle and Ryan always wears his pulled low as possible over his eyes while still being able to see. Maybe it says something about their personalities. Maybe it’s just hats.

“Let’s blow this joint.”

---

They call him gangland’s prince, because he’s young and he’s fresh, and he’s more ruthless than half the two-bit thugs in this town put together. They’d die of laughter if they knew who he really was, where he came from.

Brendon was a conservatory boy.

That’s right. Rich family with more money and more kids than they knew what to do with. They could afford to spend thousand after thousand so that their son could become an expert in a completely useless skill.

Piano was his specialty, though he never met an instrument he didn’t like, couldn’t pick up and strum a few bars, blow a few notes. He was going to keep plinking his keys, live at home and spend his life being rich and musical.

But then he came to Chicago. It was just supposed to be a day-long stop. He was going home to visit and equally affluent and useless friend, and needed to spend a night in the city in transit. So he stopped in Chicago.

And he couldn’t go back.

That’s lie. He did go on to his friend’s house, and then back home, but he never was able to get Chicago in all its glory out of his mind.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t go back. He just couldn’t stay away.

So he told his father he was striking out on his own. Father smiled and nodded--he was sure it was just a phase, and when it seemed not to be, it didn‘t really bother him. It wasn‘t as though he‘d expected great things from him, and there were always spares. Momma cried, but he kissed her forehead and let her get tears all over his hair and his new shirt, promised to visit.

His parents gave him some dough, all of which he spent on the second day. Not on broads, or booze, or any of the usual mistakes rich kids go after their first days in Chicago.

People marvel at how quickly Brendon opened his strip joints, his underground clubs. Some think he’s got a magical touch, a gift for business, for providing all the sins the city craves. He doesn’t. Brendon’s got something really special.

The attention span of a gnat.

He didn’t open five clubs in his first two months because he could handle it, or because he had a plan. He got bored. But the people flocked to every single one, so maybe he really does have a magic touch, some glitz and glamour that he sprinkles over everything he touches.

Glitz and glamour is how he lives, and he winks at himself in the mirror, tracing his hand along the brim of his fedora--black with a deep red band. He wears his hats straight and serious--no tilt, no angle, no fuss. He likes to make an appearance every once in a while, goes to a different one of his establishments every night. Usually he just heads where the mood takes him--spangles and garters and hot jazz or slow seduction with a cool piano?--but tonight he’s got an engagement he’s not likely to miss.

Pete Wentz wants to meet with him. Him. He’s just some upstart, little more than a glorified drugstore cowboy, and the king of Chicago wants to meet with him. And since Wentz recommended Brendon’s very own Calico Club, he’s got a feeling that the big-shot wants something from him. Brendon likes it when people want things from him, especially people in power. It gives him an edge.

One last grin for the benefit of his mirror, a swipe of the hand to make sure his bangs stay properly slicked, and he’s ready for action.

And action he’ll have.