Lies of Omission: Reservoir Dogs Fic
Author: Bitterfig
Title: Lies of Omission
Fandom: Reservoir Dogs
Pairing: Freddy Newandyke (Mr. Orange)/Larry Dimick (Mr. White)
Genre: Slash/Yaoi
Summary: Lying came easily to Freddy. He’d been lying to himself for a long time.
Beta Reader: Nzomniac
Word Count: 2142
Ratings: NC-17
Disclaimer: works of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same. I do not profit from the fanfiction I write, and all rights to the characters remain firmly in the hands of their creator.
Warnings: This story contains adult language, substance abuse and sexual situations as well as flashback of a coerced sexual encounter between two teenage boys.
Author’s Note: Written for 12_stories Table 2; Colors #06 Orange. ( click here to view my 12_stories progress chart.)
This was the story I was finishing up when Strikethrough 2007 hit. It deals with sexual trauma, under-aged sexuality , and issues of dubious consent. By writing about these things am I contributing to them in real life? Am I glorifying them? Am I no better than a pedophile or a rapist myself? Over the past weeks I've devoted many, many words to these subject, trying to defend and justify myself. From this point on, I will let my work speak for itself.
Lies of Omission
Freddy found that Mr. Orange wasn’t so very different from being Officer Newandyke. It was just a matter of tailoring himself to the men around him, picking up their vibe, fitting in, being what they wanted him to be. Cop, crook, it was all the same to Freddy. It was what he did, like breathing.
He lied.
Lying came easily to Freddy. He’d been lying to himself for a long time.
He knew what Joe Cabot and his guys wanted. Somebody who could pull one over on a room full of cops, stand his ground in a nerve-wracking situation, and walk out unscathed with the goods intact. And that was exactly who Freddy was for them. The story he told them in the bar--the one Holdaway had coached him--it was no joke. He told it like a joke, and Cabot and his crew treated it like a joke, but deep down they were all deadly serious. Cabot had expectations; he needed somebody who could keep it together, not lose their head. Freddy became that person--just the guy Cabot was looking for.
Just the guy Mr. White was looking for too, apparently.
White was an older guy, tough, hard, like Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry but with kind, crinkly Santa Claus eyes. He was a career criminal, an old hand who didn’t have anything to prove to anybody. In fact he was so perfectly at ease in his skin and in his millennia that he didn’t even bother concealing the fact that he had a hard time keeping his eyes, and hands, off Orange. Amazingly, none of the other guys seemed to notice. Or maybe it wasn’t so amazing. There were some things people made a point of not noticing.
White’s undisguised sexual interest in him was something Freddy was not prepared for, something Holdaway had not briefed him on. It complicated things, gave him another precarious factor to deal with when his nerves were already pretty well shot. But what really scared Freddy about White’s attention was how much he wanted it, how cheated he felt when White sat by someone else, talked to the other guys, when he glanced at White and found him looking elsewhere.
Freddy had felt this way about other guys before, but he’d always managed to push it down, shove it to the back of his brain and pretend it never happened. The fact that he wasn’t able to do that this time was the first warning sign that even though Mr. Orange was a lie, he was dangerously close to the truth.
A couple of nights before the heist, a bunch of them were hanging out in some fleabag bar. Cabot’s kid Eddie and Blonde, who seemed to go way back, were speaking their own language, in-jokes, private references they didn’t bother to understand. Cabot, Blue and White, all the old guys, had their heads together, talking shit. Freddy was by himself, feeling like a kid waiting for his dad to finish errands, wanting White to look at him, talk to him, want him.
When White finally did look Freddy’s way, Freddy shot him a look he hadn’t known he had in him-a trashy, come hither come-on, an unambiguous invitation. White excused himself from the others and walked over to where Freddy was standing with his back to the wall, smoking a cigarette.
“How about we get out of here, kid?” White said.
“Okay.”
It was that simple.
In the car, White asked him if he was up for something stronger than a drink. Orange said, “Sure.” Even as he said this, he was praying “something stronger” wouldn’t involve needles, and when White’s hand brushed over his thigh, his stomach lurched, but he didn’t object.
Whatever the hell it was, he was game. During the ride to White’s place, he kept on with the look, smiled in all the right places, made it plain he didn’t object. Freddy Newandyke might have objected, resisted, panicked, but Orange was cooler than that. Whatever was going to happen, Orange would let it happen.
Orange was game.
At White’s hotel room, Orange took off his leather jacket, slung it across a chair. “You like smoking base, kid?” White asked, flicking his lighter. Again, it was just a matter of saying yes, and Freddy really believed he was handling himself pretty well … until cocaine hit him, and he thought his brain was going to liquefy. Fuck yes, it was stronger than a drink, stronger than anything Freddy Newandyke had ever put in his body. He couldn’t move; he was frozen in place, eyes wide and fixed.
“God damn,” White said, a hint of laugher in his voice. “You look like a rabbit whose heart’s about to explode.” He lit up, exhaled coughing violently.
“I used to do way much of this shit a couple years back,” White went on. Freddy could scarcely hear him because his heart was pounding in his ears so loud. “Dangerous stuff. I don’t do it much any more, but you make me want to take things over the edge.”
White reached out, grabbed a fistful of Freddy’s t-shirt and pulled him into a kiss.
Then they were kissing. Crazy, like teenagers, like movie zombies-eating, tearing each other’s faces off-and all the while White was pulling Freddy’s clothes off. Freddy was so over stimulated from the cocaine and the weeks of mounting tension, his nerves were so raw that the slightest touch was like cold electricity, like hitting your funny bone, but he wanted it. He writhed under White’s touch like a cheap little slut, begging White to fuck him-not in words, but in one long word pleasefuckmepleasefuckmehardpleasefuckme.
“You know what you’re doing, kid?” White asked, ripping open a condom. “Have you done this before?”
The question took Freddy by surprise. He, he’d been coming on so strong the last thing he’d expected was for White to figure out that it wasn’t really him, that he didn’t fuck around with guys on a regular basis, and that he was in fact doing something that was almost unthinkable to him. Still, without hesitation he answered, “Yes.”
That wasn’t a lie. Freddy Newandyke had gotten fucked before. The thing was it had only happened once and more than half his life had passed since then, but he wasn’t lying. He’d done it before.
He’d been thirteen; his parents were out of town. Greg, his seventeen year old stepbrother, had been unusually friendly. For the first time in the two years they’d been living in the same house, Greg actually seemed to notice Freddy existed, seemed to want to hang out with him. That night Greg got some puking sweet wine. They drank it watching Lady Snowblood on Channel Z. Sleepy drunk, Freddy was dimly aware of Greg sitting really close, finally pulling Freddy onto his lap.
Freddy didn’t mind. He liked the way it felt, lying limp against his stepbrother’s chest, Greg’s hands going down his pants, but mainly he liked Greg. He’d wanted his stepbrother to notice him, do stuff with him, like him, so he didn’t protest when Greg pushed him down on the couch. Then he was on his stomach, Greg’s Vaseline-coated fingers prying open his asshole. It didn’t really hurt that much-his muscles were loose, relaxed from the alcohol-and even when Greg had penetrated him, pushed in and began pumping frantically, fucking him, Freddy let him, moved to accommodate him, moved against him even.
“Why did you let me do that?” Greg asked him the next day. “You liked it, didn’t you, you little faggot?” That was all they ever said about it. For the next year and a half, until he left for college, Greg scarcely acknowledged Freddy, wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t even look at him.
Freddy wasn’t especially bright, but he figured it out. The next time a guy got real close to him, he knew to move away. When he saw looks that invited more, he knew not to see it.
So yeah, Freddy had done it before; that wasn’t a lie. It was just kind of sad. The truth always seemed kind of pathetic. It was better to lie, better to be Orange. It would have been different for Orange, the thing with Greg. It would have been a beginning, not an ending. Orange wouldn’t have been afraid of getting diseases or going to hell or of people being disgusted by him. Orange would have taken on the next guy, the one after that, taken all the opportunities Freddy’d turned down.
So when White asked, “Have you done this before?” Orange said, “Yes.”
It hurt. The cocaine he’d smoked made him clench, tighten up, made his nerves raw. It hurt so bad, he had to bite deep into his knuckles to keep from screaming as White’s fingers spread him open.
“You gotta relax, kid, or I’m not gonna be able to do this,” White said.
“It’s okay. I’m ready.”
Tears welled up in his eyes when White entered him, but he kept quiet. He was a cop. Two years ago he’d stared down a guy who was holding a gun to his head. He buried his face in his arms; he could take it. Except he found himself gasping for breath, involuntarily jerking away.
“What’s the matter?” White asked. Freddy managed to grind against him.
“Nothing. Keep going.” But White pulled out of him.
“Forget it, something’s wrong.” White grabbed Freddy’s shoulders and turned him over so they were face to face. Freddy tried to turn away, but White caught him by the chin, wouldn’t let him hide.
“What the hell is going on?” White wanted to know. “Why didn’t you tell me I was hurting you?”
“Just do it,” Freddy insisted, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I can take it.”
“You’re cherry, aren’t you?”
“I told you, no.” His teeth were grinding together, rage and haywire effects of the drugs. “Do anything you want, pound me into the floor, get blood on the sheets, I can handle it.”
“Like you’re handling the base? You’re a mess, kid. You’re coming apart at the seams. Why the fuck did you lie to me?”
Why? Because lying was what Freddy did; lies were what Freddy was. White didn’t know, couldn’t know, a fraction of the lies he was being fed.
“Jesus Christ, you’re shaking. What do you expect me to do? Start screaming and throw you out? Beat you up? Are you afraid of me or just really fucked up?” Something in White’s eyes went blurry tender, then he said this and the next thing Freddy knew, White was holding him, stroking his back soothingly. “I’m not doing anything to hurt you, kid. I swear I’m not that kind of guy.”
But he was-he was that kind of a guy. Larry Dimick, the guy, was a killer; he’d killed a cop, cut up or shot up anyone who got in his way. White was exactly the kind of guy who shouldn’t give a fuck about hurting someone else. That was what Freddy had expected, maybe even what he’d wanted. Someone hard and cold who would mercilessly nail him, punish him for letting another man screw him, for liking it, for wanting it.
So why was he being so kind, so gentle and understanding?
“It’s okay. I promise you everything is going to be okay. I don’t know what your story is, and I doubt you’re gonna tell me,” White was saying to him. “Somebody must have hurt you real bad, fucked you over. I’m not gonna do that. I don’t think I could. God, you make me soft, you scrawny little punk. I look at those freaky, spooked eyes of yours, and I just want to take care of you. Can you trust me?”
And the funny thing was, Freddy did trust him. Wrapped up in White’s arms, he did feel safe-like maybe he could finally stop pretending, like maybe he had finally found what he was looking for with Greg, what he had been hoping for when he let Greg do those things to him.
“Can you trust me?” White asked.
“Yeah, I trust you.”
“You don’t ever have to lie to me.”
But he did have to lie.
Freddy closed his eyes. It was so confusing, all of it so confusing. Mr. Orange didn’t exist; he wasn’t real. So why did it feel like the person Freddy had thought he was, the person he had been since that morning after when Greg had said, “Why did you let me do that?” wasn’t real at all, just a way of avoiding who he really was? Right now, with White kissing his hair, whispering to him it would be okay, Orange was the one who was real.
Title: Lies of Omission
Fandom: Reservoir Dogs
Pairing: Freddy Newandyke (Mr. Orange)/Larry Dimick (Mr. White)
Genre: Slash/Yaoi
Summary: Lying came easily to Freddy. He’d been lying to himself for a long time.
Beta Reader: Nzomniac
Word Count: 2142
Ratings: NC-17
Disclaimer: works of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same. I do not profit from the fanfiction I write, and all rights to the characters remain firmly in the hands of their creator.
Warnings: This story contains adult language, substance abuse and sexual situations as well as flashback of a coerced sexual encounter between two teenage boys.
Author’s Note: Written for 12_stories Table 2; Colors #06 Orange. ( click here to view my 12_stories progress chart.)
This was the story I was finishing up when Strikethrough 2007 hit. It deals with sexual trauma, under-aged sexuality , and issues of dubious consent. By writing about these things am I contributing to them in real life? Am I glorifying them? Am I no better than a pedophile or a rapist myself? Over the past weeks I've devoted many, many words to these subject, trying to defend and justify myself. From this point on, I will let my work speak for itself.
Lies of Omission
Freddy found that Mr. Orange wasn’t so very different from being Officer Newandyke. It was just a matter of tailoring himself to the men around him, picking up their vibe, fitting in, being what they wanted him to be. Cop, crook, it was all the same to Freddy. It was what he did, like breathing.
He lied.
Lying came easily to Freddy. He’d been lying to himself for a long time.
He knew what Joe Cabot and his guys wanted. Somebody who could pull one over on a room full of cops, stand his ground in a nerve-wracking situation, and walk out unscathed with the goods intact. And that was exactly who Freddy was for them. The story he told them in the bar--the one Holdaway had coached him--it was no joke. He told it like a joke, and Cabot and his crew treated it like a joke, but deep down they were all deadly serious. Cabot had expectations; he needed somebody who could keep it together, not lose their head. Freddy became that person--just the guy Cabot was looking for.
Just the guy Mr. White was looking for too, apparently.
White was an older guy, tough, hard, like Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry but with kind, crinkly Santa Claus eyes. He was a career criminal, an old hand who didn’t have anything to prove to anybody. In fact he was so perfectly at ease in his skin and in his millennia that he didn’t even bother concealing the fact that he had a hard time keeping his eyes, and hands, off Orange. Amazingly, none of the other guys seemed to notice. Or maybe it wasn’t so amazing. There were some things people made a point of not noticing.
White’s undisguised sexual interest in him was something Freddy was not prepared for, something Holdaway had not briefed him on. It complicated things, gave him another precarious factor to deal with when his nerves were already pretty well shot. But what really scared Freddy about White’s attention was how much he wanted it, how cheated he felt when White sat by someone else, talked to the other guys, when he glanced at White and found him looking elsewhere.
Freddy had felt this way about other guys before, but he’d always managed to push it down, shove it to the back of his brain and pretend it never happened. The fact that he wasn’t able to do that this time was the first warning sign that even though Mr. Orange was a lie, he was dangerously close to the truth.
A couple of nights before the heist, a bunch of them were hanging out in some fleabag bar. Cabot’s kid Eddie and Blonde, who seemed to go way back, were speaking their own language, in-jokes, private references they didn’t bother to understand. Cabot, Blue and White, all the old guys, had their heads together, talking shit. Freddy was by himself, feeling like a kid waiting for his dad to finish errands, wanting White to look at him, talk to him, want him.
When White finally did look Freddy’s way, Freddy shot him a look he hadn’t known he had in him-a trashy, come hither come-on, an unambiguous invitation. White excused himself from the others and walked over to where Freddy was standing with his back to the wall, smoking a cigarette.
“How about we get out of here, kid?” White said.
“Okay.”
It was that simple.
In the car, White asked him if he was up for something stronger than a drink. Orange said, “Sure.” Even as he said this, he was praying “something stronger” wouldn’t involve needles, and when White’s hand brushed over his thigh, his stomach lurched, but he didn’t object.
Whatever the hell it was, he was game. During the ride to White’s place, he kept on with the look, smiled in all the right places, made it plain he didn’t object. Freddy Newandyke might have objected, resisted, panicked, but Orange was cooler than that. Whatever was going to happen, Orange would let it happen.
Orange was game.
At White’s hotel room, Orange took off his leather jacket, slung it across a chair. “You like smoking base, kid?” White asked, flicking his lighter. Again, it was just a matter of saying yes, and Freddy really believed he was handling himself pretty well … until cocaine hit him, and he thought his brain was going to liquefy. Fuck yes, it was stronger than a drink, stronger than anything Freddy Newandyke had ever put in his body. He couldn’t move; he was frozen in place, eyes wide and fixed.
“God damn,” White said, a hint of laugher in his voice. “You look like a rabbit whose heart’s about to explode.” He lit up, exhaled coughing violently.
“I used to do way much of this shit a couple years back,” White went on. Freddy could scarcely hear him because his heart was pounding in his ears so loud. “Dangerous stuff. I don’t do it much any more, but you make me want to take things over the edge.”
White reached out, grabbed a fistful of Freddy’s t-shirt and pulled him into a kiss.
Then they were kissing. Crazy, like teenagers, like movie zombies-eating, tearing each other’s faces off-and all the while White was pulling Freddy’s clothes off. Freddy was so over stimulated from the cocaine and the weeks of mounting tension, his nerves were so raw that the slightest touch was like cold electricity, like hitting your funny bone, but he wanted it. He writhed under White’s touch like a cheap little slut, begging White to fuck him-not in words, but in one long word pleasefuckmepleasefuckmehardpleasefuckme.
“You know what you’re doing, kid?” White asked, ripping open a condom. “Have you done this before?”
The question took Freddy by surprise. He, he’d been coming on so strong the last thing he’d expected was for White to figure out that it wasn’t really him, that he didn’t fuck around with guys on a regular basis, and that he was in fact doing something that was almost unthinkable to him. Still, without hesitation he answered, “Yes.”
That wasn’t a lie. Freddy Newandyke had gotten fucked before. The thing was it had only happened once and more than half his life had passed since then, but he wasn’t lying. He’d done it before.
He’d been thirteen; his parents were out of town. Greg, his seventeen year old stepbrother, had been unusually friendly. For the first time in the two years they’d been living in the same house, Greg actually seemed to notice Freddy existed, seemed to want to hang out with him. That night Greg got some puking sweet wine. They drank it watching Lady Snowblood on Channel Z. Sleepy drunk, Freddy was dimly aware of Greg sitting really close, finally pulling Freddy onto his lap.
Freddy didn’t mind. He liked the way it felt, lying limp against his stepbrother’s chest, Greg’s hands going down his pants, but mainly he liked Greg. He’d wanted his stepbrother to notice him, do stuff with him, like him, so he didn’t protest when Greg pushed him down on the couch. Then he was on his stomach, Greg’s Vaseline-coated fingers prying open his asshole. It didn’t really hurt that much-his muscles were loose, relaxed from the alcohol-and even when Greg had penetrated him, pushed in and began pumping frantically, fucking him, Freddy let him, moved to accommodate him, moved against him even.
“Why did you let me do that?” Greg asked him the next day. “You liked it, didn’t you, you little faggot?” That was all they ever said about it. For the next year and a half, until he left for college, Greg scarcely acknowledged Freddy, wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t even look at him.
Freddy wasn’t especially bright, but he figured it out. The next time a guy got real close to him, he knew to move away. When he saw looks that invited more, he knew not to see it.
So yeah, Freddy had done it before; that wasn’t a lie. It was just kind of sad. The truth always seemed kind of pathetic. It was better to lie, better to be Orange. It would have been different for Orange, the thing with Greg. It would have been a beginning, not an ending. Orange wouldn’t have been afraid of getting diseases or going to hell or of people being disgusted by him. Orange would have taken on the next guy, the one after that, taken all the opportunities Freddy’d turned down.
So when White asked, “Have you done this before?” Orange said, “Yes.”
It hurt. The cocaine he’d smoked made him clench, tighten up, made his nerves raw. It hurt so bad, he had to bite deep into his knuckles to keep from screaming as White’s fingers spread him open.
“You gotta relax, kid, or I’m not gonna be able to do this,” White said.
“It’s okay. I’m ready.”
Tears welled up in his eyes when White entered him, but he kept quiet. He was a cop. Two years ago he’d stared down a guy who was holding a gun to his head. He buried his face in his arms; he could take it. Except he found himself gasping for breath, involuntarily jerking away.
“What’s the matter?” White asked. Freddy managed to grind against him.
“Nothing. Keep going.” But White pulled out of him.
“Forget it, something’s wrong.” White grabbed Freddy’s shoulders and turned him over so they were face to face. Freddy tried to turn away, but White caught him by the chin, wouldn’t let him hide.
“What the hell is going on?” White wanted to know. “Why didn’t you tell me I was hurting you?”
“Just do it,” Freddy insisted, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I can take it.”
“You’re cherry, aren’t you?”
“I told you, no.” His teeth were grinding together, rage and haywire effects of the drugs. “Do anything you want, pound me into the floor, get blood on the sheets, I can handle it.”
“Like you’re handling the base? You’re a mess, kid. You’re coming apart at the seams. Why the fuck did you lie to me?”
Why? Because lying was what Freddy did; lies were what Freddy was. White didn’t know, couldn’t know, a fraction of the lies he was being fed.
“Jesus Christ, you’re shaking. What do you expect me to do? Start screaming and throw you out? Beat you up? Are you afraid of me or just really fucked up?” Something in White’s eyes went blurry tender, then he said this and the next thing Freddy knew, White was holding him, stroking his back soothingly. “I’m not doing anything to hurt you, kid. I swear I’m not that kind of guy.”
But he was-he was that kind of a guy. Larry Dimick, the guy, was a killer; he’d killed a cop, cut up or shot up anyone who got in his way. White was exactly the kind of guy who shouldn’t give a fuck about hurting someone else. That was what Freddy had expected, maybe even what he’d wanted. Someone hard and cold who would mercilessly nail him, punish him for letting another man screw him, for liking it, for wanting it.
So why was he being so kind, so gentle and understanding?
“It’s okay. I promise you everything is going to be okay. I don’t know what your story is, and I doubt you’re gonna tell me,” White was saying to him. “Somebody must have hurt you real bad, fucked you over. I’m not gonna do that. I don’t think I could. God, you make me soft, you scrawny little punk. I look at those freaky, spooked eyes of yours, and I just want to take care of you. Can you trust me?”
And the funny thing was, Freddy did trust him. Wrapped up in White’s arms, he did feel safe-like maybe he could finally stop pretending, like maybe he had finally found what he was looking for with Greg, what he had been hoping for when he let Greg do those things to him.
“Can you trust me?” White asked.
“Yeah, I trust you.”
“You don’t ever have to lie to me.”
But he did have to lie.
Freddy closed his eyes. It was so confusing, all of it so confusing. Mr. Orange didn’t exist; he wasn’t real. So why did it feel like the person Freddy had thought he was, the person he had been since that morning after when Greg had said, “Why did you let me do that?” wasn’t real at all, just a way of avoiding who he really was? Right now, with White kissing his hair, whispering to him it would be okay, Orange was the one who was real.