without a closing time (or someone to blame) [8/?]
The last time isn’t something Peter is particularly fond of remembering. Mostly because the devil riding shotgun is a shivering wreck, giggling maniacally whenever he’s not too busy trying to draw air into his lungs.
It’s your typical showbiz party, the hip and trendy kind, with what is supposed to be a breathtaking view---too much glass all around. Peter isn’t great with heights; he still follows obligingly when the client, some up-and-coming actress, wants a closer look. The arm curled around her tiny waist as much for PDA as it is for his own peace of mind. He once had someone flying him out to a private island, and specifically demanded sex against a window. Which normally isn’t a problem, except the villa was built right at the edge of a cliff face. The whole time he was quoting Gertrude Stein in his head to block out the sound of the sea, crushing and rumbling a thousand feet below.
Anyways, the party is going well, the music has gone from live string quartet to Lady Gaga. Peter is fetching another techni-coloured cocktail for the lady when a hand grabs his elbow from behind. He turns, recognizing the dark outline of a jaw with no small amount of exasperation.
‘I’m on a job, go and bother someone else.’
The expected snarky reply doesn’t come; instead, Ricki grips tighter, fingers digging in almost painfully.
‘Get me away from here.’
‘Oh for god’s---‘Ricki cuts in, talking a mile a minute, ‘please, you’re the only one here I---I don’t know what they put in my drink…’ his voice breaks a little.
Peter stiffens; even in the dim light Ricki’s eyes are too bright, skin sheened with sweat.
Perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising; people are into all sorts of things. And now apparently including drugging an escort for thrills.
Peter grabs Ricki’s shoulders, shaking him hard, once.
‘Stay here, don’t move an inch. I’ll go get the car.’
Ricki’s wobbly smile is a mixture of relieffeargratitude, ‘okay, I’ll try.’ Peter grinds his teeth and dashes off, almost running over a waiter in his haste.
By the time he comes back, Ricki is nowhere in sight. He swears under his breath, a trail of sweat crawling down his spine---there are many explanations, each less comforting than the previous.
The sudden vibration of his phone makes him jump slightly, Peter fishes it out with shaky fingers, heart in his teeth.
Loo, the text says.
All the air rushes out in one big whoosh, Peter’s feet are moving on autopilot before his brain catches up. Luckily only one of the cubicles is occupied, he knocks tentatively, ignoring the curious looks from the guests walking past.
‘Ricki?’
After a few breathless seconds the door creaks open, Ricki blinks sluggishly at him from the floor, as if he’s just woken up and doesn’t recognize the surroundings. Peter’s stomach clenches; under the harsh light, Ricki’s skin appears almost blue (at least, he hopes it’s due to the lighting)
‘They came looking, had to…’ Ricki croaks, a muscle in his cheek twitching slightly.
‘Shh,’ Peter lays a careful hand on his arm, the skin there uncomfortably cool, ‘come on, let’s get you to the lobby first.’ Ricki stumbles forward, perhaps recognizing the low urgency in Peter’s tone more than any conscious understanding.
The journey down isn’t the easiest when he’s essentially dragging someone along. All the while Peter murmurs complete lies about being almost there, from the way Ricki wheezes in lieu of laughing, he knows it too.
He breaks every traffic law there is to get to the hospital. Slumped in the passenger seat, Ricki chatters on in between labored breaths (‘Here lies Ricki Tarr, perished in line of duty’) Until Peter snaps and tell him to shut it, nobody is dying today.
The receptionist gets up without being asked as soon as they stagger in, within minutes they are lifting Ricki onto a trolley with an oxygen mask on. Peter doesn’t realize Ricki is still holding onto his wrist until a nurse starts gingerly loosening his grip to get an iv line in.
---god, he’s just a kid, a kid scared out of his mind in a room full of strangers with their mechanical reassurances---
Peter swallows, and starts to answer the avalanche of questions as best as he could (name, age, no medical conditions that I know of, yes he was given something no I’m not sure what). Every now and then Ricki’s eyes trail back to him, holding his gaze for a split second before sliding shut again. So Peter makes sure to stay in his line of sight. Exactly how high he ranks on the moral support scale, Peter has no idea, but in Ricki’s current state, he supposes any familiar face will do.
The medics never ask him to leave, not even as they draw curtains all around the bed for privacy. Peter doesn’t let himself dwell on the implications.
It turns out to be a mixture of street drugs and prescription only, none of them habit forming, thank god for small mercies, but the combination has triggered an allergic reaction. The client gets blacklisted (the anonymous tip-off to the police regarding illicit substance possession is, of course, entirely coincidental). Ricki bounces back to his annoying self almost overnight, no doubt thriving under all that extra attention from the female staff.
He doesn’t go to the welcome back party. Might as well let Ricki tell tales of his wild adventure in peace. (There will be dragons in there somewhere, he’s pretty sure)
A couple of months later, Peter comes to the realization that he’s gained not one, not two, but three nice regulars (big tipper, non-psychotic sensible adults, not looking for anything he won’t happily provide). Regulars like that don’t just fall out of the sky, and are usually guarded jealously by Circus employees.
He goes straight to the source of his suspicion.
‘You didn’t have to do that.’
Ricki returns his statement with a blank look, ‘a bit vague, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.’ Trust Ricki to get his hackles up in no time, ‘I don’t need your….tributes.’
‘I don’t like owning people.’
‘A simple thank you would suffice.’
‘Thought you’d prefer something a bit more original,’ Ricki looks up from beneath fluttering lashes, the pouty curve of his bottom lip just a bit more deliberate, a bit more I-know-what-this-is-all-about, ‘unless there is something else you’d rather have?’
If Peter has, for one brief moment, considered murder, it’s entirely justifiable.
As much as the urge to push Ricki flat against the nearest wall, and bite the smirk off his smug mouth anyways.
Irina, thankfully, doesn’t look much worse for wear when he comes back. Although Ricki knows that doesn’t mean much; there are plenty of places to hit without leaving bruises on display.
The hasty retreat upon seeing him is evidence enough.
Ricki calls out before she could slink back through the door, keeping his voice low as if talking to a spooked horse.
‘Irina.’ the one hand she has left gripping the door frame tightens.
‘Irina, please, I just want to help. Can we talk at least?’
No response. But the door remains half open.
‘Okay,’ Ricki breathes out, ‘okay. Either you talk to me, or I’m calling social services. This can’t go on.’
When she re-emerges, her whole frame is held taut as a string, eyes unnervingly large in her thin face.
‘The café just down the road, you know it?’ It is, hands down, the longest sentence she’s spoken to date. The accent is a bit hard to place, middle European maybe? Ricki holds her gaze, hoping to convey nothing but encouragement.
‘Sure. I mean, yes of course’
‘Meet you there.’
Connie purrs as soon as Bill’s footsteps fade out of earshot,
‘Hmmm, something is different with you two. Now spill, tell me everything.’
‘There is nothing to tell.’ Jim replies defensively. Connie’s eyes narrow at that, one finely arched eyebrow climbing steadily to her hairline.
‘Well, that’s not suspicious at all young Jedi. Please, we’re all liars here, each and every single one is better than you.’
‘We bumped into one another some time ago, and had a coffee, that’s all.’ Jim carries on arranging the pieces of paper into perfect squares. Honestly, he has no idea why he’s even feeling caught out.
‘If there is coffee you know it’s a date, right?’
‘No!’ Jim fights the urge to cower under her triumphant grin, ‘not coffee coffee. It was more of a hey we know each other so why not kill a couple of hours together coffee.’
‘And I distinctly remember telling you he’s totally into you.’
‘He’s Bill, he’s into everybody.’ Jim winces at his tone. Bugger.
‘Oh sweetie,’ Connie’s voice softens, ‘exactly, he is Bill Haydon. All you can do is hanging on for the ride.’ the mischievous twinkle in her eyes creeps back, ‘plus, you’re not one of us, you don’t have to stick to the first rule of whoredom.’
‘What might that be?’
‘Never fall for a client.’
Jim gives Connie a pointed look.
‘I know,’ Connie gestures with one manicured hand, all old Hollywood glamour, ‘I’ve broken way worse ones than that.’
next chapter: http://chimerari.livejournal.com/35589.html