fic: Bare Essentials (Pete/Patrick, AU, challengefic, 2/2)
Part 1
iii.
"Hey."
Patrick looked up from his notes. Chickenscratch, thank God; his mom always said he should be a doctor, just so he'd have an excuse for his handwriting. "Hey," he said. "Spencer, right?"
Spencer nodded. "The timing was a little fast on my set," he said. "When Jon does the announcing, wait a half-beat, *then* start the music. Not a whole beat. Okay?"
Patrick didn't see how anyone could be snippy when he was wearing a pair of boxer-briefs and lip gloss and nothing else, but Spencer found a way. "Sorry," he said stiffly, and went back to watching the crowd. Wilson was next to the stage again, intently eyeing a group of college girls who'd come in, giggling, and gotten a table next to the stage. Bill was playing up for them the same way he did for the men, but Wilson looked kind of--
"Hey, no," Spencer said, wincing. "I'm--look, I'm not good with people, okay? And you're already, like, a hundred times better than the guy we had in here last year."
"Bill mentioned him the other night," Patrick said. "I mean, kind of. That you guys had someone else last year."
"Yeah," Spencer said, "Dan. Really quiet. Not that you're loud, but he made you look like an extrovert."
One of the best things about sitting in the corner of a dimly lit club: it was very hard for anyone else to see when he was flushed. "Thanks," Patrick said, and glanced at his notes.
Spencer sighed. "What did I just say? Not good with people." He shook his head. "Look, a bunch of us are going out after work to get something to eat. You want to come with?"
Patrick blinked. "It'll be, like, three in the morning."
"Which is why God made diners," Spencer said. "You don't *have* to, if you don't want--"
"No," Patrick said suddenly. "I'm. That'd be great, yeah." He didn't know who was more surprised, him or Spencer.
"Oh," Spencer said. "Great!" Something in his expression lightened a little, so Patrick assumed he was sincere. "--um. Ryan's car is in the shop, so would you mind giving a couple people a ride?"
Ahhhhh. Patrick nodded inside. No wonder he'd been asked; it was high school all over again. "It's fine," he said.
"That's not why--"
"It's fine," Patrick said again, a little more firmly. "Just find me when you're ready to go, okay? I need to pay attention; Bill's set is ending in a minute, and I need to get ready."
"Sure," Spencer said. For a second, he looked a little regretful. "No problem."
Patrick nodded and looked at the monitor. When he glanced up a minute later, looking at the list to see who was up -- Bob, who was apparently a big hit with more butch guys -- Spencer was gone.
*
"A bunch of us" turned out to be Spencer, Ryan, Bill, Pete, Tyson, a big guy Patrick didn't recognize named Zach, and himself. They took two cars, his and Bill's.
"It used to be everyone," Ryan explained on the drive over, "but Jon stresses about taxes too much to relax 'til they're back, and Frankie and Gee are practically fucking married." He, Spencer and Zach -- who, in addition to being a bouncer at the club, was apparently Spencer's boyfriend, which Patrick did not see coming at *all* -- were in Patrick's car; Ryan was in the passenger seat, chattering over the radio, and Spencer and Zach were in the backseat. "Besides, everyone's freaked out about the psycho."
"Oh my God, Ryan, shut up," Spencer groaned, smacking the back of his seat.
"Seriously!" Ryan said, turning as far as the seatbelt would allow. "Like Branden would ever go off with some *guy*. He's not even bi."
"What psycho?" Patrick asked, looking for a place to park. He wished he had a third hand to take notes.
"Please ignore him," Spencer said, raising his voice to be heard over Ryan's squawk.
"A couple guys who work at the club disappeared about a week ago," Zach said. "Branden was pretty cool, and he's not the kind of guy to just disappear without calling or emailing or anything. Quinn's a different story. I like the guy, but he can be a little flaky."
Round-the-Clock was spastic at three in the morning, but Bill and the others had managed to snag a table already. "Over here!" Bill called, pulling himself away from probably the tallest guy Patrick had ever seen. Or attempting to, since he was in the guy's lap. Patrick figured, from the nonplussed expressions on the waitstaff, that this was fairly typical.
"We already did introductions for Pete," Bill said as they seated themselves, "but you guys are late, so: Patrick, this is Travis. Travis, this is Patrick. He's DJing until Jon gets the taxes done."
"Hey." Patrick waved a little and sat down, reaching for a menu.
"Travis rewired the sound system a few months ago," he explained, pressing a smacking kiss to Travis' cheek. "And we fell in love. Mostly because he scared off that creepy guy--"
"His name is Tom," Zach said, looking long-suffering. "And he's not actually *creepy*, Bill. Those of us who didn't fuck him actually think he's okay."
Bill snorted. "One night, he thinks that means we're married. Asshole."
"He was staring at Ryan the other night," Patrick said suddenly, earning a surprised look from Ryan and a glare from Pete. Probably for revealing details of an investigation, but it wasn't like they knew that. And it wasn't like Pete had a leg to stand on, the way Tyson was pressed against him. "Um. I was in the booth, and -- never mind." He busied himself with the menu.
"He has transference issues," Bill said blithely. "Either that, or he's trying to live out some kind of Pretty Woman fantasy. Which is *extra* stupid, because 'stripper' and 'hooker' aren't synonyms."
"For some of us," Ryan said, flicking a piece of ice at him.
"Seriously," Spencer told Patrick, who was on his left; Zach was on his right, talking to Tyson about something in low tones. "We're not that bad. I know we've been kind of snippy the last couple of days, and I'm sorry for that."
"You've apologized a couple dozen times already," Patrick said. "It's fine."
Spencer smiled a little. Patrick wasn't used to seeing it on his face, which was a shame; it made him look his age, not to mention a *lot* less hostile. "Still," he said, and snagged a mint.
*
Dinner was - okay. Patrick had had more awkward nights, and once he got used to the fact that Bill was as likely to kiss *him* as he was to kiss Travis, he started relaxing and listening to other people. And not for investigative purposes, either.
Spencer and Ryan were college students, paying their way with scholarships and grants. "This is just living expenses," Ryan told him through a mouthful of turkey club. "Stupid housing department only had room for three-quarters of the freshman class. Guess which section *we* ended up in?"
"It's fine," Spencer said. "We do okay. Between the two of us, we have enough for rent, bills, and the occasional night having people over to play Dance Dance Revolution." He waved a cheesestick for emphasis. "We're just never telling our parents. They think we work at the bookstore."
Bill had been working there the longest. He liked to write; had notebooks full of stuff, in fact, that he never showed anyone, not even Travis. "I keep asking," Travis said, "but he keeps saying no."
"I'm a conundrum," Bill said serenely, stealing an onion ring off Zach's plate. Bill ate like he had twin tapeworms, and never seemed to gain an ounce. Patrick could have hated him for that, if he wasn't so *nice*.
Tyson lived in a tiny apartment with three other guys, including his ex-boyfriend -- "sort of," he explained, "I mean, it's. A whole thing," waving his hands wildly -- and a drug dealer. "Chris is a really nice guy. It's just, it's deal drugs or do something *else* to pay the rent, and he figures dealing is the better part of valor."
"He couldn't do something legal?" Patrick said incredulously. He kept trying to meet Pete's eyes and telegraph some version of "are you fucking hearing this?", but Pete didn't look at all surprised. That was another kind of surprising, somehow even less pleasant than a temporary co-worker confessing that his roommate sold drugs.
"It's that or go back to Oklahoma," Tyson said flatly, "and that's not an option. So no."
"He didn't mean anything by it," Pete broke in, poking Tyson's side. "He's a puppy." He leaned in and murmured something in Tyson's ear, glancing at Patrick at the end of it.
Tyson looked at Patrick and burst out laughing.
Patrick flushed and cleared his throat. "Um, I don't feel so hot," he said, digging in his wallet and getting out a twenty. He threw it on the table. "Bill, do you mind giving Spencer and the guys a ride home in your car?"
"Yes," Tyson said loudly, but Bill just shook his head and said, "Go on, we'll be fine."
"Thanks." Patrick got up from the table and headed for the door. He was a little mollified to hear Bill's "oh, you two are fucking assholes" loud enough to be clear from the other side of the room, but only a little.
He made it all the way to the door before someone touched his arm. Not surprising--
"I'm sorry they're dicks," Spencer said quietly.
--but who it was was...okay, yeah, surprising.
"It's fine," Patrick said blankly. It wasn't, because he wasn't in goddamn junior high anymore, but it wasn't like he really had to get to know either of them. As soon as they caught whoever was doing this, he'd be back at his *real* job, and poof! no more Tyson. And no more Pete, once he got his ass back to Vice.
"No it's not," Spencer said. "I don't know *why* Ty's being a prick to you, but I think the new guy's got something to do with it."
"Probably," Patrick agreed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Um. Did you guys want to--"
Spencer shook his head. "It's fine, we'll get a ride with Bill. We've crammed more people into one car before. It's like a physics experiment." Patrick smiled a little at that. "Um. Zach and I wanted to ask you something."
"What?"
Spencer took a breath before he started speaking, all in a rush. "We're not, like, complete whores, but you're nice and smart and funny and sometimes I catch you rolling your eyes at stuff Brendon's doing, which is nice because I like the guy but he's kind of -- like, you want to roll your eyes at him, a little, but you actually *do* it. And you don't seem to care that we're strippers, which is harder to find than you'd think, but. Um." He scratched his neck and flushed. "Did you want to come back to Zach's place with me tonight?"
Patrick blinked at him.
"It's not - it doesn't have to be a big deal," Spencer said, still speaking fast. "And if you say no, I mean, that's fine. And it's not like we do this a lot, but." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Um. If you wanted, that would be cool with us."
His eyes, Patrick noticed, were blue-gray, and not at all as cool as they'd been a few days before. "Spencer," he said quietly, "I--"
"It's okay," Spencer said quickly. "I don't even know if you like guys. I'm just used to working with people who--"
"I am," Patrick said. "I do. Um. I'm bi." He let out a breath; he hadn't said it out loud since his junior year of college. "But I'm. I don't want to fuck up anything you guys have."
"You wouldn't be," Spencer said. "I wouldn't offer if I didn't - if we didn't mean it."
Patrick looked back at the table. Bill and Ryan were arguing with Tyson about something; Travis and Pete mostly looked bemused. Zach caught his eye and smiled a little.
He meant to say "no thank you, but I appreciate it". He really did. But Patrick opened his mouth and said, "Um. I have appointments tomorrow morning, so tonight's out." He looked at Spencer. "Is -- can I get a rain check, or is this a one-time thing?"
Spencer blushed. Patrick tried very hard not to grin. "It's...you can get a rain check, yeah."
"Okay." Patrick hesitated a second -- don't do it, don't do it, this isn't your life -- then leaned in and kissed the corner of Spencer's mouth.
When he pulled back, Pete was staring at him from the table. Hard.
Patrick got his keys out of his bag and did his level best to ignore him. "So I'll see you at work Saturday?"
"Yeah," Spencer said, smiling -- shyly, no less. "You will."
*
It had been a good night, Patrick decided as he lay in bed that night. Not profitable as far as the case went, but his co-workers trusted him; with the exception of Tyson, maybe, but Pete apparently had that angle sewn up tight.
Maybe, Patrick realized, this wouldn't totally be a nightmare after all.
*
The next day, Patrick woke up to a voicemail from Lieutenant Howard telling him that someone else had been taken the night before -- a civilian, no less, an 18-year-old college freshman named Hayley Williams who'd been taken off the street.
Patrick looked at himself in the mirror for a long time, then threw his phone at the wall.
Lesson learned, then: no more pleasantries. This was an assignment, not a job, and if Pete wasn't going to remember that, fuck him. He had a job to do.
iv.
"She was taken at approximately 1:45 this morning," Detective Morris said. "She and her friends were leaving a bar on 19th and Fordham--"
"That's a block over from Kashmir," Pete interrupted.
Morris made a gun finger at him. "Bang. Apparently they'd been at the club earlier in the evening; another of their group was having a bachelorette party. She took a cab home." He paged through his notes. "They were trying to hail a cab when Williams, who was walking at the back of the pack, saw one coming. She leaned out, arm outstretched, and a car pulled over."
"Except it wasn't a cab," Morris's partner, a guy named Faller, said. "It was a dark blue van. They couldn't give us a make or model, and the plates were missing. One of those temp stickers in the back window, like with rental cars?"
"That doesn't narrow it down," Patrick said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Not really," Morris agreed. "But one of the girls says she saw the last two numbers, a one and a nine. We're running them now."
"No one saw the guy who grabbed her?" Pete asked. Patrick stared at the picture in front of them. Williams was a pretty girl with maroon hair and dark eyes; at least, that's how they looked if you could squint past the red-eye from the flash. She looked her age. He suddenly felt very old and very tired.
Faller shook his head. "Most of them were above the legal limit," he said. "The one who saw the partial, the DD, says it was a guy with dark hair. Dark hair," he said again, rolling his eyes. "Caucasian. That was it."
"You're sure she wasn't drunk?" Pete said, raising an eyebrow.
Patrick glared at him and looked at Morris. "No ransom demand?"
Morris shook his head. "Not even a peep."
"Great. Wonderful." He pinched his nose again. "Thanks, guys."
"No problem," Faller said. "How's the assignment going?"
Patrick opened his mouth to answer, but Pete answered for him. "Great, fine. Not a problem." He sounded a little brusque, though, which wasn't like Pete at all. At least, from the little Patrick knew him.
"Uh huh." Morris sounded amused. "If you have any other questions, give us a call." He gave Patrick his card.
"Thanks," Patrick said, pocketing it. "Good luck."
Pete kept glaring 'til they were out of sight.
"What is wrong with you?" Patrick hissed, smacking his arm. "Do you have existing issues with them or something? Because if you do, and I don't know about it, and I just wandered into some kind of inter-departmental shit--"
"It's not a department thing," Pete said. "It's personal. Faller and I went to the academy together. We didn't exactly get along." He waved a hand. "Personality clash. It happens."
"Is it going to impede the case?"
"No," Pete said, "it's not." He shouldered his bag. "Come on, we're going to be late."
*
Patrick almost fucked up two sets that night, he was so busy watching the crowd. Everything seemed normal: there was no sign of Wilson or Conrad, and the customers were fairly well-behaved. No one looked definitively skeevy or weird, and no one was paying too much attention to the talent. Granted, he was still getting used to what "too much attention" meant when dealing with strippers, but he was actually starting to think he'd gotten the hang of it.
There was still no word from Allman or Steineckert, not that anyone was really expecting one at this point.
"His *mom* called today," Frankie said that night, as Patrick was helping him clean up. "Quinn, I mean."
Patrick frowned at him and stacked some chairs. "Is that normal?"
"None of this is normal," Frankie said flatly. "I just -- God, I *hope* he fucked off with someone, you know? Because if he did, he's not in a ditch somewh--" He stopped and pressed his mouth together in a thin line.
Patrick looked at him.
"Sorry," Frankie said after a second. "We were -- we are friends. Hooked up once or twice, before Gee. Quinn's a nice guy."
"I wish I'd met him," Patrick said. It took him a second to realize that he meant it, at least a little.
"Yeah," Frankie said. "He fucking loved redheads." He smiled, kind of sad, and shook his head. "It's not -- I'm not going to let myself, like, *really* freak out about it. Doesn't do anyone any good." He checked his watch. "Could you do me a favor and go in the back, check for stragglers? I'm going to find Gee and grab the keys."
"Right." Patrick stacked the last chair and headed for the back, shouldering the door open. "Yo! Frankie's locking up! All aboard, whoever's--"
Patrick stopped stock-still in the doorway, hand still gripping the doorframe.
Pete was kneeling behind Tyson -- though "behind" wasn't really the proper term; he was pressed flush against Tyson, one arm wrapped around his shoulders to brace himself. They were both naked; Tyson was keening a little, high soft sounds that made Patrick's stomach cramp.
"--coming," Patrick said, and let the door bang shut behind him.
It wasn't -- he'd ask Lieutenant Howard to take him off the case, because clearly Pete was getting along fucking beautifully with all concerned parties. There'd be paperwork, but they could assign someone else, maybe have Walker tell them all he was in some kind of a car accident, and oh my God Pete was fucking him, Pete was fucking someone. Pete was fucking Tyson, who apparently thought Patrick was some kind of loser, and none of this was getting them any closer to finding a fucking kidnapper, and--
"What's wrong with you?" Pete shouted, flinging the door open. His clothes looked mussed: unbuttoned fly, shirt at a weird angle. Like he'd just thrown them on.
Patrick turned to look at him. "Noth--"
"Don't give me 'nothing', you've been making snide comments under your fucking breath all day." Pete looked furious, hands fisted at his sides and jaw clenched. "No, fuck all day, since we met."
"Fuck you," Patrick snapped. "I'm not allowed to express an opinion?"
"There's expressing an opinion, and then there's being a total asshole," Pete said. "What, like you're too good for this? You're too good to be doing undercover work?"
"No!" He let out a deep breath. "God, you don't even--"
"I don't even *what*, Patrick?"
"You fucked him!" Patrick shouted. "You're the one who's done this before, you're the one who's supposed to know that we have boundaries, but there you are, going in the back and fucking a total stranger like some kind of whore."
"Ohhhh," Pete said softly. "So that's how it is, huh? You're freaked out because the guy who's watching your back might be taking a few seconds to stare at your ass, is that it?" His eyes gleamed.
If Patrick were even a little less angry, he'd have backed off. But they'd been doing this for over a week solid, they had no leads, and now someone else was missing. And there was no sign of any of the victims, alive or dead, which made Patrick's gut twist.
"Fuck you," he said again, low and *angry*, and turned to go.
"Homophobe," Pete said, and God, Patrick could *hear* him smirking. Like he'd figured something out. "This is fucking killing you, isn't it? Having to watch all these pretty boys watch each other, and knowing they're going to touch each other, and there probably won't be any women involved. Or maybe there will! Maybe it's men and women *and* men, and *that's* not in the Bible--"
"You don't know anything about me, Wentz."
"I know too much," Pete said. He sounded disgusted. "To think I fucking *trusted* you. I'm telling Howard to get you off the case."
Patrick burst out laughing. His eyes felt warm.
"You don't know anything," he said again, and kissed Pete on the mouth.
Pete was still against him for a long moment. Patrick let go and took a jerky step back. He had to stop and breathe before he spoke again, unless he wanted to start crying like a kid or something.
"Patrick--" Pete started, but Patrick shook his head.
"No," he said softly, mouth thinning out. "No, I can't -- just. I'll see you at the station tomorrow."
"Patrick."
Patrick shook his head again and turned towards his car--
--and really, it would've been great, except for the sound and feeling of something cracking over his head; and then darkness.
v.
Dark. Wherever he was, it was dark, and damp, and smelled like mildew. Patrick wrinkled his nose and tried to sit up.
It would have gone a lot easier, if not for the ropes holding him in place.
"Fuck," he groaned, lolling his head from side to side. "Ow, ow, ow--"
"Shut up," he heard Pete hiss in the darkness. "If he knows you're awake, he'll come back sooner."
"Pete?" Patrick looked around, a little wildly.
"Over here," Pete said. Patrick let his eyes adjust to the light and looked around again.
They were in a basement -- early morning, if the weak light filtering in through the window was any indication. Patrick was pretty sure he was tied to a chair, but that still put him better off than anyone else down there with him.
Pete was across the room, shackled by his ankle like something out of a really bad prison movie. From the 50s, even. He was still wearing what he'd had on when they'd left the night before, except there was a splash of dried red along one shoulder. That probably had something to do with the bandage on his head, Patrick guessed; it looked inexpertly patched, held in place with scotch tape. Next to him were a couple of faces he'd only seen in their files.
"Those are--"
"Allman and Steineckert," Pete said grimly. "Williams was here earlier; I think she's upstairs with him now."
"He's fucked up," Steineckert said hoarsely. "I didn't -- he said something about not wanting to have to deal with whores when he wanted entertainment, I don't -- seriously, I think he's crazy." He looked pale and exhausted, but pissed off, too; like that was fuel, somehow. Patrick had seen that expression back at the academy, on the faces of a lot of the people who'd washed out. He never thought he'd be glad to see it.
Better than Allman, who was breathing shallow and didn't appear to be conscious. "Is he okay?" Patrick asked.
"I don't think so," Pete said grimly. "He hasn't been conscious for very long, at least not since I woke up. Branden says he's got some kind of--"
"Heart condition," Branden said. "He needs medication, but that asshole confiscated it."
"Confiscated--" Patrick looked at Pete.
"My gun's gone," Pete said. "I already looked."
"What about your other gun?"
Pete looked at him.
"Your other gun," Patrick repeated. "You're allowed to carry two."
"I know that," Pete said defensively.
"And you didn't?" Patrick yelped.
"I was a stripper!" Pete yelped back. "Where do you suggest I could have put it?"
Patrick opened his mouth to answer.
"Is that the thing around your ankle?" Branden asked suddenly. "There's -- I mean, I can see a bulge or something, but that might just be the holster or something." He looked at Pete. "You were out when he brought you guys downstairs. He didn't do that great a job of frisking your friend."
Pete and Patrick looked at each other. Patrick toed off one shoe and slid it up under the leg of his jeans, feeling gingerly.
"Yeah," he said, "yeah, I think so."
"Can you reach it?" Pete asked.
Patrick shot him a look. "Right," he said brightly. "With my telekinesis--"
"Hop the fuck over here," Pete said, narrowing his eyes. "The chair's not bolted, and my hands are free. Just be careful."
"I know," Patrick said. "The gun's around *my* ankle, remember?"
It took a little while; Patrick didn't want to go too fast, for fear of landing wrong and tipping over, or discharging it accidentally. Even worse, there was no telling who was upstairs, or if he -- or she, or they -- were upstairs at all, let alone if the sound could have drawn them. A grown man scooting a metal chair across a concrete floor was not exactly silent.
"Did you recognize him?" Patrick asked. Hop, wait a minute. Hop, wait a minute.
Pete shook his head. "I was out cold when I got here, and Branden says he looks vaguely familiar but he couldn't put a name with the face."
Almost there... "Here," Patrick said, and hopped again. "Can you reach?"
"Yeah," Pete said, "yeah, I think so." He stretched as far as the chain would let him and fumbled his fingers around Patrick's ankle.
Patrick closed his eyes. "Sorry," he said quietly.
"For what?" Pete asked absently.
"We were distracted. If we hadn't been, we wouldn't be here now. You wouldn't be injured--"
"And we'd have no idea who was doing this," Pete said, smacking his leg. Patrick looked at him. "Hey," he added, voice going soft. "It's fine. We work with what we have, okay? Now we just have to get this guy and get out of here, and we're set." A tug, and--
"Got it," Pete said, pulling the gun free. He looked at it. "Fuck, what is this, a derringer?"
"Six rounds," Patrick said. "Four left. The last time I was at the range, I only did two."
Pete checked the chamber. "God willing, we won't need them." He tucked it away and looked at Patrick. "We'll be fine," he said. "No other choice."
"If." Patrick took a deep breath. "If anything happens--"
"Nothing's going to happen," Pete said.
"If anything happens," Patrick said again, but Pete's hand on his ankle cut him off. He looked at his partner.
"Nothing is going to happen," Pete said firmly. "It can't, right? We still need to have a conversation."
"He's not worth it," said a voice from the stairs. Pete and Patrick turned to look; Allman was still unconscious, and Steineckert looked whipped.
There was a guy standing there. Patrick tried to place him -- from the club, from any of their investigations -- but he came up blank. The guy was just...nondescript. He had sandy brown hair and a clear complexion; he wore dark pants, sneakers, and a plain black t-shirt. He was average height and weight, and he didn't have any visible tattoos, piercings, or birthmarks. There was absolutely nothing memorable about him in any way.
Except for the garbage bag he was carrying.
"Just let us go," Pete said, shifting so he was sitting curled in on himself. It looked like he was just miserable from the head wound, but it did a great job of hiding the gun. "Just -- man, c'mon, let us go. We won't file charges, or tell the cops, or anything."
"I can't do that," the guy said. Nothing memorable about his voice either: not too high-pitched, not too much bass. "If I did, you'd just tell the cops--"
"We just said we wouldn't!" Pete yelled.
"--or even worse, you'd get away. You'd go back there," he said, "and you'd, you'd go on sinning. You'd go on tempting and corrupting all those dancers."
"Fine," Pete said. "Keep us, great, no problem--" he ignored Branden's shout, at that "--but what does *he* have to do with it?" He nodded at Patrick.
"He's like a snake charmer." The guy shifted against the wall and took his watch off, slipped it in the bag. His shoes and socks followed. "He plays the music that tempts the innocents inside. I'll get the other one too, the one who keeps the doors open, but not yet."
"And the girl?"
"No," the guy said, shaking his head. "No more talking." He knelt down and reached in the bag. "It'll hurt less if you don't fight--"
"ASSHOLE!" someone shouted. Patrick had just enough time to see a girl with maroon hair -- Hayley Williams, he guessed -- tackle the guy and knock him down the stairs.
Pete drew the gun. "Get clear!" he shouted.
After that, it was kind of a blur. Williams was fighting and kicking the guy; Pete had the gun out; Branden was yelling. Patrick pulled at the ropes, trying to get free.
"SHOOT HIM!" Williams screamed.
"TRYING TO!" Pete screamed back.
Patrick tugged at the ropes.
The guy screamed something unintelligible and shoved Williams, hard, sending her sprawling against the bottom of the stairs. He vaulted over the railing and went straight for Pete.
"NO!" Patrick screamed, and threw himself between them.
"Patrick, don't--" Pete started.
The guy shoved Patrick out of the way. Patrick heard the wood crack and start to give, but the pain blossoming in his head wasn't allowing for anything else.
"Don't," he started, weakly, and the world swam away.
vi.
When Patrick opened his eyes, he was in the hospital.
"Fuck," he rasped, closing his eyes again. He hated hospitals. They smelled like death and bad news and antiseptic, and the staff was so *chipper*. It seemed unnatural. "Hello?" Opened his eyes again--
From the chair next to the bed, Pete said, "You look like hell."
Patrick tried to focus on him. There was a butterfly bandage on his forehead and dark circles under his eyes, but other than that he looked all right. Not perfect, maybe, but it wasn't like *he* was the one in a hospital bed, complete with tiny beeping monitors and an IV in his hand. "How--" He coughed, reached for the water.
"Here," Pete said, pressing a plastic cup into his hand. "Drink it slow. You've been out for a while."
Patrick sipped it, though it was hard; what he really wanted to do was gulp it. But there was no guarantee he wouldn't just throw it back up in a minute or so if he did that, so sipping it was. "How long--"
"Just over twenty-four hours," Pete said. "You regained consciousness once in the bus, and I think once or twice when they were prepping you for surgery, but after that, boom! nothing." He took the cup and filled it halfway, handed it back.
"What happened?" Patrick asked.
"You didn't kill him," Pete said. "He -- does the name Daniel Whitesides mean anything to you?"
Patrick thought for a second, then shook his head. "It didn't come up anywhere."
"It might not've," Pete said. "He wasn't a customer. He worked as a DJ last year, when Walker was doing the taxes."
Patrick tried to think. "Bill mentioned something about that once, I think," he said.
Pete nodded. "And while he was here, he made sure to plant bugs all over the club -- mostly backstage, but one behind the bar and another in Walker's office." He held up a hand. "And before you ask, no, he won't say why. He just keeps muttering about not being done, and that we should let him go before 'they' get away."
"Well," Patrick said after a minute. "That doesn't sound totally crazy, does it."
"Oh, it gets better," Pete said grimly. "CSU went through the house and found all kinds of shit upstairs. Mostly medical books, and a lot of true crime novels. Most of *those* were about kidnappings, and he had sections crossed out because they didn't work. There were notations and everything." He snorted. "I'm trying not to think about why he had three guys tied up downstairs and one woman."
"Williams," Patrick said. "Is she--"
"She's fine," Pete said. "No signs of sexual abuse. She and Steineckert are scheduled to be released this afternoon. They're keeping Allman a little longer for observation, but the doctors say he should be fine, too." He smiled a little. "*You*, they want to keep a little longer, mostly because of the two head wounds."
"That's -- wait, two?"
"You hit your head on the floor when you got knocked backwards." Pete's voice was quiet, which was surprising enough to get his attention. "It wasn't...I don't want to say it was close, that's not what I mean, but people kept peering in on you and muttering things to each other while they made notes on your chart." He nodded to the clipboard at the end of the bed. "I tried to make sense of it, but I'm not fluent in chickenscratch."
"You tried to make sense of it," Patrick said dumbly. "Have you even been home yet?"
"For a few minutes," Pete said, not meeting his eyes. "To shower and shave and stuff."
"So how--"
"Okay, fine, I showered and shaved in your bathroom," he said in a rush. "Jesus, pry it out of me, why don't you."
Patrick stared at him for a second, then fumbled for the bed switch. He smacked Pete's hands away when he tried to help -- "I hurt, I'm not invalid" -- and raised the bed 'til he was sitting up.
"I don't," he finally said, and stopped. "What are you doing?"
Pete stared at him. "Um, telling you how the investigation is going?" he said slowly, eyebrow raised.
"Not that." Patrick shook his head. "What we were talking about, before we got blindsided. And you spending the night here, even though I was unconscious."
Pete was quiet for so long, Patrick was pretty sure he wasn't going to say anything. He sighed and punched his pillow, started to turn onto his side. If they weren't going to talk, whatever, fine, but he was damn sure going to get some sleep.
"It's not like I advertise," Patrick said. "'Hey, I'm in Vice! Want to play pool and maybe fuck around afterwards?' isn't really the best way to approach it." He pulled the chair over next to the bed and started tapping his fingers along the railing. "And I didn't -- you were so pissed about me calling you fat--"
"Because you called me fat," Patrick said.
"Can I talk?"
Patrick glared, but didn't say anything else.
"Thank you," Pete said. "But I didn't...I didn't really think anything of it. You weren't interested, you couldn't read my signals, fine. It's not a big deal." He let out a breath. "But you were flirting with people -- unconsciously, maybe, but still. You were flirting with people, and then Spencer, at dinner the other ni--you kissed him," he said, sounding bewildered. "And all I was thinking was, 'why not me?'"
"You were with Tyson," Patrick said slowly. "You were with him. And I don't...that's your personal life, whatever, I don't care, but I'm not going to make a move on someone who is A, clearly not interested, and B, already seeing someone."
"I'm not seeing Tyson!" Pete yelled. "I was never seeing Tyson!"
"Biblically--"
"Oh my God," Pete said, "shut up," and launched himself out of the crappy fake-wood chair to kiss Patrick's mouth.
Admittedly, Patrick had had better kisses; but then, it wasn't every day he was in the hospital, either. He figured it was the beeping and creepy hospital smell that threw him off, because it clearly wasn't Pete's fault.
Pete pulled back enough to look him in the eye. "I'm not seeing him," he said quietly. "I'm not seeing anybody. ‘Fucking’ and ‘dating’ are not always synonyms. You're stubborn, and you form first impressions that suck and don't waver from them without, like, a court order. And I want to go to dinner with you."
Patrick looked at him, gaping a little.
"Or a basketball game, or a movie, whatever," he added. "I'm not particular."
"Apparently," Patrick muttered. Pete glared at him. "Seriously, you have the worst approach *ever*."
"It worked great in grade school," Pete said. "Come on, say yes. Take pity on the guy with the head wound."
Patrick pointed to his own head. "Uh, hi?"
"Oh, what? That's a concussion. I needed stitches."
"You're such a dick," Patrick muttered. "Yes."
"Oh, like you didn't kn--" Pete stopped and looked at him.
"Dinner's fine," Patrick said. "But not now, obviously."
"Well, obviously." Pete was still blinking. "...I didn't actually think that would work."
"See, if you'd talked to me instead of spending all your time shaking your ass on stage--"
"For work," Pete said, "it was my job." He looked a little less startled. "Keep that up, you're never gonna get me to come out of retirement."
"Retirement?"
"Case is over, except for the trial," Pete said. "I'm heading back to Vice." He sat back down. "But, you know, I've been thinking about transferring to Major Crimes, maybe."
"Really," Patrick said.
"Maybe," Pete said. "I don't know. I kind of like Vice. I'm on a first-name basis with prostitues. I got to shoot a guy in the back of the leg once for running a dog-fighting ring, that was kind of awesome." He rested his head on his arms. "So what are you gonna do, Detective Stump?"
"Right," Patrick snorted. "Detective."
"You slept through the press conference," Pete said, smiling a little. "I think the phrase used was 'for showing honor and valor above the line of duty'?"
"I--" Patrick's eyes felt huge. "I don't. I don't know what to--"
"It's fine, the PBA rep will be here later. Probably with Howard, who almost decked a photographer who tried to sneak in and get a picture of the boy hero." Pete shrugged. "I tried to tell him that you're not a boy, but he was too busy decrying police brutality."
"Asshole," Patrick said. "The photographer, obviously, not the lieutenant."
"Uh huh." Pete looked amused. "So I'm gonna go and get changed, maybe take an actual shower--"
"Okay," Patrick said faintly. "I'm just going to pass out again." He shifted against the pillow and closed his eyes.
He could hear, above the beeping and whir-hiss noises, the sound of shoes squeaking on tile. That part was a little soothing, he decided. A little. The same way Pete was a little charming, which kind of redeemed him for all the times he was more than three-quarters asshole.
"Maybe ten more minutes," Patrick heard Pete mutter, "just 'til you fall asleep."
Patrick smiled. "'kay," he said sleepily, and then he was out.
*
1) i fucking hate procedurals. and you can kind of tell, because i sort of suck at it. any and all police work in these pages is gleaned from either waaaaaaay too many episodes of law & order and homicide: life on the street, or that time i tried to write that popslash/alien nation crossover where justin timberlake was an fbi agent set to protect jc chasez, up-and-coming newcomer popstar. yeah. didn't see *that* one coming, did you? (that one is sitting in my wip file: 33 pages, maybe a third finished, and mocking me.)
2) it took me an embarrassing time to write this, mostly because -- okay, look, dyw guys? as strippers *and* cops? yeah, i took one look at that and went, "fuck, this is *never going to be finished*." and it very nearly wasn't. as it is, in 10-point times new roman, it clocks in at 28 pages. 28 pages. yeah. it's never the simple ones that end with me writing fucking novels; it's the complicated shit.
i don't honestly think i could have crammed more cameos into this thing if i fucking *tried*. which, oh, look, i did.
3) this was greatly facilitated by several things: stonedtodeath and beatpropx's stripper!au on sidekickfic; the pseudo-sequel tacks and i are...still kind of writing, technically; the pole footage from b-sides; the *official* sort-of-sequel WIP written by acroamatica.
4) ...so, logically, i finish the goddamn story and promptly start the pornographic epilogue. because THAT'S HOW I ROLL. coming soon! pun intended!
iii.
"Hey."
Patrick looked up from his notes. Chickenscratch, thank God; his mom always said he should be a doctor, just so he'd have an excuse for his handwriting. "Hey," he said. "Spencer, right?"
Spencer nodded. "The timing was a little fast on my set," he said. "When Jon does the announcing, wait a half-beat, *then* start the music. Not a whole beat. Okay?"
Patrick didn't see how anyone could be snippy when he was wearing a pair of boxer-briefs and lip gloss and nothing else, but Spencer found a way. "Sorry," he said stiffly, and went back to watching the crowd. Wilson was next to the stage again, intently eyeing a group of college girls who'd come in, giggling, and gotten a table next to the stage. Bill was playing up for them the same way he did for the men, but Wilson looked kind of--
"Hey, no," Spencer said, wincing. "I'm--look, I'm not good with people, okay? And you're already, like, a hundred times better than the guy we had in here last year."
"Bill mentioned him the other night," Patrick said. "I mean, kind of. That you guys had someone else last year."
"Yeah," Spencer said, "Dan. Really quiet. Not that you're loud, but he made you look like an extrovert."
One of the best things about sitting in the corner of a dimly lit club: it was very hard for anyone else to see when he was flushed. "Thanks," Patrick said, and glanced at his notes.
Spencer sighed. "What did I just say? Not good with people." He shook his head. "Look, a bunch of us are going out after work to get something to eat. You want to come with?"
Patrick blinked. "It'll be, like, three in the morning."
"Which is why God made diners," Spencer said. "You don't *have* to, if you don't want--"
"No," Patrick said suddenly. "I'm. That'd be great, yeah." He didn't know who was more surprised, him or Spencer.
"Oh," Spencer said. "Great!" Something in his expression lightened a little, so Patrick assumed he was sincere. "--um. Ryan's car is in the shop, so would you mind giving a couple people a ride?"
Ahhhhh. Patrick nodded inside. No wonder he'd been asked; it was high school all over again. "It's fine," he said.
"That's not why--"
"It's fine," Patrick said again, a little more firmly. "Just find me when you're ready to go, okay? I need to pay attention; Bill's set is ending in a minute, and I need to get ready."
"Sure," Spencer said. For a second, he looked a little regretful. "No problem."
Patrick nodded and looked at the monitor. When he glanced up a minute later, looking at the list to see who was up -- Bob, who was apparently a big hit with more butch guys -- Spencer was gone.
*
"A bunch of us" turned out to be Spencer, Ryan, Bill, Pete, Tyson, a big guy Patrick didn't recognize named Zach, and himself. They took two cars, his and Bill's.
"It used to be everyone," Ryan explained on the drive over, "but Jon stresses about taxes too much to relax 'til they're back, and Frankie and Gee are practically fucking married." He, Spencer and Zach -- who, in addition to being a bouncer at the club, was apparently Spencer's boyfriend, which Patrick did not see coming at *all* -- were in Patrick's car; Ryan was in the passenger seat, chattering over the radio, and Spencer and Zach were in the backseat. "Besides, everyone's freaked out about the psycho."
"Oh my God, Ryan, shut up," Spencer groaned, smacking the back of his seat.
"Seriously!" Ryan said, turning as far as the seatbelt would allow. "Like Branden would ever go off with some *guy*. He's not even bi."
"What psycho?" Patrick asked, looking for a place to park. He wished he had a third hand to take notes.
"Please ignore him," Spencer said, raising his voice to be heard over Ryan's squawk.
"A couple guys who work at the club disappeared about a week ago," Zach said. "Branden was pretty cool, and he's not the kind of guy to just disappear without calling or emailing or anything. Quinn's a different story. I like the guy, but he can be a little flaky."
Round-the-Clock was spastic at three in the morning, but Bill and the others had managed to snag a table already. "Over here!" Bill called, pulling himself away from probably the tallest guy Patrick had ever seen. Or attempting to, since he was in the guy's lap. Patrick figured, from the nonplussed expressions on the waitstaff, that this was fairly typical.
"We already did introductions for Pete," Bill said as they seated themselves, "but you guys are late, so: Patrick, this is Travis. Travis, this is Patrick. He's DJing until Jon gets the taxes done."
"Hey." Patrick waved a little and sat down, reaching for a menu.
"Travis rewired the sound system a few months ago," he explained, pressing a smacking kiss to Travis' cheek. "And we fell in love. Mostly because he scared off that creepy guy--"
"His name is Tom," Zach said, looking long-suffering. "And he's not actually *creepy*, Bill. Those of us who didn't fuck him actually think he's okay."
Bill snorted. "One night, he thinks that means we're married. Asshole."
"He was staring at Ryan the other night," Patrick said suddenly, earning a surprised look from Ryan and a glare from Pete. Probably for revealing details of an investigation, but it wasn't like they knew that. And it wasn't like Pete had a leg to stand on, the way Tyson was pressed against him. "Um. I was in the booth, and -- never mind." He busied himself with the menu.
"He has transference issues," Bill said blithely. "Either that, or he's trying to live out some kind of Pretty Woman fantasy. Which is *extra* stupid, because 'stripper' and 'hooker' aren't synonyms."
"For some of us," Ryan said, flicking a piece of ice at him.
"Seriously," Spencer told Patrick, who was on his left; Zach was on his right, talking to Tyson about something in low tones. "We're not that bad. I know we've been kind of snippy the last couple of days, and I'm sorry for that."
"You've apologized a couple dozen times already," Patrick said. "It's fine."
Spencer smiled a little. Patrick wasn't used to seeing it on his face, which was a shame; it made him look his age, not to mention a *lot* less hostile. "Still," he said, and snagged a mint.
*
Dinner was - okay. Patrick had had more awkward nights, and once he got used to the fact that Bill was as likely to kiss *him* as he was to kiss Travis, he started relaxing and listening to other people. And not for investigative purposes, either.
Spencer and Ryan were college students, paying their way with scholarships and grants. "This is just living expenses," Ryan told him through a mouthful of turkey club. "Stupid housing department only had room for three-quarters of the freshman class. Guess which section *we* ended up in?"
"It's fine," Spencer said. "We do okay. Between the two of us, we have enough for rent, bills, and the occasional night having people over to play Dance Dance Revolution." He waved a cheesestick for emphasis. "We're just never telling our parents. They think we work at the bookstore."
Bill had been working there the longest. He liked to write; had notebooks full of stuff, in fact, that he never showed anyone, not even Travis. "I keep asking," Travis said, "but he keeps saying no."
"I'm a conundrum," Bill said serenely, stealing an onion ring off Zach's plate. Bill ate like he had twin tapeworms, and never seemed to gain an ounce. Patrick could have hated him for that, if he wasn't so *nice*.
Tyson lived in a tiny apartment with three other guys, including his ex-boyfriend -- "sort of," he explained, "I mean, it's. A whole thing," waving his hands wildly -- and a drug dealer. "Chris is a really nice guy. It's just, it's deal drugs or do something *else* to pay the rent, and he figures dealing is the better part of valor."
"He couldn't do something legal?" Patrick said incredulously. He kept trying to meet Pete's eyes and telegraph some version of "are you fucking hearing this?", but Pete didn't look at all surprised. That was another kind of surprising, somehow even less pleasant than a temporary co-worker confessing that his roommate sold drugs.
"It's that or go back to Oklahoma," Tyson said flatly, "and that's not an option. So no."
"He didn't mean anything by it," Pete broke in, poking Tyson's side. "He's a puppy." He leaned in and murmured something in Tyson's ear, glancing at Patrick at the end of it.
Tyson looked at Patrick and burst out laughing.
Patrick flushed and cleared his throat. "Um, I don't feel so hot," he said, digging in his wallet and getting out a twenty. He threw it on the table. "Bill, do you mind giving Spencer and the guys a ride home in your car?"
"Yes," Tyson said loudly, but Bill just shook his head and said, "Go on, we'll be fine."
"Thanks." Patrick got up from the table and headed for the door. He was a little mollified to hear Bill's "oh, you two are fucking assholes" loud enough to be clear from the other side of the room, but only a little.
He made it all the way to the door before someone touched his arm. Not surprising--
"I'm sorry they're dicks," Spencer said quietly.
--but who it was was...okay, yeah, surprising.
"It's fine," Patrick said blankly. It wasn't, because he wasn't in goddamn junior high anymore, but it wasn't like he really had to get to know either of them. As soon as they caught whoever was doing this, he'd be back at his *real* job, and poof! no more Tyson. And no more Pete, once he got his ass back to Vice.
"No it's not," Spencer said. "I don't know *why* Ty's being a prick to you, but I think the new guy's got something to do with it."
"Probably," Patrick agreed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Um. Did you guys want to--"
Spencer shook his head. "It's fine, we'll get a ride with Bill. We've crammed more people into one car before. It's like a physics experiment." Patrick smiled a little at that. "Um. Zach and I wanted to ask you something."
"What?"
Spencer took a breath before he started speaking, all in a rush. "We're not, like, complete whores, but you're nice and smart and funny and sometimes I catch you rolling your eyes at stuff Brendon's doing, which is nice because I like the guy but he's kind of -- like, you want to roll your eyes at him, a little, but you actually *do* it. And you don't seem to care that we're strippers, which is harder to find than you'd think, but. Um." He scratched his neck and flushed. "Did you want to come back to Zach's place with me tonight?"
Patrick blinked at him.
"It's not - it doesn't have to be a big deal," Spencer said, still speaking fast. "And if you say no, I mean, that's fine. And it's not like we do this a lot, but." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Um. If you wanted, that would be cool with us."
His eyes, Patrick noticed, were blue-gray, and not at all as cool as they'd been a few days before. "Spencer," he said quietly, "I--"
"It's okay," Spencer said quickly. "I don't even know if you like guys. I'm just used to working with people who--"
"I am," Patrick said. "I do. Um. I'm bi." He let out a breath; he hadn't said it out loud since his junior year of college. "But I'm. I don't want to fuck up anything you guys have."
"You wouldn't be," Spencer said. "I wouldn't offer if I didn't - if we didn't mean it."
Patrick looked back at the table. Bill and Ryan were arguing with Tyson about something; Travis and Pete mostly looked bemused. Zach caught his eye and smiled a little.
He meant to say "no thank you, but I appreciate it". He really did. But Patrick opened his mouth and said, "Um. I have appointments tomorrow morning, so tonight's out." He looked at Spencer. "Is -- can I get a rain check, or is this a one-time thing?"
Spencer blushed. Patrick tried very hard not to grin. "It's...you can get a rain check, yeah."
"Okay." Patrick hesitated a second -- don't do it, don't do it, this isn't your life -- then leaned in and kissed the corner of Spencer's mouth.
When he pulled back, Pete was staring at him from the table. Hard.
Patrick got his keys out of his bag and did his level best to ignore him. "So I'll see you at work Saturday?"
"Yeah," Spencer said, smiling -- shyly, no less. "You will."
*
It had been a good night, Patrick decided as he lay in bed that night. Not profitable as far as the case went, but his co-workers trusted him; with the exception of Tyson, maybe, but Pete apparently had that angle sewn up tight.
Maybe, Patrick realized, this wouldn't totally be a nightmare after all.
*
The next day, Patrick woke up to a voicemail from Lieutenant Howard telling him that someone else had been taken the night before -- a civilian, no less, an 18-year-old college freshman named Hayley Williams who'd been taken off the street.
Patrick looked at himself in the mirror for a long time, then threw his phone at the wall.
Lesson learned, then: no more pleasantries. This was an assignment, not a job, and if Pete wasn't going to remember that, fuck him. He had a job to do.
iv.
"She was taken at approximately 1:45 this morning," Detective Morris said. "She and her friends were leaving a bar on 19th and Fordham--"
"That's a block over from Kashmir," Pete interrupted.
Morris made a gun finger at him. "Bang. Apparently they'd been at the club earlier in the evening; another of their group was having a bachelorette party. She took a cab home." He paged through his notes. "They were trying to hail a cab when Williams, who was walking at the back of the pack, saw one coming. She leaned out, arm outstretched, and a car pulled over."
"Except it wasn't a cab," Morris's partner, a guy named Faller, said. "It was a dark blue van. They couldn't give us a make or model, and the plates were missing. One of those temp stickers in the back window, like with rental cars?"
"That doesn't narrow it down," Patrick said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Not really," Morris agreed. "But one of the girls says she saw the last two numbers, a one and a nine. We're running them now."
"No one saw the guy who grabbed her?" Pete asked. Patrick stared at the picture in front of them. Williams was a pretty girl with maroon hair and dark eyes; at least, that's how they looked if you could squint past the red-eye from the flash. She looked her age. He suddenly felt very old and very tired.
Faller shook his head. "Most of them were above the legal limit," he said. "The one who saw the partial, the DD, says it was a guy with dark hair. Dark hair," he said again, rolling his eyes. "Caucasian. That was it."
"You're sure she wasn't drunk?" Pete said, raising an eyebrow.
Patrick glared at him and looked at Morris. "No ransom demand?"
Morris shook his head. "Not even a peep."
"Great. Wonderful." He pinched his nose again. "Thanks, guys."
"No problem," Faller said. "How's the assignment going?"
Patrick opened his mouth to answer, but Pete answered for him. "Great, fine. Not a problem." He sounded a little brusque, though, which wasn't like Pete at all. At least, from the little Patrick knew him.
"Uh huh." Morris sounded amused. "If you have any other questions, give us a call." He gave Patrick his card.
"Thanks," Patrick said, pocketing it. "Good luck."
Pete kept glaring 'til they were out of sight.
"What is wrong with you?" Patrick hissed, smacking his arm. "Do you have existing issues with them or something? Because if you do, and I don't know about it, and I just wandered into some kind of inter-departmental shit--"
"It's not a department thing," Pete said. "It's personal. Faller and I went to the academy together. We didn't exactly get along." He waved a hand. "Personality clash. It happens."
"Is it going to impede the case?"
"No," Pete said, "it's not." He shouldered his bag. "Come on, we're going to be late."
*
Patrick almost fucked up two sets that night, he was so busy watching the crowd. Everything seemed normal: there was no sign of Wilson or Conrad, and the customers were fairly well-behaved. No one looked definitively skeevy or weird, and no one was paying too much attention to the talent. Granted, he was still getting used to what "too much attention" meant when dealing with strippers, but he was actually starting to think he'd gotten the hang of it.
There was still no word from Allman or Steineckert, not that anyone was really expecting one at this point.
"His *mom* called today," Frankie said that night, as Patrick was helping him clean up. "Quinn, I mean."
Patrick frowned at him and stacked some chairs. "Is that normal?"
"None of this is normal," Frankie said flatly. "I just -- God, I *hope* he fucked off with someone, you know? Because if he did, he's not in a ditch somewh--" He stopped and pressed his mouth together in a thin line.
Patrick looked at him.
"Sorry," Frankie said after a second. "We were -- we are friends. Hooked up once or twice, before Gee. Quinn's a nice guy."
"I wish I'd met him," Patrick said. It took him a second to realize that he meant it, at least a little.
"Yeah," Frankie said. "He fucking loved redheads." He smiled, kind of sad, and shook his head. "It's not -- I'm not going to let myself, like, *really* freak out about it. Doesn't do anyone any good." He checked his watch. "Could you do me a favor and go in the back, check for stragglers? I'm going to find Gee and grab the keys."
"Right." Patrick stacked the last chair and headed for the back, shouldering the door open. "Yo! Frankie's locking up! All aboard, whoever's--"
Patrick stopped stock-still in the doorway, hand still gripping the doorframe.
Pete was kneeling behind Tyson -- though "behind" wasn't really the proper term; he was pressed flush against Tyson, one arm wrapped around his shoulders to brace himself. They were both naked; Tyson was keening a little, high soft sounds that made Patrick's stomach cramp.
"--coming," Patrick said, and let the door bang shut behind him.
It wasn't -- he'd ask Lieutenant Howard to take him off the case, because clearly Pete was getting along fucking beautifully with all concerned parties. There'd be paperwork, but they could assign someone else, maybe have Walker tell them all he was in some kind of a car accident, and oh my God Pete was fucking him, Pete was fucking someone. Pete was fucking Tyson, who apparently thought Patrick was some kind of loser, and none of this was getting them any closer to finding a fucking kidnapper, and--
"What's wrong with you?" Pete shouted, flinging the door open. His clothes looked mussed: unbuttoned fly, shirt at a weird angle. Like he'd just thrown them on.
Patrick turned to look at him. "Noth--"
"Don't give me 'nothing', you've been making snide comments under your fucking breath all day." Pete looked furious, hands fisted at his sides and jaw clenched. "No, fuck all day, since we met."
"Fuck you," Patrick snapped. "I'm not allowed to express an opinion?"
"There's expressing an opinion, and then there's being a total asshole," Pete said. "What, like you're too good for this? You're too good to be doing undercover work?"
"No!" He let out a deep breath. "God, you don't even--"
"I don't even *what*, Patrick?"
"You fucked him!" Patrick shouted. "You're the one who's done this before, you're the one who's supposed to know that we have boundaries, but there you are, going in the back and fucking a total stranger like some kind of whore."
"Ohhhh," Pete said softly. "So that's how it is, huh? You're freaked out because the guy who's watching your back might be taking a few seconds to stare at your ass, is that it?" His eyes gleamed.
If Patrick were even a little less angry, he'd have backed off. But they'd been doing this for over a week solid, they had no leads, and now someone else was missing. And there was no sign of any of the victims, alive or dead, which made Patrick's gut twist.
"Fuck you," he said again, low and *angry*, and turned to go.
"Homophobe," Pete said, and God, Patrick could *hear* him smirking. Like he'd figured something out. "This is fucking killing you, isn't it? Having to watch all these pretty boys watch each other, and knowing they're going to touch each other, and there probably won't be any women involved. Or maybe there will! Maybe it's men and women *and* men, and *that's* not in the Bible--"
"You don't know anything about me, Wentz."
"I know too much," Pete said. He sounded disgusted. "To think I fucking *trusted* you. I'm telling Howard to get you off the case."
Patrick burst out laughing. His eyes felt warm.
"You don't know anything," he said again, and kissed Pete on the mouth.
Pete was still against him for a long moment. Patrick let go and took a jerky step back. He had to stop and breathe before he spoke again, unless he wanted to start crying like a kid or something.
"Patrick--" Pete started, but Patrick shook his head.
"No," he said softly, mouth thinning out. "No, I can't -- just. I'll see you at the station tomorrow."
"Patrick."
Patrick shook his head again and turned towards his car--
--and really, it would've been great, except for the sound and feeling of something cracking over his head; and then darkness.
v.
Dark. Wherever he was, it was dark, and damp, and smelled like mildew. Patrick wrinkled his nose and tried to sit up.
It would have gone a lot easier, if not for the ropes holding him in place.
"Fuck," he groaned, lolling his head from side to side. "Ow, ow, ow--"
"Shut up," he heard Pete hiss in the darkness. "If he knows you're awake, he'll come back sooner."
"Pete?" Patrick looked around, a little wildly.
"Over here," Pete said. Patrick let his eyes adjust to the light and looked around again.
They were in a basement -- early morning, if the weak light filtering in through the window was any indication. Patrick was pretty sure he was tied to a chair, but that still put him better off than anyone else down there with him.
Pete was across the room, shackled by his ankle like something out of a really bad prison movie. From the 50s, even. He was still wearing what he'd had on when they'd left the night before, except there was a splash of dried red along one shoulder. That probably had something to do with the bandage on his head, Patrick guessed; it looked inexpertly patched, held in place with scotch tape. Next to him were a couple of faces he'd only seen in their files.
"Those are--"
"Allman and Steineckert," Pete said grimly. "Williams was here earlier; I think she's upstairs with him now."
"He's fucked up," Steineckert said hoarsely. "I didn't -- he said something about not wanting to have to deal with whores when he wanted entertainment, I don't -- seriously, I think he's crazy." He looked pale and exhausted, but pissed off, too; like that was fuel, somehow. Patrick had seen that expression back at the academy, on the faces of a lot of the people who'd washed out. He never thought he'd be glad to see it.
Better than Allman, who was breathing shallow and didn't appear to be conscious. "Is he okay?" Patrick asked.
"I don't think so," Pete said grimly. "He hasn't been conscious for very long, at least not since I woke up. Branden says he's got some kind of--"
"Heart condition," Branden said. "He needs medication, but that asshole confiscated it."
"Confiscated--" Patrick looked at Pete.
"My gun's gone," Pete said. "I already looked."
"What about your other gun?"
Pete looked at him.
"Your other gun," Patrick repeated. "You're allowed to carry two."
"I know that," Pete said defensively.
"And you didn't?" Patrick yelped.
"I was a stripper!" Pete yelped back. "Where do you suggest I could have put it?"
Patrick opened his mouth to answer.
"Is that the thing around your ankle?" Branden asked suddenly. "There's -- I mean, I can see a bulge or something, but that might just be the holster or something." He looked at Pete. "You were out when he brought you guys downstairs. He didn't do that great a job of frisking your friend."
Pete and Patrick looked at each other. Patrick toed off one shoe and slid it up under the leg of his jeans, feeling gingerly.
"Yeah," he said, "yeah, I think so."
"Can you reach it?" Pete asked.
Patrick shot him a look. "Right," he said brightly. "With my telekinesis--"
"Hop the fuck over here," Pete said, narrowing his eyes. "The chair's not bolted, and my hands are free. Just be careful."
"I know," Patrick said. "The gun's around *my* ankle, remember?"
It took a little while; Patrick didn't want to go too fast, for fear of landing wrong and tipping over, or discharging it accidentally. Even worse, there was no telling who was upstairs, or if he -- or she, or they -- were upstairs at all, let alone if the sound could have drawn them. A grown man scooting a metal chair across a concrete floor was not exactly silent.
"Did you recognize him?" Patrick asked. Hop, wait a minute. Hop, wait a minute.
Pete shook his head. "I was out cold when I got here, and Branden says he looks vaguely familiar but he couldn't put a name with the face."
Almost there... "Here," Patrick said, and hopped again. "Can you reach?"
"Yeah," Pete said, "yeah, I think so." He stretched as far as the chain would let him and fumbled his fingers around Patrick's ankle.
Patrick closed his eyes. "Sorry," he said quietly.
"For what?" Pete asked absently.
"We were distracted. If we hadn't been, we wouldn't be here now. You wouldn't be injured--"
"And we'd have no idea who was doing this," Pete said, smacking his leg. Patrick looked at him. "Hey," he added, voice going soft. "It's fine. We work with what we have, okay? Now we just have to get this guy and get out of here, and we're set." A tug, and--
"Got it," Pete said, pulling the gun free. He looked at it. "Fuck, what is this, a derringer?"
"Six rounds," Patrick said. "Four left. The last time I was at the range, I only did two."
Pete checked the chamber. "God willing, we won't need them." He tucked it away and looked at Patrick. "We'll be fine," he said. "No other choice."
"If." Patrick took a deep breath. "If anything happens--"
"Nothing's going to happen," Pete said.
"If anything happens," Patrick said again, but Pete's hand on his ankle cut him off. He looked at his partner.
"Nothing is going to happen," Pete said firmly. "It can't, right? We still need to have a conversation."
"He's not worth it," said a voice from the stairs. Pete and Patrick turned to look; Allman was still unconscious, and Steineckert looked whipped.
There was a guy standing there. Patrick tried to place him -- from the club, from any of their investigations -- but he came up blank. The guy was just...nondescript. He had sandy brown hair and a clear complexion; he wore dark pants, sneakers, and a plain black t-shirt. He was average height and weight, and he didn't have any visible tattoos, piercings, or birthmarks. There was absolutely nothing memorable about him in any way.
Except for the garbage bag he was carrying.
"Just let us go," Pete said, shifting so he was sitting curled in on himself. It looked like he was just miserable from the head wound, but it did a great job of hiding the gun. "Just -- man, c'mon, let us go. We won't file charges, or tell the cops, or anything."
"I can't do that," the guy said. Nothing memorable about his voice either: not too high-pitched, not too much bass. "If I did, you'd just tell the cops--"
"We just said we wouldn't!" Pete yelled.
"--or even worse, you'd get away. You'd go back there," he said, "and you'd, you'd go on sinning. You'd go on tempting and corrupting all those dancers."
"Fine," Pete said. "Keep us, great, no problem--" he ignored Branden's shout, at that "--but what does *he* have to do with it?" He nodded at Patrick.
"He's like a snake charmer." The guy shifted against the wall and took his watch off, slipped it in the bag. His shoes and socks followed. "He plays the music that tempts the innocents inside. I'll get the other one too, the one who keeps the doors open, but not yet."
"And the girl?"
"No," the guy said, shaking his head. "No more talking." He knelt down and reached in the bag. "It'll hurt less if you don't fight--"
"ASSHOLE!" someone shouted. Patrick had just enough time to see a girl with maroon hair -- Hayley Williams, he guessed -- tackle the guy and knock him down the stairs.
Pete drew the gun. "Get clear!" he shouted.
After that, it was kind of a blur. Williams was fighting and kicking the guy; Pete had the gun out; Branden was yelling. Patrick pulled at the ropes, trying to get free.
"SHOOT HIM!" Williams screamed.
"TRYING TO!" Pete screamed back.
Patrick tugged at the ropes.
The guy screamed something unintelligible and shoved Williams, hard, sending her sprawling against the bottom of the stairs. He vaulted over the railing and went straight for Pete.
"NO!" Patrick screamed, and threw himself between them.
"Patrick, don't--" Pete started.
The guy shoved Patrick out of the way. Patrick heard the wood crack and start to give, but the pain blossoming in his head wasn't allowing for anything else.
"Don't," he started, weakly, and the world swam away.
vi.
When Patrick opened his eyes, he was in the hospital.
"Fuck," he rasped, closing his eyes again. He hated hospitals. They smelled like death and bad news and antiseptic, and the staff was so *chipper*. It seemed unnatural. "Hello?" Opened his eyes again--
From the chair next to the bed, Pete said, "You look like hell."
Patrick tried to focus on him. There was a butterfly bandage on his forehead and dark circles under his eyes, but other than that he looked all right. Not perfect, maybe, but it wasn't like *he* was the one in a hospital bed, complete with tiny beeping monitors and an IV in his hand. "How--" He coughed, reached for the water.
"Here," Pete said, pressing a plastic cup into his hand. "Drink it slow. You've been out for a while."
Patrick sipped it, though it was hard; what he really wanted to do was gulp it. But there was no guarantee he wouldn't just throw it back up in a minute or so if he did that, so sipping it was. "How long--"
"Just over twenty-four hours," Pete said. "You regained consciousness once in the bus, and I think once or twice when they were prepping you for surgery, but after that, boom! nothing." He took the cup and filled it halfway, handed it back.
"What happened?" Patrick asked.
"You didn't kill him," Pete said. "He -- does the name Daniel Whitesides mean anything to you?"
Patrick thought for a second, then shook his head. "It didn't come up anywhere."
"It might not've," Pete said. "He wasn't a customer. He worked as a DJ last year, when Walker was doing the taxes."
Patrick tried to think. "Bill mentioned something about that once, I think," he said.
Pete nodded. "And while he was here, he made sure to plant bugs all over the club -- mostly backstage, but one behind the bar and another in Walker's office." He held up a hand. "And before you ask, no, he won't say why. He just keeps muttering about not being done, and that we should let him go before 'they' get away."
"Well," Patrick said after a minute. "That doesn't sound totally crazy, does it."
"Oh, it gets better," Pete said grimly. "CSU went through the house and found all kinds of shit upstairs. Mostly medical books, and a lot of true crime novels. Most of *those* were about kidnappings, and he had sections crossed out because they didn't work. There were notations and everything." He snorted. "I'm trying not to think about why he had three guys tied up downstairs and one woman."
"Williams," Patrick said. "Is she--"
"She's fine," Pete said. "No signs of sexual abuse. She and Steineckert are scheduled to be released this afternoon. They're keeping Allman a little longer for observation, but the doctors say he should be fine, too." He smiled a little. "*You*, they want to keep a little longer, mostly because of the two head wounds."
"That's -- wait, two?"
"You hit your head on the floor when you got knocked backwards." Pete's voice was quiet, which was surprising enough to get his attention. "It wasn't...I don't want to say it was close, that's not what I mean, but people kept peering in on you and muttering things to each other while they made notes on your chart." He nodded to the clipboard at the end of the bed. "I tried to make sense of it, but I'm not fluent in chickenscratch."
"You tried to make sense of it," Patrick said dumbly. "Have you even been home yet?"
"For a few minutes," Pete said, not meeting his eyes. "To shower and shave and stuff."
"So how--"
"Okay, fine, I showered and shaved in your bathroom," he said in a rush. "Jesus, pry it out of me, why don't you."
Patrick stared at him for a second, then fumbled for the bed switch. He smacked Pete's hands away when he tried to help -- "I hurt, I'm not invalid" -- and raised the bed 'til he was sitting up.
"I don't," he finally said, and stopped. "What are you doing?"
Pete stared at him. "Um, telling you how the investigation is going?" he said slowly, eyebrow raised.
"Not that." Patrick shook his head. "What we were talking about, before we got blindsided. And you spending the night here, even though I was unconscious."
Pete was quiet for so long, Patrick was pretty sure he wasn't going to say anything. He sighed and punched his pillow, started to turn onto his side. If they weren't going to talk, whatever, fine, but he was damn sure going to get some sleep.
"It's not like I advertise," Patrick said. "'Hey, I'm in Vice! Want to play pool and maybe fuck around afterwards?' isn't really the best way to approach it." He pulled the chair over next to the bed and started tapping his fingers along the railing. "And I didn't -- you were so pissed about me calling you fat--"
"Because you called me fat," Patrick said.
"Can I talk?"
Patrick glared, but didn't say anything else.
"Thank you," Pete said. "But I didn't...I didn't really think anything of it. You weren't interested, you couldn't read my signals, fine. It's not a big deal." He let out a breath. "But you were flirting with people -- unconsciously, maybe, but still. You were flirting with people, and then Spencer, at dinner the other ni--you kissed him," he said, sounding bewildered. "And all I was thinking was, 'why not me?'"
"You were with Tyson," Patrick said slowly. "You were with him. And I don't...that's your personal life, whatever, I don't care, but I'm not going to make a move on someone who is A, clearly not interested, and B, already seeing someone."
"I'm not seeing Tyson!" Pete yelled. "I was never seeing Tyson!"
"Biblically--"
"Oh my God," Pete said, "shut up," and launched himself out of the crappy fake-wood chair to kiss Patrick's mouth.
Admittedly, Patrick had had better kisses; but then, it wasn't every day he was in the hospital, either. He figured it was the beeping and creepy hospital smell that threw him off, because it clearly wasn't Pete's fault.
Pete pulled back enough to look him in the eye. "I'm not seeing him," he said quietly. "I'm not seeing anybody. ‘Fucking’ and ‘dating’ are not always synonyms. You're stubborn, and you form first impressions that suck and don't waver from them without, like, a court order. And I want to go to dinner with you."
Patrick looked at him, gaping a little.
"Or a basketball game, or a movie, whatever," he added. "I'm not particular."
"Apparently," Patrick muttered. Pete glared at him. "Seriously, you have the worst approach *ever*."
"It worked great in grade school," Pete said. "Come on, say yes. Take pity on the guy with the head wound."
Patrick pointed to his own head. "Uh, hi?"
"Oh, what? That's a concussion. I needed stitches."
"You're such a dick," Patrick muttered. "Yes."
"Oh, like you didn't kn--" Pete stopped and looked at him.
"Dinner's fine," Patrick said. "But not now, obviously."
"Well, obviously." Pete was still blinking. "...I didn't actually think that would work."
"See, if you'd talked to me instead of spending all your time shaking your ass on stage--"
"For work," Pete said, "it was my job." He looked a little less startled. "Keep that up, you're never gonna get me to come out of retirement."
"Retirement?"
"Case is over, except for the trial," Pete said. "I'm heading back to Vice." He sat back down. "But, you know, I've been thinking about transferring to Major Crimes, maybe."
"Really," Patrick said.
"Maybe," Pete said. "I don't know. I kind of like Vice. I'm on a first-name basis with prostitues. I got to shoot a guy in the back of the leg once for running a dog-fighting ring, that was kind of awesome." He rested his head on his arms. "So what are you gonna do, Detective Stump?"
"Right," Patrick snorted. "Detective."
"You slept through the press conference," Pete said, smiling a little. "I think the phrase used was 'for showing honor and valor above the line of duty'?"
"I--" Patrick's eyes felt huge. "I don't. I don't know what to--"
"It's fine, the PBA rep will be here later. Probably with Howard, who almost decked a photographer who tried to sneak in and get a picture of the boy hero." Pete shrugged. "I tried to tell him that you're not a boy, but he was too busy decrying police brutality."
"Asshole," Patrick said. "The photographer, obviously, not the lieutenant."
"Uh huh." Pete looked amused. "So I'm gonna go and get changed, maybe take an actual shower--"
"Okay," Patrick said faintly. "I'm just going to pass out again." He shifted against the pillow and closed his eyes.
He could hear, above the beeping and whir-hiss noises, the sound of shoes squeaking on tile. That part was a little soothing, he decided. A little. The same way Pete was a little charming, which kind of redeemed him for all the times he was more than three-quarters asshole.
"Maybe ten more minutes," Patrick heard Pete mutter, "just 'til you fall asleep."
Patrick smiled. "'kay," he said sleepily, and then he was out.
*
1) i fucking hate procedurals. and you can kind of tell, because i sort of suck at it. any and all police work in these pages is gleaned from either waaaaaaay too many episodes of law & order and homicide: life on the street, or that time i tried to write that popslash/alien nation crossover where justin timberlake was an fbi agent set to protect jc chasez, up-and-coming newcomer popstar. yeah. didn't see *that* one coming, did you? (that one is sitting in my wip file: 33 pages, maybe a third finished, and mocking me.)
2) it took me an embarrassing time to write this, mostly because -- okay, look, dyw guys? as strippers *and* cops? yeah, i took one look at that and went, "fuck, this is *never going to be finished*." and it very nearly wasn't. as it is, in 10-point times new roman, it clocks in at 28 pages. 28 pages. yeah. it's never the simple ones that end with me writing fucking novels; it's the complicated shit.
i don't honestly think i could have crammed more cameos into this thing if i fucking *tried*. which, oh, look, i did.
3) this was greatly facilitated by several things: stonedtodeath and beatpropx's stripper!au on sidekickfic; the pseudo-sequel tacks and i are...still kind of writing, technically; the pole footage from b-sides; the *official* sort-of-sequel WIP written by acroamatica.
4) ...so, logically, i finish the goddamn story and promptly start the pornographic epilogue. because THAT'S HOW I ROLL. coming soon! pun intended!