obsolete models a specialty.
Watchmen.
Like the cars he works on, Hollis Mason is all too familiar with dealing in the obsolete.
More Hollis/Moloch, written for the kink meme. (I admit that I might have a problem.)
It's like stepping forty years into the past.
The bright, jaunty piano notes of some novelty rag rising above the din of laughter and conversation; the neat clink of glasses against one another (toasting, perhaps); thick smoke curling around the ankles of the largely male crowd, rising to twist up in the air, laughter broad and guileless.
(A "candy store for men"; that's what his father used to call these places, these vice dens.)
It's difficult to see through the dense haze of smoke, and something that smells like incense tickles his nose, but Hollis presses through until he finds the bar slanted against the back wall, gleaming mirror reflecting the lazy activity behind him. Not many seconds have passed before a dark-haired young woman in a slinky gold gown sidles up, expression much too friendly to be just a smile curving her lips.
He's polite, but firm, when he turns down whatever she's offering - he came for a drink (or three), and then he'll be on his way.
She nods and moves past him to speak to the bartender, hiding disappointment well if she's feeling any at all (and it's doubtful, seeing as there's likely more wealthy prospects than him littering the other barstools). It seems like only moments before a cool glass slides towards him on the counter, and he smiles at the heavyset barman before knocking back his first gulp.
Canvas banners - advertising sword swallowers and fire breathers, ape men and snake women and illustrated girls (tattoos writhing over young flesh) - drape the walls not covered in mirrors; women nestled inside clear coffins made of ice are held aloft on wooden platforms (ready to emerge unscathed hours later, beaming and shaking off chipped ice from smooth shoulders); a young man in an impeccably neat three-piece suit stands near the ice maidens, holding out a bowl of what appears to be scalding lava in front of his lips and prepares to drink.
It would be easy to shut his eyes to everyone else, to absorb the music, the atmosphere, and pretend he's suddenly twelve years old again, preparing for another shift at Moe Vernon's, hands steady and patient over the innards of a car. He does close his eyes, and he thinks he hears the purr of an engine, breathing in the sharp scent of motor oil. Things he finds familiar comfort in.
Before retirement, the last time he'd tried fixing a car had been the night of the wedding. He'd declined champagne at the reception, but when he arrived home, frustrated, alone (half full of regret, half full of heartache), he'd caved and gotten so drunk that at two in the morning, he decided it would be a good idea to fix his rusting Studebaker. (He'd ended up gutting the damn thing so badly that he'd barely had enough left to scrap and sell for parts a week later.)
"Isn't this a surprise," says a low voice, smoothly, to his right, and he doesn't need to open his eyes to know who just sat next to him. "Never imagined you'd become a client, sir."
(He knows "sir" is being used as an insult.)
---
Moloch is tall without being imposing; slim without being gangling. He's a rattle of silver skull pendant, of emerald ribbon, gaudy rings with glimmering gemstones (ugly under the light); all sleek bones, licorice black hair, and expensive liquor.
"Archana is one of our more popular girls," he's saying, stirring his drink. "She's... imaginative. Has built quite the reputation on that. As we're old acquaintances, I can certainly arrange a discount of some sort..." Dragging out the last few words, he purses his lips and glances up when Hollis fails to respond. "No?"
Hollis takes another swig from his beer, grimacing with a harsh cough when it goes down the wrong pipe.
"Hmm."
(He seems determined to turn this one-sided conversation into a perverted guessing game.)
"A blonde? Blondes are rare, here; I confess to favoring the more exotic-looking girls. Makes our place of business stand out from the others, you understand." Seeing no reaction, his eyes glint, almost cruelly, before he adds in an innocent tone, "Perhaps, a redhead?"
Hollis drops his mug to the counter, the sound lost in the shadow of laughter, clanking glasses and silverware. If he'd dropped it from a higher distance than those scant few inches, it almost certainly would have shattered.
"Am I getting warmer?" Moloch whispers.
Hollis slaps a ten on the counter, no longer in any mood for this. The other man's taunting has long strayed from casual teasing and slowly stumbled into something more personal. More vicious.
"We've only one, I'm afraid, but I'm almost certain she's free at the moment. She goes by Eris, but it would certainly be no problem if you wished to call her... well." Moloch chuckles. "Something else."
Hollis finally breaks. Jerking his whole body around on the stool so that they're facing one another, he unleashes the full force of his glare on the other man.
"What in the hell are you playing at?" His fists are clenching and unclenching, almost shaking, but he barely notices.
The other man blinks, nonplussed, before taking a long sip from his own glass.
"Playing at nothing. Merely curious." Moloch's voice takes on a new, deliberately nonchalant tone. "You're in your forties, not unattractive. But unmarried, it would seem. I am well-informed in the science of modern psychology; it leads the mind to wonder."
Hollis opens his mouth to defend himself, to tell the other man exactly where he can stick this reverse psychology bullshit - but before he can force the words out, Moloch continues.
"You say you're here for just a drink," he stresses the word 'drink' as if it were a private joke he was enjoying, "yet there are countless other places that would be... let us say, better suited to your personal tastes." He folds his hands.
He smiles, slowly.
"Now, why don't you tell me why you're really here?"
---
His limbs are getting slower; it takes effort to merely raise a hand to his temple.
("I'm sure you know I took the liberty of lacing your last drink. Thought it might remind you of old times.")
---
"You missed me."
The other man sounds utterly delighted by the idea. Hollis knows better than to try telling him he's wrong.
(He missed this - the slow thrill of confrontation; of preparing for unyielding battle.)
"You've retired from the game, but can't give up the people involved. Is that right? It's... endearing, I have to say."
The door locks behind him.
"And rather stupid."
He turns, teeth bared in an unfriendly grin, before advancing on him.
---
The lavish armchairs and footstools decorating the private alcove are all likely bought with blood money.
He's being supported against the wall by nothing more than tapered hands holding fast to the front of his sensible, decades old sweater.
(it's been years since he's been trapped in a corner by a real, physical threat instead of his own nagging doubts)
Even though it's an ungodly hot temperature, now that he's fully awake, he feels gooseflesh breaking out over his skin - that tense, exciting feeling that used to flare in his chest right before throwing the first punch of a fight - and then the other man clamps his mouth over his without warning, lips hard and teeth sharp, and suddenly Hollis has trouble thinking.
Another man - not just another man, but Moloch, former arch-enemy, former moral opposite, still a far-from-retired villain - is kissing him, brutal and tender and thorough, and as hands slide and fist in his hair, he groans low in his throat without realizing it. The sleek black hair covering Moloch's chin tickles against Hollis's lips when the other man finally pulls away, breathing hard.
"Well."
Hollis waits for more; maybe another string of merciless taunts. But, apparently, suctioning his mouth over Hollis's like a goddamned vacuum has drained him of articulance for the moment.
"I've always wanted to break you," he finally says, conversationally; easily as if they're chatting about the score of a baseball game. Then a shadow passes over his face and it almost looks like regret. "But I suppose I'll have to settle for fucking you, instead."
The vulgar admission is enough to stun Hollis into silence. Before he knows it, the other man has him pinned against the wall, his long lean frame shadowing Hollis's, and it doesn't matter that even as a retired man he outweighs Moloch by at least twenty pounds of solid muscle; he still has difficulty when he tries to push him off.
---
Moloch stretches his neck and brings his mouth close to Hollis's ear, whispering against flushed skin as he cruelly begins his assault on his body, hot breath a contrast to cool hands sliding beneath and up his sweater, dragging and catching against flesh, tracing patterns between his ribs, smallest finger dragging against his navel; he tells him that he smells common, like filth (Motor oil and dirt, actually, Hollis thinks, bemused), but when he finally gives in, thinking, All right, fine, two can play this game, and pushes his tongue against the younger man's with surprising strength - the paper-thin insults die instantly.
There's fever in his eyes, in his fingers; mouth hot, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed, color high and dark on his cheekbones, and it's almost as good as being thrown into a fight unprepared, because when the other man bites down on his lip and hisses, he thinks of the first time he aimed a punch at him, years back - when Moloch had still been an arrogant, smirking teenager and Hollis had been in his twenties (still a cop on slow days), eager to clean up the streets. He thinks of the broad smiles that bloomed on his face after throwing each hit, beating criminals turned almost into a carnival skill game - except there were no Kewpie dolls to be won, only the satisfaction of a safer city and handcuffs clinking over defeated wrists.
There'd never been such closure with Moloch; the man was far too elusive for that.
And now that he's breathing hard against Hollis's mouth, lips grazing against his, Hollis thinks that this-- this is the closest he'll ever come to truly defeating him.
When Moloch grinds a sharp knee between his legs, he tenses, waiting for the trick to swing into effect; for the set-up that was planned all along to unfold, hired goons storming into the room so they can tie him up, hold him as bait until Danny and the others arrive - but the other man just moans, sounding (oh, Jesus)... sounding desperate.
It becomes almost impossible to talk, like his windpipe is glued shut, but Hollis finally manages (more a question than anything else), "God, you actually want this," and a hand only clutches at his hip in response.
(If this is just some game, then Moloch's become a hell of a convincing actor since Hollis retired.)
Shirt sleeves rolled smartly to his elbows, twisted ink crawling over his forearms in patterns that almost resemble spiderwebs in this light (We called them illustrated men, back when I was a kid, Hollis thinks, dimly), Moloch reaches around until his nails scrape against shoulder blades, describing in lurid detail the various torture instruments scattered around the room (a garrote, and poire d'angoisse, and, perhaps worst of all, the Judas Chair, used to stretch a man beyond the brink of indescribable pain, starting with being slowly lowered, impaled, over its jutting pyramid-shaped seat), and Hollis realizes with dry terror and humor that this isn't supposed to be threatening; the other man is actually trying to show off.
He hates admitting it, but it's not much of a stretch to see similarities between Moloch and Sally - that unashamed lust for the theatric, the constant craving for attention; both teenaged runaways who performed on stage in some capacity before taking up masked adventuring - and it's this, remembering the subtle sway of her hips when she'd brushed by him sometimes at meetings, the confident swagger of Moloch's own the first time he'd trapped all of them just where he wanted them, that keeps him from protesting when a sly tongue darts over his pulse points; that makes it easy to forget,
(there's grey threading his temples, those tired lines growing around his eyes and mouth)
and it's suddenly easy to pretend he's the Shadow battling The Prince of Evil, seduced by some elaborate scheme, and tension coils low in his stomach, somehow both better and worse than it used to be after a fight.
---
(Why? he wants to ask, later, but quite can't. As it turns out, he doesn't have to.)
"The graduates of the old school," the other man says, and exhales tobacco smoke and victory, an elegant curl to his words. "We take care of our own, you know."
(Moloch lazily rakes a hand over his side, fingers digging into spaces separating ribs, and he figures it's better than no answer at all.)
Like the cars he works on, Hollis Mason is all too familiar with dealing in the obsolete.
More Hollis/Moloch, written for the kink meme. (I admit that I might have a problem.)
It's like stepping forty years into the past.
The bright, jaunty piano notes of some novelty rag rising above the din of laughter and conversation; the neat clink of glasses against one another (toasting, perhaps); thick smoke curling around the ankles of the largely male crowd, rising to twist up in the air, laughter broad and guileless.
(A "candy store for men"; that's what his father used to call these places, these vice dens.)
It's difficult to see through the dense haze of smoke, and something that smells like incense tickles his nose, but Hollis presses through until he finds the bar slanted against the back wall, gleaming mirror reflecting the lazy activity behind him. Not many seconds have passed before a dark-haired young woman in a slinky gold gown sidles up, expression much too friendly to be just a smile curving her lips.
He's polite, but firm, when he turns down whatever she's offering - he came for a drink (or three), and then he'll be on his way.
She nods and moves past him to speak to the bartender, hiding disappointment well if she's feeling any at all (and it's doubtful, seeing as there's likely more wealthy prospects than him littering the other barstools). It seems like only moments before a cool glass slides towards him on the counter, and he smiles at the heavyset barman before knocking back his first gulp.
Canvas banners - advertising sword swallowers and fire breathers, ape men and snake women and illustrated girls (tattoos writhing over young flesh) - drape the walls not covered in mirrors; women nestled inside clear coffins made of ice are held aloft on wooden platforms (ready to emerge unscathed hours later, beaming and shaking off chipped ice from smooth shoulders); a young man in an impeccably neat three-piece suit stands near the ice maidens, holding out a bowl of what appears to be scalding lava in front of his lips and prepares to drink.
It would be easy to shut his eyes to everyone else, to absorb the music, the atmosphere, and pretend he's suddenly twelve years old again, preparing for another shift at Moe Vernon's, hands steady and patient over the innards of a car. He does close his eyes, and he thinks he hears the purr of an engine, breathing in the sharp scent of motor oil. Things he finds familiar comfort in.
Before retirement, the last time he'd tried fixing a car had been the night of the wedding. He'd declined champagne at the reception, but when he arrived home, frustrated, alone (half full of regret, half full of heartache), he'd caved and gotten so drunk that at two in the morning, he decided it would be a good idea to fix his rusting Studebaker. (He'd ended up gutting the damn thing so badly that he'd barely had enough left to scrap and sell for parts a week later.)
"Isn't this a surprise," says a low voice, smoothly, to his right, and he doesn't need to open his eyes to know who just sat next to him. "Never imagined you'd become a client, sir."
(He knows "sir" is being used as an insult.)
---
Moloch is tall without being imposing; slim without being gangling. He's a rattle of silver skull pendant, of emerald ribbon, gaudy rings with glimmering gemstones (ugly under the light); all sleek bones, licorice black hair, and expensive liquor.
"Archana is one of our more popular girls," he's saying, stirring his drink. "She's... imaginative. Has built quite the reputation on that. As we're old acquaintances, I can certainly arrange a discount of some sort..." Dragging out the last few words, he purses his lips and glances up when Hollis fails to respond. "No?"
Hollis takes another swig from his beer, grimacing with a harsh cough when it goes down the wrong pipe.
"Hmm."
(He seems determined to turn this one-sided conversation into a perverted guessing game.)
"A blonde? Blondes are rare, here; I confess to favoring the more exotic-looking girls. Makes our place of business stand out from the others, you understand." Seeing no reaction, his eyes glint, almost cruelly, before he adds in an innocent tone, "Perhaps, a redhead?"
Hollis drops his mug to the counter, the sound lost in the shadow of laughter, clanking glasses and silverware. If he'd dropped it from a higher distance than those scant few inches, it almost certainly would have shattered.
"Am I getting warmer?" Moloch whispers.
Hollis slaps a ten on the counter, no longer in any mood for this. The other man's taunting has long strayed from casual teasing and slowly stumbled into something more personal. More vicious.
"We've only one, I'm afraid, but I'm almost certain she's free at the moment. She goes by Eris, but it would certainly be no problem if you wished to call her... well." Moloch chuckles. "Something else."
Hollis finally breaks. Jerking his whole body around on the stool so that they're facing one another, he unleashes the full force of his glare on the other man.
"What in the hell are you playing at?" His fists are clenching and unclenching, almost shaking, but he barely notices.
The other man blinks, nonplussed, before taking a long sip from his own glass.
"Playing at nothing. Merely curious." Moloch's voice takes on a new, deliberately nonchalant tone. "You're in your forties, not unattractive. But unmarried, it would seem. I am well-informed in the science of modern psychology; it leads the mind to wonder."
Hollis opens his mouth to defend himself, to tell the other man exactly where he can stick this reverse psychology bullshit - but before he can force the words out, Moloch continues.
"You say you're here for just a drink," he stresses the word 'drink' as if it were a private joke he was enjoying, "yet there are countless other places that would be... let us say, better suited to your personal tastes." He folds his hands.
He smiles, slowly.
"Now, why don't you tell me why you're really here?"
---
His limbs are getting slower; it takes effort to merely raise a hand to his temple.
("I'm sure you know I took the liberty of lacing your last drink. Thought it might remind you of old times.")
---
"You missed me."
The other man sounds utterly delighted by the idea. Hollis knows better than to try telling him he's wrong.
(He missed this - the slow thrill of confrontation; of preparing for unyielding battle.)
"You've retired from the game, but can't give up the people involved. Is that right? It's... endearing, I have to say."
The door locks behind him.
"And rather stupid."
He turns, teeth bared in an unfriendly grin, before advancing on him.
---
The lavish armchairs and footstools decorating the private alcove are all likely bought with blood money.
He's being supported against the wall by nothing more than tapered hands holding fast to the front of his sensible, decades old sweater.
(it's been years since he's been trapped in a corner by a real, physical threat instead of his own nagging doubts)
Even though it's an ungodly hot temperature, now that he's fully awake, he feels gooseflesh breaking out over his skin - that tense, exciting feeling that used to flare in his chest right before throwing the first punch of a fight - and then the other man clamps his mouth over his without warning, lips hard and teeth sharp, and suddenly Hollis has trouble thinking.
Another man - not just another man, but Moloch, former arch-enemy, former moral opposite, still a far-from-retired villain - is kissing him, brutal and tender and thorough, and as hands slide and fist in his hair, he groans low in his throat without realizing it. The sleek black hair covering Moloch's chin tickles against Hollis's lips when the other man finally pulls away, breathing hard.
"Well."
Hollis waits for more; maybe another string of merciless taunts. But, apparently, suctioning his mouth over Hollis's like a goddamned vacuum has drained him of articulance for the moment.
"I've always wanted to break you," he finally says, conversationally; easily as if they're chatting about the score of a baseball game. Then a shadow passes over his face and it almost looks like regret. "But I suppose I'll have to settle for fucking you, instead."
The vulgar admission is enough to stun Hollis into silence. Before he knows it, the other man has him pinned against the wall, his long lean frame shadowing Hollis's, and it doesn't matter that even as a retired man he outweighs Moloch by at least twenty pounds of solid muscle; he still has difficulty when he tries to push him off.
---
Moloch stretches his neck and brings his mouth close to Hollis's ear, whispering against flushed skin as he cruelly begins his assault on his body, hot breath a contrast to cool hands sliding beneath and up his sweater, dragging and catching against flesh, tracing patterns between his ribs, smallest finger dragging against his navel; he tells him that he smells common, like filth (Motor oil and dirt, actually, Hollis thinks, bemused), but when he finally gives in, thinking, All right, fine, two can play this game, and pushes his tongue against the younger man's with surprising strength - the paper-thin insults die instantly.
There's fever in his eyes, in his fingers; mouth hot, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed, color high and dark on his cheekbones, and it's almost as good as being thrown into a fight unprepared, because when the other man bites down on his lip and hisses, he thinks of the first time he aimed a punch at him, years back - when Moloch had still been an arrogant, smirking teenager and Hollis had been in his twenties (still a cop on slow days), eager to clean up the streets. He thinks of the broad smiles that bloomed on his face after throwing each hit, beating criminals turned almost into a carnival skill game - except there were no Kewpie dolls to be won, only the satisfaction of a safer city and handcuffs clinking over defeated wrists.
There'd never been such closure with Moloch; the man was far too elusive for that.
And now that he's breathing hard against Hollis's mouth, lips grazing against his, Hollis thinks that this-- this is the closest he'll ever come to truly defeating him.
When Moloch grinds a sharp knee between his legs, he tenses, waiting for the trick to swing into effect; for the set-up that was planned all along to unfold, hired goons storming into the room so they can tie him up, hold him as bait until Danny and the others arrive - but the other man just moans, sounding (oh, Jesus)... sounding desperate.
It becomes almost impossible to talk, like his windpipe is glued shut, but Hollis finally manages (more a question than anything else), "God, you actually want this," and a hand only clutches at his hip in response.
(If this is just some game, then Moloch's become a hell of a convincing actor since Hollis retired.)
Shirt sleeves rolled smartly to his elbows, twisted ink crawling over his forearms in patterns that almost resemble spiderwebs in this light (We called them illustrated men, back when I was a kid, Hollis thinks, dimly), Moloch reaches around until his nails scrape against shoulder blades, describing in lurid detail the various torture instruments scattered around the room (a garrote, and poire d'angoisse, and, perhaps worst of all, the Judas Chair, used to stretch a man beyond the brink of indescribable pain, starting with being slowly lowered, impaled, over its jutting pyramid-shaped seat), and Hollis realizes with dry terror and humor that this isn't supposed to be threatening; the other man is actually trying to show off.
He hates admitting it, but it's not much of a stretch to see similarities between Moloch and Sally - that unashamed lust for the theatric, the constant craving for attention; both teenaged runaways who performed on stage in some capacity before taking up masked adventuring - and it's this, remembering the subtle sway of her hips when she'd brushed by him sometimes at meetings, the confident swagger of Moloch's own the first time he'd trapped all of them just where he wanted them, that keeps him from protesting when a sly tongue darts over his pulse points; that makes it easy to forget,
(there's grey threading his temples, those tired lines growing around his eyes and mouth)
and it's suddenly easy to pretend he's the Shadow battling The Prince of Evil, seduced by some elaborate scheme, and tension coils low in his stomach, somehow both better and worse than it used to be after a fight.
---
(Why? he wants to ask, later, but quite can't. As it turns out, he doesn't have to.)
"The graduates of the old school," the other man says, and exhales tobacco smoke and victory, an elegant curl to his words. "We take care of our own, you know."
(Moloch lazily rakes a hand over his side, fingers digging into spaces separating ribs, and he figures it's better than no answer at all.)