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Jun. 15th, 2011 09:51 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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monaboyd_monthGood morning (or, good afternoon, depending on where you dwell) fellow Monaboydians. I come bearing fic, which I now present to you most humbly. I hope you enjoy it.
This story is complete, however I will post it in two parts, the first now, the second later on, perhaps on the free-for-all day.
Title: The Incident 1/2
Author: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
babydazzle
babydazzle Pairing: BB/DM
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,966
Summary: Billy finds out what he's made of when things go awry. Love ensues.
Warnings: Delicate subject matter.
Disclaimer: Not true.
Feedback: Welcome.
Beta: Thank you to dizzydame for the last minute proof-read.
dizzydame for the last minute proof-read.A/N: This sprung from a prompt planted by eff_reality eons ago, however it grew legs and ran wild. I can't recall the exact request or the wording of the prompt--I think it had something to do with Dom dancing and the word filth--but I'm sure she didn't have this in mind.
eff_reality eons ago, however it grew legs and ran wild. I can't recall the exact request or the wording of the prompt--I think it had something to do with Dom dancing and the word filth--but I'm sure she didn't have this in mind.A/N 2: I took some pharmaceutical liberties here. Salt to taste.
The Lad Pad
London, England
9:41pm
After three quarters of a glass of scotch, neat, and a half hour checking out the talent on the dance floor, Billy’s prepared to call it a night.
It’s just like any other gay club, despite the hype: the same music and the same scene; the same overly-muscular blokes wearing too much aftershave and the same queens at the other end of the spectrum, with no one remotely natural or normal-looking in between. Or at least no one Billy would consider dating.
He’s just about to leave, when he catches a glimpse of a lad with blonde hair and a slender body dancing just within the perimeter of the dance floor, and he decides he’ll stay a bit longer after all.
As it happens, the sea of people undulate just so, bringing said lad somewhat closer in proximity to Billy’s location at the bar, allowing him a better view. The young man’s not conventionally handsome, but he’s definitely cute, with wildly-styled hair and kohl-rimmed eyes. His trousers fit snugly in all the right places, accentuating a perfectly round arse, and his t-shirt’s just short enough to expose a sliver of taut skin every few moments as he moves.
He’s actually quite stunning, if a bit young, but then Billy trusts that the mammoth bouncers out front have taken appropriate measures to check the lad’s identification card, aside from collecting an exorbitant entry fee.
At least he hopes they have.
Nevertheless, the lad’s out there, and, more importantly, sans dance partner as far as Billy can tell, writhing in time to the music pulsing through the sound system, already a few drinks into his buzz, if his obvious lack of inhibition is anything to go by.
Billy loosens his tie, suddenly feeling the wrong side of thirty and frumpy in his business attire. He drains the last of his scotch, convincing himself to approach the lad—no guts, no glory, he thinks, but before he can depart from his place at the bar, a tall, dark bloke slithers up behind the boy with a proffered drink, which the boy accepts.
Discouraged, Billy lowers himself back down into his seat, rests his forearms on the bar top. He’d pay his bill and hit the road, but the barman’s busy taking orders from a group of fag hags on the other side of the bar. Billy waits for him to work his way back over his direction and turns to watch the lad once more. He’s still dancing with the same dark-haired bloke, who pulls him back against his hips and grinds against his backside so forcefully that Billy reckons he might wear holes in both the men’s trousers.
Billy has to roll his eyes at that. What an original move and so suave, he thinks derisively, however Billy can’t say he wouldn’t like to do the same.
Surprisingly, though, the lad doesn’t show much of a reaction to it one way or another. Whether he’s lost in the music or disinterested in the advance, Billy can’t quite tell, but an optimistic voice in his head tells him to wait the song out, to see if the other man moves on.
He orders another scotch while he waits and takes a swig, tracking the lad’s gradual progression across the dance floor, Tall/Dark/Handsome caboose in tow.
After another half a scotch, it seems to Billy that the boy has slowed a bit, his movements more subtle, almost sluggish, and not quite in time with the music anymore. Then on second thought, Billy imagines it must be difficult to dance with a cock stuck up one’s arse.
That thought goes straight to Billy’s prick, prompting yet another thought—one of bending the lad over the sink in the gent’s, taking him hard and deep, though he’d never do anything of the sort. He’s not ‘that guy’, some sorry bloke with his trousers round his ankles, fucking some twink in a filthy toilet because he lacks the patience or class to go through the motions of a proper date. No, Billy’s a sophisticated sorry bloke, who will either buy this lad dinner (or a drink at the very least) and take him home, or buy himself another scotch and flick through the abundance of smutty images filed away in the pornographic section of his mind while he tosses off in the privacy of his own manky loo, thank you very much.
As if on cue, the lad lends him even more fodder: He alternately sucks and chews on the straw protruding from his glass, managing to look both petulant and euphoric all at once as the man behind him alternately kisses and licks his neck. Billy lets his eyes rove over the boy’s wiry body, his subtly defined arms, his long, ringed fingers encircling the glass, and imagines those fingers encircling something else.
But when the other man works his hands up under the hem of the lad’s t-shirt and smoothes them up his sides, drawing the fabric up to brush his fingertips across the lad’s nipples, Billy begins to feel unforgivably voyeuristic and pathetic.
He’s about to look away (honestly, he swears) when the lad’s head tips back in obvious arousal and their eyes meet.
Billy does divert his eyes then, briefly. Caught out and slightly embarrassed, he takes another swig off his drink and swirls it around, buying time until he can sneak another peek nonchalantly. But even moments later, the boy’s eyes are still trained on him, dark and hooded, and Billy knows his own eyes must be smouldering as well.
Despite his youth, the lad wields his sexuality expertly, or so it would seem, drawing obscene amounts of attention to his mouth, catching Billy and God knows who else in his lurid gaze. Unsurprisingly, it's not long until he's attracted yet another admirer.
Regardless of the intense eye contact, Billy’s determined his chances with the lad are slim to none now, unless he wants to get in on some fucked up sort of dance orgy, which he has no intention of doing. Pathetic or not, Billy figures sod it. The lad already knows he’s watching and doesn’t seem to mind, so that’s precisely what Billy will continue to do.
And he does.
__________
Mid-way through Billy’s third scotch, the men dancing with the lad sandwiched between them ratchet up the vulgarity a few notches, segueing their already bawdy conduct straight into advanced foreplay right there on the dance floor.
Billy’s witnessed his fair share of inappropriate behaviour in numerous gay clubs over the years, so it shouldn’t surprise him terribly to see the men brazenly groping the lad, apparently battling to stake their claim to him first. However something seems off: the lad’s head lolls back against the broad chest behind him, while the other man goes so far as to unbuckle the lad's belt and at least partially unfasten his flies. Moments later, the boy’s drink slips through his fingers and goes crashing to the floor, glass shards and ice cubes glinting under the flashing lights as they bounce and scatter wide.
Billy casts a furtive glance around, looking for any sign of shock or outrage, but finds none; just the ebb and flow of bodies dancing and the hum of casual voices droning on beneath the mechanical beat of the music.
As if Billy’s concern has somehow transferred to the dance floor, the men move in a little closer to the boy, partially blocking Billy’s view. Despite that and the dim lighting, though, Billy can still make out the shapes of dusky fingers snaking around a pale hip, dipping beneath denim. Sneaky Finger’s eyes shift suddenly then, catching Billy mid-gawk. He mutters something above the lad’s head to Tall/Dark/Handsome, motioning toward the loos with his head, and then the men begin to lead the lad in that direction by the elbows.
Even as the lad stumbles over his feet, half-hanging between the men flanking him, his eyes search out and fix on Billy's once again, just before he's whisked around the corner and out of sight.
For several long moments, Billy stares after them, motionless, trying to discern exactly what he’s just seen. Had that been a come-on or a plea for help? The lad had enjoyed the men pawing at him at one point, hadn’t he?
Billy supposes he could request a bouncer to look into the situation, but they’d likely only laugh in his face. Shock, horror, men are screwing in the toilets at a gay club! They wouldn’t install condom dispensers on the walls if they didn’t know about that already.
No, Billy’s going to have to see to this himself. As if he’s some fucking hero in spandex and a cape: Billy Boyd, Executive Marketing Director, Keystone Publishing, at your service. He can just see himself bowing and scraping an instant before those two perverts wipe the floor with him.
Or more likely, the scenario would consist of a nauseating combination of odours—piss and spunk—and an explicit display of the lad on his knees, sucking cock as if treacle pudding were at the other end.
Neither situation sounds appealing, but Billy knows himself too well to expect a good night’s sleep without checking on the lad before he leaves. And God, he feels a right prat when he thinks about it that way.
Resigned to his self-appointed mission, Billy drains his glass and thrusts it back down onto the bar top. The scotch flows down his throat like molten lava, lending him some artificial confidence, which he figures he needs every bit of at this point. He straightens his tie and clears his throat on the way to the loo, contemplating how he might react to whatever’s going on in there, but then his hand flattens against the door, pushing it open into the stark, tiled room before he can give it any further thought.
There aren’t any funky smells or ridiculously overt sexual displays as he’d envisioned, but he can definitely make out more than one person in the last cubical. In fact, he can distinguish two pair of dark leather dress shoes and a smaller set of trainers, all moving slightly at odds with one another, congruent with the clunks and thuds and grunts echoing off the walls.
Billy wrinkles his nose in distaste, convinced for a moment that what he’s hearing are the tell-tale sounds of primitive, animalistic sex behind the cubicle door, and he feels a modicum of disappointment and disgust—anger even—that he’d been such a wanker as to follow a group of men into the loo to ensure one of their safeties.
Then he hears it—a strained, stifled cry—and the clunks and thuds and grunts begin to sound more indicative of someone struggling than anything else.
Fucking Hell, he knew it. That’s all he can think at first. He’s caught the culprits, mystery solved, but what in God’s name he’s going to do about it is beyond him.
What is he supposed to do? Knock at the cubicle door? Introduce himself and politely ask that all buggering of semi-conscious, possibly under-age boys against their will please come to a halt?
Billy’s heart flutters wildly in his chest. The fear of provoking those two gorillas is only one of the concepts freezing him in place. Utter and total embarrassment for the boy and, mostly, for himself if he’s wrong about his assessment of the situation rank up there in the top five on the list of horrible outcomes.
He looks around, silently, afraid to breathe. No one has heard him enter the room, apparently. That or the men are brazen enough to continue on without the slightest regard for other toilet-goers or concern about getting caught, humiliated or arrested.
A visual of Tall/Dark/Handsome wringing Billy’s own neck flashes through his mind a split second before his foot kicks out, almost as if by its own volition and to his own surprise, bashing the cubicle door inward (tiny steel locks be damned!) by a fraction, and into one of the men’s backs.
“What the,” Sneaky Fingers gasps, ducking, hand held up defensively near the side of his face. He turns to look at Billy, confusion and annoyance clear as day on his face. Billy takes advantage of the man’s stunned state to peer past him at the boy. It’s worse than Billy could imagine and his stomach flips before clenching with anger. The lad’s three sheets, practically boneless, draped over the chest of the man in front of him. His jeans have been loosened about his hips, but by the graces of God, it appears as if they’ve proven difficult to wrest off any further in his position.
Tall/Dark/Handsome obviously susses Billy’s intentions to save the day before his slower friend does, and he starts manoeuvring himself around elbows and arses, trying to get at Billy. The boy mewls and struggles weakly as he’s shifted about in the process.
Now, Billy isn’t one to brag, but if asked, he’ll admit that he spends an hour in the gym each morning, trying to keep father time at bay. But what he won’t admit to is the fact that he spends his time there in a kick-aerobics class, mostly attended by women. It’s a good job, though, because the strength of his kick to the door a second time is enough to knock Sneaky Fingers temporarily out of order, thus blocking a very angry Tall/Dark/Handsome from barrelling out of the cubicle towards Billy straight away.
Billy’s not above running. No, he knows his height and current weight and can do the maths quickly enough to arrive at the conclusion that two large gits plus anger equals one flattened and completely decommissioned William Boyd. He legs it out of the loo so quick he can’t remember leaving, and he stands in the hall near the public phones for a moment, scrambling for a ‘what next’.
Strike the back alley off the list. Nothing good ever happens in a back alley, Billy knows. The front door—crap as well. Death by mutilation in front of one’s car, even in a well-lit car park, is still deadly. No, he’s going to have to get clever here, and right quick. Tweedle Dee has just flung the loo’s door open, Tweedle Dum at his heels. And just in the nick of time, before they spot Billy and can come at him, Billy sees his salvation: small and red; located conveniently on the wall to his left.
Upon yanking the fire alarm, the entire club pauses. The ringing of a small bell peals low beneath the jarring, repetitive honk blowing from some unseen horn. The music stops and the faces of those on the now-still dance floor read surprise and intrigue. Everyday fluorescent lights flicker on, spoiling the pretence of a posh and swanky club, casting it into one of a drab and ordinary business.
After a moment, the bouncers seem to recover from their initial shock and remember what to do if such an unlikely incident such as this were to occur, and they begin wading through the crowd, ushering people toward the door, fighting with some to relinquish their drinks before exiting.
This is the one time when Billy would say he’s grateful to the gene fairy for making him, as his Gran would say, ‘compact’, because his escape from those two fuckwits as well as the management, who probably don’t approve of false alarms, proves most easy. He ducks into the kitchen, doffs his business jacket and dons a white apron from a peg on the adjacent wall, busying himself with the glasses filling the giant suds-filled sink. The doors swing open behind him but Billy keeps his head down in his ‘work’, trying to appear calm though his heart thumps so hard he’s sure he’s visually vibrating.
“Oi,” a male voice starts, and then chokes on a cough as if the fire alarm itself had produced some foul, oppressive black smoke. “Clear out of here until we suss what’s happening.” Billy nods once silently in acknowledgement, waits, and then glances over his shoulder. He only makes out the coattails of a man—presumably management—as he disappears through the doors, leaving him alone again, at least for the time being.
He peers back out through the circular cut-outs of the kitchen doors. Neither of the men has moved from the doorway of the loo, obviously wondering whether or not to leave their prize behind and evacuate inconspicuously with everyone else. But it seems the man who ordered Billy out of the kitchen is making rounds. He spots the cunts and motions to them, apparently asking questions. Billy cracks the door so he can hear. “Anyone else in the loo?” As Billy predicts, both men shake their heads vehemently, like naughty schoolchildren, assuring the suited man that the loo is all clear.
Much to Billy’s relief, the man apparently buys their story and leads them away toward the front of the club, and Billy ducks out of sight as they pass by.
There are some other advantages to Billy’s slight stature and to the skills he’s picked up from his gym classes as well: speed and flexibility. He retrieves his jacket and both crouches and runs simultaneously toward the loo, managing it easily without notice. Briefly, he compares himself to the likes of a sniper or the jungle cat he’d seen on a National Geographic advert the week prior. He quite enjoys this new, heroic side of himself, which stands out starkly against the meek business-like persona he knows he usually projects. But then he remembers the young man in the loo and checks himself quickly.
Upon re-entering, he finds the boy right where those tossers had left him, face down on the filthy floor. He stirs at the sound of Billy’s footsteps, breathing out a surprised sound as his eyes flutter part-way open and he begins to lever himself up on shaky arms. Billy jogs the last four or five steps to him, unsure of what to do.
The boy’s limbs obviously refuse to cooperate. Unable to hold his own weight, he lowers himself back down and pants, looking confused and frightened and vastly different from the confident lad tearing up the dance floor just a short time before.
Billy’s heart lurches in his chest as he hovers impotently over the lad, feeling useless. Fortunately, no one else bears witness to it. Unfortunately, Billy’s left to figure out how to tend to this boy all on his own. He looks around as if he might happen to find an idea lying around. Or, perhaps, a kind, soft-spoken nurse, dressed in starched white, who would assure him that the boy would be right as rain after a cold compress to the forehead and some chicken soup. Billy wishes it were that easy. He hadn’t thought this far in advance, about what sort of medical attention this boy might need and how he might offer it; about his own neck and those two berks, who, for all he knows, have set up camp outside the club to wait for him.
Christ, Boyd.
By this point in his life, Billy should know better; should know it doesn’t help to think on what-ifs. So he takes a steadying breath and kneels in front of the boy. The lad’s gone nearly unconscious again. Heavy-lidded, he’s begun melting into the floor, held up, apparently, by the last shred of strength and awareness left to him, like a marionette tethered to a negligent puppeteer. Billy doffs his jacket once more and unties the apron strings from around his neck and back, quickly pulling it free in one go and crumpling it slightly so as to create a makeshift pillow. He eases the boy’s head onto it and covers him over with his jacket.
Billy figures his next order of business should be ringing 999, however he realizes, after patting down his trouser pockets at least twice, that he’s left his mobile in the car. “Shite,” he hisses under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.
He spots a window high up on the wall and considers, for a brief moment, climbing through it to go for help, but then he realizes what a girl’s blouse he’s being, afraid to go through the loo door and out into the club for fear of seeing the lad’s attackers again. Besides, Billy thinks, he wouldn’t likely fit through the narrow opening anyway.
Frustrated at finding himself back at square one, Billy places his hand at the small of the boy’s back as though to offer some form of comfort (to whom, the boy or to himself?) and studies his face once more, taking in the soft curves, the long lashes fanned out across flushed cheeks. He’s down for the count, now, Billy presumes, judging by the lad’s slow, deep breaths and the thin line of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. Though Billy loathes the idea of leaving him alone, the only option that remains is to walk out of there like a man, get the management and call for an ambulance.
Only it seems that help has come to him after all, albeit somewhat inadvertently, by way of the fire service. Two men laden in heavy jackets and hats push their way into the loo, clearly searching for a source of fire or smoke, and Billy nearly swoons with relief.
__________
Billy’s testimony rushes out of him like water from a brook, and it’s only when one of the fire brigade member’s heavy, gloved hands presses steadily down onto his shoulder and squeezes, that Billy slows down and takes a breath. The other member had knelt at the boy’s side and begun assessing him at once, following up with a request for medical transport spoken into his two-way radio. Now, Billy watches him carefully roll the lad onto his side into what he thinks might be called a recovery position, and thinks about how sorry he is—of course for the lad’s traumatic experience—but also (more selfishly, with a side of self-indulgent melancholy) that he didn’t get a chance to meet the young man properly, under normal circumstances. Billy knows he’ll likely never see him again, so he tells himself they’d never have had hit it off anyway—due in part to an obviously large difference in age—but at least he can walk away, chivalrous to some small degree, rather than humiliated and rejected.
Medics wheel the lad away on a trolley, eventually, and Billy watches him until he’s hastened through the door and out of sight, safe now, in capable hands. Billy breathes a sigh of both release and resignation.
__________
The next couple of hours pass by in a blur streaked with uniformed officers and emergency personnel, the club’s management and a deluge of the same questions asked repeatedly in different ways. He gives a detailed description of the suspects, but of course they’re long gone by the time anyone goes to look for them.
Later, Billy overhears the manager explaining to the inspector that he’d seen two men leaving the loo, that the club’s closed-circuit video has likely recorded the suspects going in and out with the boy and that the barman has a name to put to one of them via credit card transaction. Billy supposes this is all fantastic news, but he’s too tired and disheartened to take any satisfaction in it. He gives his name and contact information to the authorities, and after they check his identification and run his name through their computer system, they release him.
Billy’s never been so glad to go home in his life.
London, England
9:41pm
After three quarters of a glass of scotch, neat, and a half hour checking out the talent on the dance floor, Billy’s prepared to call it a night.
It’s just like any other gay club, despite the hype: the same music and the same scene; the same overly-muscular blokes wearing too much aftershave and the same queens at the other end of the spectrum, with no one remotely natural or normal-looking in between. Or at least no one Billy would consider dating.
He’s just about to leave, when he catches a glimpse of a lad with blonde hair and a slender body dancing just within the perimeter of the dance floor, and he decides he’ll stay a bit longer after all.
As it happens, the sea of people undulate just so, bringing said lad somewhat closer in proximity to Billy’s location at the bar, allowing him a better view. The young man’s not conventionally handsome, but he’s definitely cute, with wildly-styled hair and kohl-rimmed eyes. His trousers fit snugly in all the right places, accentuating a perfectly round arse, and his t-shirt’s just short enough to expose a sliver of taut skin every few moments as he moves.
He’s actually quite stunning, if a bit young, but then Billy trusts that the mammoth bouncers out front have taken appropriate measures to check the lad’s identification card, aside from collecting an exorbitant entry fee.
At least he hopes they have.
Nevertheless, the lad’s out there, and, more importantly, sans dance partner as far as Billy can tell, writhing in time to the music pulsing through the sound system, already a few drinks into his buzz, if his obvious lack of inhibition is anything to go by.
Billy loosens his tie, suddenly feeling the wrong side of thirty and frumpy in his business attire. He drains the last of his scotch, convincing himself to approach the lad—no guts, no glory, he thinks, but before he can depart from his place at the bar, a tall, dark bloke slithers up behind the boy with a proffered drink, which the boy accepts.
Discouraged, Billy lowers himself back down into his seat, rests his forearms on the bar top. He’d pay his bill and hit the road, but the barman’s busy taking orders from a group of fag hags on the other side of the bar. Billy waits for him to work his way back over his direction and turns to watch the lad once more. He’s still dancing with the same dark-haired bloke, who pulls him back against his hips and grinds against his backside so forcefully that Billy reckons he might wear holes in both the men’s trousers.
Billy has to roll his eyes at that. What an original move and so suave, he thinks derisively, however Billy can’t say he wouldn’t like to do the same.
Surprisingly, though, the lad doesn’t show much of a reaction to it one way or another. Whether he’s lost in the music or disinterested in the advance, Billy can’t quite tell, but an optimistic voice in his head tells him to wait the song out, to see if the other man moves on.
He orders another scotch while he waits and takes a swig, tracking the lad’s gradual progression across the dance floor, Tall/Dark/Handsome caboose in tow.
After another half a scotch, it seems to Billy that the boy has slowed a bit, his movements more subtle, almost sluggish, and not quite in time with the music anymore. Then on second thought, Billy imagines it must be difficult to dance with a cock stuck up one’s arse.
That thought goes straight to Billy’s prick, prompting yet another thought—one of bending the lad over the sink in the gent’s, taking him hard and deep, though he’d never do anything of the sort. He’s not ‘that guy’, some sorry bloke with his trousers round his ankles, fucking some twink in a filthy toilet because he lacks the patience or class to go through the motions of a proper date. No, Billy’s a sophisticated sorry bloke, who will either buy this lad dinner (or a drink at the very least) and take him home, or buy himself another scotch and flick through the abundance of smutty images filed away in the pornographic section of his mind while he tosses off in the privacy of his own manky loo, thank you very much.
As if on cue, the lad lends him even more fodder: He alternately sucks and chews on the straw protruding from his glass, managing to look both petulant and euphoric all at once as the man behind him alternately kisses and licks his neck. Billy lets his eyes rove over the boy’s wiry body, his subtly defined arms, his long, ringed fingers encircling the glass, and imagines those fingers encircling something else.
But when the other man works his hands up under the hem of the lad’s t-shirt and smoothes them up his sides, drawing the fabric up to brush his fingertips across the lad’s nipples, Billy begins to feel unforgivably voyeuristic and pathetic.
He’s about to look away (honestly, he swears) when the lad’s head tips back in obvious arousal and their eyes meet.
Billy does divert his eyes then, briefly. Caught out and slightly embarrassed, he takes another swig off his drink and swirls it around, buying time until he can sneak another peek nonchalantly. But even moments later, the boy’s eyes are still trained on him, dark and hooded, and Billy knows his own eyes must be smouldering as well.
Despite his youth, the lad wields his sexuality expertly, or so it would seem, drawing obscene amounts of attention to his mouth, catching Billy and God knows who else in his lurid gaze. Unsurprisingly, it's not long until he's attracted yet another admirer.
Regardless of the intense eye contact, Billy’s determined his chances with the lad are slim to none now, unless he wants to get in on some fucked up sort of dance orgy, which he has no intention of doing. Pathetic or not, Billy figures sod it. The lad already knows he’s watching and doesn’t seem to mind, so that’s precisely what Billy will continue to do.
And he does.
__________
Mid-way through Billy’s third scotch, the men dancing with the lad sandwiched between them ratchet up the vulgarity a few notches, segueing their already bawdy conduct straight into advanced foreplay right there on the dance floor.
Billy’s witnessed his fair share of inappropriate behaviour in numerous gay clubs over the years, so it shouldn’t surprise him terribly to see the men brazenly groping the lad, apparently battling to stake their claim to him first. However something seems off: the lad’s head lolls back against the broad chest behind him, while the other man goes so far as to unbuckle the lad's belt and at least partially unfasten his flies. Moments later, the boy’s drink slips through his fingers and goes crashing to the floor, glass shards and ice cubes glinting under the flashing lights as they bounce and scatter wide.
Billy casts a furtive glance around, looking for any sign of shock or outrage, but finds none; just the ebb and flow of bodies dancing and the hum of casual voices droning on beneath the mechanical beat of the music.
As if Billy’s concern has somehow transferred to the dance floor, the men move in a little closer to the boy, partially blocking Billy’s view. Despite that and the dim lighting, though, Billy can still make out the shapes of dusky fingers snaking around a pale hip, dipping beneath denim. Sneaky Finger’s eyes shift suddenly then, catching Billy mid-gawk. He mutters something above the lad’s head to Tall/Dark/Handsome, motioning toward the loos with his head, and then the men begin to lead the lad in that direction by the elbows.
Even as the lad stumbles over his feet, half-hanging between the men flanking him, his eyes search out and fix on Billy's once again, just before he's whisked around the corner and out of sight.
For several long moments, Billy stares after them, motionless, trying to discern exactly what he’s just seen. Had that been a come-on or a plea for help? The lad had enjoyed the men pawing at him at one point, hadn’t he?
Billy supposes he could request a bouncer to look into the situation, but they’d likely only laugh in his face. Shock, horror, men are screwing in the toilets at a gay club! They wouldn’t install condom dispensers on the walls if they didn’t know about that already.
No, Billy’s going to have to see to this himself. As if he’s some fucking hero in spandex and a cape: Billy Boyd, Executive Marketing Director, Keystone Publishing, at your service. He can just see himself bowing and scraping an instant before those two perverts wipe the floor with him.
Or more likely, the scenario would consist of a nauseating combination of odours—piss and spunk—and an explicit display of the lad on his knees, sucking cock as if treacle pudding were at the other end.
Neither situation sounds appealing, but Billy knows himself too well to expect a good night’s sleep without checking on the lad before he leaves. And God, he feels a right prat when he thinks about it that way.
Resigned to his self-appointed mission, Billy drains his glass and thrusts it back down onto the bar top. The scotch flows down his throat like molten lava, lending him some artificial confidence, which he figures he needs every bit of at this point. He straightens his tie and clears his throat on the way to the loo, contemplating how he might react to whatever’s going on in there, but then his hand flattens against the door, pushing it open into the stark, tiled room before he can give it any further thought.
There aren’t any funky smells or ridiculously overt sexual displays as he’d envisioned, but he can definitely make out more than one person in the last cubical. In fact, he can distinguish two pair of dark leather dress shoes and a smaller set of trainers, all moving slightly at odds with one another, congruent with the clunks and thuds and grunts echoing off the walls.
Billy wrinkles his nose in distaste, convinced for a moment that what he’s hearing are the tell-tale sounds of primitive, animalistic sex behind the cubicle door, and he feels a modicum of disappointment and disgust—anger even—that he’d been such a wanker as to follow a group of men into the loo to ensure one of their safeties.
Then he hears it—a strained, stifled cry—and the clunks and thuds and grunts begin to sound more indicative of someone struggling than anything else.
Fucking Hell, he knew it. That’s all he can think at first. He’s caught the culprits, mystery solved, but what in God’s name he’s going to do about it is beyond him.
What is he supposed to do? Knock at the cubicle door? Introduce himself and politely ask that all buggering of semi-conscious, possibly under-age boys against their will please come to a halt?
Billy’s heart flutters wildly in his chest. The fear of provoking those two gorillas is only one of the concepts freezing him in place. Utter and total embarrassment for the boy and, mostly, for himself if he’s wrong about his assessment of the situation rank up there in the top five on the list of horrible outcomes.
He looks around, silently, afraid to breathe. No one has heard him enter the room, apparently. That or the men are brazen enough to continue on without the slightest regard for other toilet-goers or concern about getting caught, humiliated or arrested.
A visual of Tall/Dark/Handsome wringing Billy’s own neck flashes through his mind a split second before his foot kicks out, almost as if by its own volition and to his own surprise, bashing the cubicle door inward (tiny steel locks be damned!) by a fraction, and into one of the men’s backs.
“What the,” Sneaky Fingers gasps, ducking, hand held up defensively near the side of his face. He turns to look at Billy, confusion and annoyance clear as day on his face. Billy takes advantage of the man’s stunned state to peer past him at the boy. It’s worse than Billy could imagine and his stomach flips before clenching with anger. The lad’s three sheets, practically boneless, draped over the chest of the man in front of him. His jeans have been loosened about his hips, but by the graces of God, it appears as if they’ve proven difficult to wrest off any further in his position.
Tall/Dark/Handsome obviously susses Billy’s intentions to save the day before his slower friend does, and he starts manoeuvring himself around elbows and arses, trying to get at Billy. The boy mewls and struggles weakly as he’s shifted about in the process.
Now, Billy isn’t one to brag, but if asked, he’ll admit that he spends an hour in the gym each morning, trying to keep father time at bay. But what he won’t admit to is the fact that he spends his time there in a kick-aerobics class, mostly attended by women. It’s a good job, though, because the strength of his kick to the door a second time is enough to knock Sneaky Fingers temporarily out of order, thus blocking a very angry Tall/Dark/Handsome from barrelling out of the cubicle towards Billy straight away.
Billy’s not above running. No, he knows his height and current weight and can do the maths quickly enough to arrive at the conclusion that two large gits plus anger equals one flattened and completely decommissioned William Boyd. He legs it out of the loo so quick he can’t remember leaving, and he stands in the hall near the public phones for a moment, scrambling for a ‘what next’.
Strike the back alley off the list. Nothing good ever happens in a back alley, Billy knows. The front door—crap as well. Death by mutilation in front of one’s car, even in a well-lit car park, is still deadly. No, he’s going to have to get clever here, and right quick. Tweedle Dee has just flung the loo’s door open, Tweedle Dum at his heels. And just in the nick of time, before they spot Billy and can come at him, Billy sees his salvation: small and red; located conveniently on the wall to his left.
Upon yanking the fire alarm, the entire club pauses. The ringing of a small bell peals low beneath the jarring, repetitive honk blowing from some unseen horn. The music stops and the faces of those on the now-still dance floor read surprise and intrigue. Everyday fluorescent lights flicker on, spoiling the pretence of a posh and swanky club, casting it into one of a drab and ordinary business.
After a moment, the bouncers seem to recover from their initial shock and remember what to do if such an unlikely incident such as this were to occur, and they begin wading through the crowd, ushering people toward the door, fighting with some to relinquish their drinks before exiting.
This is the one time when Billy would say he’s grateful to the gene fairy for making him, as his Gran would say, ‘compact’, because his escape from those two fuckwits as well as the management, who probably don’t approve of false alarms, proves most easy. He ducks into the kitchen, doffs his business jacket and dons a white apron from a peg on the adjacent wall, busying himself with the glasses filling the giant suds-filled sink. The doors swing open behind him but Billy keeps his head down in his ‘work’, trying to appear calm though his heart thumps so hard he’s sure he’s visually vibrating.
“Oi,” a male voice starts, and then chokes on a cough as if the fire alarm itself had produced some foul, oppressive black smoke. “Clear out of here until we suss what’s happening.” Billy nods once silently in acknowledgement, waits, and then glances over his shoulder. He only makes out the coattails of a man—presumably management—as he disappears through the doors, leaving him alone again, at least for the time being.
He peers back out through the circular cut-outs of the kitchen doors. Neither of the men has moved from the doorway of the loo, obviously wondering whether or not to leave their prize behind and evacuate inconspicuously with everyone else. But it seems the man who ordered Billy out of the kitchen is making rounds. He spots the cunts and motions to them, apparently asking questions. Billy cracks the door so he can hear. “Anyone else in the loo?” As Billy predicts, both men shake their heads vehemently, like naughty schoolchildren, assuring the suited man that the loo is all clear.
Much to Billy’s relief, the man apparently buys their story and leads them away toward the front of the club, and Billy ducks out of sight as they pass by.
There are some other advantages to Billy’s slight stature and to the skills he’s picked up from his gym classes as well: speed and flexibility. He retrieves his jacket and both crouches and runs simultaneously toward the loo, managing it easily without notice. Briefly, he compares himself to the likes of a sniper or the jungle cat he’d seen on a National Geographic advert the week prior. He quite enjoys this new, heroic side of himself, which stands out starkly against the meek business-like persona he knows he usually projects. But then he remembers the young man in the loo and checks himself quickly.
Upon re-entering, he finds the boy right where those tossers had left him, face down on the filthy floor. He stirs at the sound of Billy’s footsteps, breathing out a surprised sound as his eyes flutter part-way open and he begins to lever himself up on shaky arms. Billy jogs the last four or five steps to him, unsure of what to do.
The boy’s limbs obviously refuse to cooperate. Unable to hold his own weight, he lowers himself back down and pants, looking confused and frightened and vastly different from the confident lad tearing up the dance floor just a short time before.
Billy’s heart lurches in his chest as he hovers impotently over the lad, feeling useless. Fortunately, no one else bears witness to it. Unfortunately, Billy’s left to figure out how to tend to this boy all on his own. He looks around as if he might happen to find an idea lying around. Or, perhaps, a kind, soft-spoken nurse, dressed in starched white, who would assure him that the boy would be right as rain after a cold compress to the forehead and some chicken soup. Billy wishes it were that easy. He hadn’t thought this far in advance, about what sort of medical attention this boy might need and how he might offer it; about his own neck and those two berks, who, for all he knows, have set up camp outside the club to wait for him.
Christ, Boyd.
By this point in his life, Billy should know better; should know it doesn’t help to think on what-ifs. So he takes a steadying breath and kneels in front of the boy. The lad’s gone nearly unconscious again. Heavy-lidded, he’s begun melting into the floor, held up, apparently, by the last shred of strength and awareness left to him, like a marionette tethered to a negligent puppeteer. Billy doffs his jacket once more and unties the apron strings from around his neck and back, quickly pulling it free in one go and crumpling it slightly so as to create a makeshift pillow. He eases the boy’s head onto it and covers him over with his jacket.
Billy figures his next order of business should be ringing 999, however he realizes, after patting down his trouser pockets at least twice, that he’s left his mobile in the car. “Shite,” he hisses under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.
He spots a window high up on the wall and considers, for a brief moment, climbing through it to go for help, but then he realizes what a girl’s blouse he’s being, afraid to go through the loo door and out into the club for fear of seeing the lad’s attackers again. Besides, Billy thinks, he wouldn’t likely fit through the narrow opening anyway.
Frustrated at finding himself back at square one, Billy places his hand at the small of the boy’s back as though to offer some form of comfort (to whom, the boy or to himself?) and studies his face once more, taking in the soft curves, the long lashes fanned out across flushed cheeks. He’s down for the count, now, Billy presumes, judging by the lad’s slow, deep breaths and the thin line of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. Though Billy loathes the idea of leaving him alone, the only option that remains is to walk out of there like a man, get the management and call for an ambulance.
Only it seems that help has come to him after all, albeit somewhat inadvertently, by way of the fire service. Two men laden in heavy jackets and hats push their way into the loo, clearly searching for a source of fire or smoke, and Billy nearly swoons with relief.
__________
Billy’s testimony rushes out of him like water from a brook, and it’s only when one of the fire brigade member’s heavy, gloved hands presses steadily down onto his shoulder and squeezes, that Billy slows down and takes a breath. The other member had knelt at the boy’s side and begun assessing him at once, following up with a request for medical transport spoken into his two-way radio. Now, Billy watches him carefully roll the lad onto his side into what he thinks might be called a recovery position, and thinks about how sorry he is—of course for the lad’s traumatic experience—but also (more selfishly, with a side of self-indulgent melancholy) that he didn’t get a chance to meet the young man properly, under normal circumstances. Billy knows he’ll likely never see him again, so he tells himself they’d never have had hit it off anyway—due in part to an obviously large difference in age—but at least he can walk away, chivalrous to some small degree, rather than humiliated and rejected.
Medics wheel the lad away on a trolley, eventually, and Billy watches him until he’s hastened through the door and out of sight, safe now, in capable hands. Billy breathes a sigh of both release and resignation.
__________
The next couple of hours pass by in a blur streaked with uniformed officers and emergency personnel, the club’s management and a deluge of the same questions asked repeatedly in different ways. He gives a detailed description of the suspects, but of course they’re long gone by the time anyone goes to look for them.
Later, Billy overhears the manager explaining to the inspector that he’d seen two men leaving the loo, that the club’s closed-circuit video has likely recorded the suspects going in and out with the boy and that the barman has a name to put to one of them via credit card transaction. Billy supposes this is all fantastic news, but he’s too tired and disheartened to take any satisfaction in it. He gives his name and contact information to the authorities, and after they check his identification and run his name through their computer system, they release him.
Billy’s never been so glad to go home in his life.
Part Two
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Date: 2011-06-15 05:20 pm (UTC)Thank you! I totally remember giving that prompt, and I can already tell this is going to be worlds more satisfying than what I originally had in mind.
And really, when in doubt, put Dom on the dance floor in the middle of a gay club. Seriously. ♥ Looking forward to the second part!
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Date: 2011-06-17 06:32 pm (UTC)You're welcome, and I'm so happy you like it. I have to admit, I worried a bit about where this started going and how it would be received.
Yes, this seems to be the fall-back opening scene, doesn't it? Pick a path for following scene, rinse and repeat. ;) Looking forward to posting part two. Do you know what day they hold the free-for-all day?
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Date: 2011-06-18 12:22 am (UTC)As for the free-for-all, I have no idea. But definitely at the end of the month...
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Date: 2011-06-15 05:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-15 09:34 pm (UTC)I'm a QAF virgin and have been watching Season One (also all Eff's fault, btw), and this straight-laced Billy rather reminds me of Ted. Love it!
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Date: 2011-06-17 06:40 pm (UTC)I'm a fan of QAF as well, and I'm delighted by your association of Ted with this Billy. I can see it as well. Poor fellows--they just can't win, can they?
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Date: 2011-07-20 09:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-20 10:52 pm (UTC)And I have to admit: I've been monkeying around with a few other WIPs. ;)
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Date: 2011-06-16 07:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 06:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-20 03:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-20 03:47 pm (UTC)I hope the second part measures up. :D